tom emailed us in the middle of january. four nights. mid-february. graham, specifically. somewhere quiet. somewhere with snow if there was any going. he'd already bought the ring, he said, and he didn't want to do it on a beach.
we don't usually get involved past the keys. but tom asked for a route, so myles drew him one, and i wrote a list of three pubs that take dogs, and we put a polaroid camera on the kitchen counter on changeover day with a note saying it's yours, take a picture, leave it on the seat for us when you bring her back.
the wednesday.
they collected at two on the wednesday. tom was nervous in the way only one person at handover is ever nervous. sasha was looking at the diesel heater controls and asking proper questions. i didn't know which one of them knew what was about to happen.
they left for the brecons. forecast had snow above 400 metres. they were planning on parking up at usk reservoir, which is about 380 metres, and walking up the hill behind it.
the friday.
myles got a text on the friday morning: it snowed. she said yes.
i asked for the polaroid. it took them two more days to remember to take one. when they brought graham back on the sunday afternoon there was a folded picture on the dashboard — sasha holding her left hand up against the side of the van, ring in focus, snow on the bonnet, half a smile out of frame because tom was bad with the camera.
the actual moment.
tom told us what happened over a tea on the sunday. they'd walked the half-hour up the hill behind the reservoir at sundown on the thursday. proper cold, snow on the heather, no one else for two miles. he'd brought the ring in his coat pocket, planning on doing it at the top.
halfway up his glove came off. the ring fell into about three inches of snow. he spent four minutes on his knees trying to find it before sasha asked what he was doing. he gave up and told her. she did the kneeling. they laughed for about five minutes and then she said yes.
his glove came off. the ring fell into about three inches of snow.
the cleaning fee.
they baked something in the oven on the saturday — bread, i think. half of it ended up melted into the heat element at the back of the oven. it cost twelve quid in elbow grease and a new bottle of bicarbonate to get it out. we charged them the twelve quid. they paid it without comment. the polaroid is on the noticeboard above myles's desk in the garage. it'll stay there.
we don't run a hospitality business in the proper sense. we hand over keys, you go away, you bring the keys back. but the moments people choose to do their proper-life things in our vans — those have all turned out to be the best part of the job. — c.