Sean was the best, which wasn’t saying much. But with the odd assortment of clothes he wore combined with that huge waving head-dress, he was more like a real Indian chief than anything Hollywood could come up with. Apart from his pink Rossignols and ski boots, he could have stepped out of a sepia photograph from the town museum. Those long-dead men had sported the same rag-bag inattention to detail that Sean boasted, though they were saved from ridicule by a glint of power and nobility in their eyes that was plainly absent from the boy’s. Yes, he looked like an Indian. The wrinklies lining up a few yards away thought so too. Their frowns and muttering indicated they were offended.

One of them, a woman in her fifties dressed in Victorian skirts and a bonnet, skied over to where Sean was busy being slapped on the back by the cowboys and touching the heads of the genuflecting girls in front of him.

‘That’s in rather poor taste don’t you think?’

Eight young, golden-tanned faces looked at the woman, then at each other, and burst out laughing.

The woman’s voice became shrill with anger and embarrassment. ‘Our Native Canadian heritage is not a joke.’

The kids laughed even louder and kicked up the snow, until the woman’s husband in Victorian plus-fours and a motoring cap skied across to rescue her. ‘You guys are way out of order. Try and show a little respect. Come on, honey.’

She slid away, hot and bothered. ‘God help Canada,’ she said in a loud voice as they retreated.

‘God help America, lady! We’re from California!’

That sent them into a new wave of hilarity, interrupted only by Mike Watts, the ski patroller at the start line, clacking his ski poles together for attention.

Sean hid the whisky.

‘Okay guys, welcome to the Silver Fun-Run. Well, well, we’ve got some neat costumes here today.’

The kids started imitating the patroller. Neat was not how they liked to be described.

‘Hey, Barney. Neat costume, man.’

Hoots and shouts of mirth. The patroller smiled wearily and carried on. Kids. They could give him as hard a time as they liked. Soon as they started moving on those skis, Mike would have their respect. He could ski the fanny off any of them and they could shove their Californian tans. It was always the ones who made most noise standing at the top of a trail who went very quiet on their way down the hill in the meat wagon, strapped into that stretcher after breaking their bodies in dumb accidents. Despite the temptation, Mike Watts never leaned over the stretcher and said I told you so.

‘Yeah, right, guys. We’re goin’ to start out from the line here …’