In for Christmas!

looking doorway and above it a sign that said Social Club.

He never saw anybody going in or going out, but that was because of the time at which he passed it, which was eight in the morning. People did not go to social clubs at eight in the morning. And in the evening, he came back by bus, along a different route, and it was too early, anyway, for things to get going at even the most social of social clubs.

But Tom had no inclination to join a social club, even if he were one day to find its doors open. He had no inclination to do anything really, and even with Christmas coming up he had no plans. Maeve, Fiona and Iain were going to Tenerife for Christmas. Iain had won a trip for two in a raffle and they had bought an extra ticket for Fiona.

‘Fiona is very excited,’ said Maeve. ‘I hope you don’t mind if she’s not around for Christmas.’

Tom shrugged. ‘I had no plans,’ he said.

There was a note of resignation in his voice, and Maeve felt a passing pang of sympathy for him. But it did not last long; there was Tenerife to think of, after all, and you cannot keep worrying about your ex. Exes had to take care of themselves, even if in this case she thought he probably was not doing that, his being so thin and getting by on… what was it? Pressed cod roe?

Poor Tom, she thought. I hope something turns up for him. I hope he meets somebody who’ll sweep him off his feet. Sweep him off his feet – prophetic words, perhaps. THAT Monday morning Tom started a two weeks’ end-of-year leave. He had no plans for the day, other than a trip to the shops to buy Christmas cards, and so he got out of bed later than usual.

As he ate the half-slice of thin toast that was his breakfast, he listened to the weather forecast and its dire predictions.

Extremely strong winds are to be expected across eastern and southern Scotland. The Forth Road Bridge is closed. Police have been attending several traffic incidents caused by high winds. The public are advised to be vigilant… He wondered whether he should stay inside – the wind was certainly picking up and it looked, too, as if there would be rain.

But he had almost run out of milk and as he would have to go out for that sooner or later, he felt he might as well do so before the weather deteriorated further. Wearing his heaviest overcoat, buttoned up to the neck, he made his way downstairs and out into the street.

The wind was now howling loudly and a large dustbin rattled down the street in front if him, spewing its contents, bumping against the sides of cars as the wind caught it.

In normal circumstances, Tom would have done something to clear up the mess, but this wind had already dispersed the detritus and it was too late.

He began to make his way along the pavement, feeling the wind pressing into his back like a pair of great hands pushing him along. He leaned back against it, concerned that he might lose his balance and be tumbled along like the dustbin.

A taxi went past him and swerved slightly, blown sideways for a moment before the driver regained control. This, thought Tom, is dangerous.

And then it hit him. At first he thought that some heavy object had slammed into him – at least that was how it felt – and he uttered an involuntary cry. He decided to turn back, but it was too late.

The next gust, which was more prolonged, was even stronger, and the one after that had the strength and force of a tidal wave. Tom felt himself cannoning forward and then being picked up bodily.

In a moment he was upside down and the ground was disappearing beneath him. Then he was on his side, his coat billowing about him, a roaring sound surrounding him like the sound of crashing waves.

IN AN awful moment of realisation, he understood what was happening: he had been lifted up by what must now be a hurricane. That is what happened in hurricanes – they tossed cars about as if they were nothing. They lifted them and then dropped them off miles from their original position. This was happening to him right now – I’m being blown away, he thought. I’m about to die.

He was not sure how long it lasted. It might have been merely a matter of seconds; it might have been minutes – he could not tell.

Nor could he see how high he went and in what direction, although he thought at one moment that he saw Arthur’s Seat in the distance and the Firth of Forth behind it. But then the lifting motion slackened and he felt himself plummeting downwards. The end must be very near, he thought.

Now I’m going to be dropped and I shall land with a thud and everything would stop. The mind would be extinguished; there would be darkness. It would be the end.

He lost consciousness just as he felt himself hit the ground. He came down hard, and was winded, and then everything gave way to a strange, vivid dream.

He was standing in front of the house he had lived in as a boy. There was a dog. There was a feeling of warmth. His head was spinning. But now his eyes opened and he saw

‘Are you allright... you’re not dead, are you?’ she asked

somebody standing above him. He was spreadeagled on the ground, his head resting on something wet and soft – the freshly dug earth of a flower bed. There was a woman, and she was peering down at him. ‘Are you all right?’ His eyes regained focus. ‘You’re not dead, are you?’ she asked.

The question struck him as ridiculous. Of course he was not dead. ‘I am definitely not dead,’ he said. ‘The wind…’

She laid a hand on his forearm. ‘No, I saw what happened. You were lifted up by the wind somewhere else and then dumped down here in my garden. Amazing.’

He tried to sit up. It took a moment, as he still felt the effect of winding. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t move,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps I should get an ambulance.’

‘No need,’ he said and succeeded in getting himself into a sitting posture. From there he was able to stand up.

As he did so, he looked at the woman who had found him. She was about his age, he assumed, and she had an intelligent face.

Her eyes made her look as if she was about to burst out laughing, but he could see that she was concerned about him.

‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘We can’t stay out outside in this wind.’

He followed her into the house. He could see more or less where they were – on a ridge of the hills that lined the edge of the city. It was an obvious place to land if one were to be blown, unconventionally and improbably, out of Edinburgh.

They went into her kitchen. It was a warm, cheerful room with a distinct air of Christmas. On a shelf beside the fridge, Christmas cards were displayed, a burst of colour, of snow and robins and lanterns.

On the table, a roll of red shiny wrapping was ready to be cut for use, a tangle of silver ribbon nearby.

There was a smell of something rich and delicious lingering in the air – marzipan, Christmas pudding, the spices that were added to mulled wine? In the background, from small speakers on either side of a Welsh dresser, there issued the barely discernible strains of a well-known carol.

It was the complete opposite of his flat, where there was nothing to speak of Christmas – no decorations, no cards, no spicy smells.

He closed his eyes, and then reopened them.

He half expected to find himself somewhere else – prone on the pavement, perhaps, where he had been knocked unconscious by a gust of wind.

That would explain all this – it was a fantasy of the unconscious, a dream brought on by severe concussion. But when he opened his eyes, everything was still there.

She gestured to a chair. ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked.

‘I was actually going out for coffee,’ he said. ‘Then…’ They both laughed. ‘I’ve heard of this happening before,’ she said. ‘Tornadoes can do it. I once saw a picture of a cow stuck in a tree in America. Blown there.’ He nodded. ‘It happens.’ ‘You’re very lucky,’ she said. ‘Nothing broken?’

He shook his head. ‘I suspect there are a few bruises. Nothing more than that.’

She looked at him. ‘You’re a bit thin, if you don’t mind my saying. That’s probably why the wind was able to pick you up like that.’ She paused. ‘Can I make you breakfast?’ ‘I had something,’ he replied. ‘What?’ ‘A piece of toast.’ She shook her head. ‘Not enough. Let me make you some eggs and bacon.’

She made him breakfast, and while they sat at her table, they talked.

He had not talked to anybody this frankly, nor this warmly, for months – for years, he thought. He told her about his job, about Fiona, about how he felt life was slipping away.

‘That’s exactly what it does,’ she said. ‘Life drains away, day by day, while you’re doing nothing in particular.’ She said that she was a widow. ‘It’s five years now. He was too young, but there we are.’

She told him that she had been a health service dietician and that she had thought vaguely about going back to work but had done nothing about it.

After breakfast, he looked at his watch. ‘I suppose I should be getting on.’

‘I don’t think you should go out in this wind,’ she said. ‘Why not stay for a while? I can drive you home later, when it’s calmer.’

He thought that a good idea. He liked the feel of this room – its warmth, its atmosphere of Christmas. ‘And we could continue our conversation. For a little while, at least.’ She said she would like that. He stayed for lunch. She had a frozen steak and kidney pie that she heated up.

She made him a bowl of French onion soup as well, and at the end of the meal served biscuits and cheese followed by a bowl of ice cream.

He had forgotten what food tasted like. How could I? he asked himself.

She asked him what he was doing for Christmas. ‘Nothing,’ he said. She hesitated, but only briefly. ‘Would you like to spend Christmas with me?’ she asked. ‘I’ve ordered a turkey – out of habit, I suppose. But I’ve nobody to eat it with.’

He replied that he would like that very much indeed. ‘And dinner tonight?’ she said. ‘Have you any plans?’

‘None,’ he said. ‘Until now.’ There were so many restaurants in Edinburgh, but he had taken no interest in them for years.

Yet he remembered one that he walked past on his way to work; he would book a table there.

He looked out of the window. The sky was now clearing, but such clouds as remained were moving very quickly: the wind was still high.

Where did the wind come from? He had no idea. Where was it going? Heaven knew.

This wind, though, had been exactly the right wind for him. It had picked him up and taken him to precisely the place he needed to go.

She had said something that he did not catch.

He asked her to repeat herself. ‘I said, “I’m rather glad you blew in.”’

He closed his eyes once again, just to see if this was real. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps this was some sort of afterlife.

But again when he opened his eyes everything was palpably real. This was not a dream – it was real life. He reached out and took her hand, and smiled.

She smiled back at him. He thought: if you wait long enough, and believe hard enough, then true stories happen.