~ Nil Desperandum ~
I woke up with a start when the torch was shone in my face.
“You cannae stay in there, pal,” said the policeman. “Get yersel away hame.”
As I stumbled to my feet, clutching my briefcase, he added, “It’s Christmas Day.”
I had recognised my surroundings by then. I was in a shop doorway. I remembered going into it to shelter from the rain. But I must have sat down and fallen asleep.
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
Then I stepped back out into the night. It was still raining.
Without returning my greeting, the policemen stood back and watched me go, making sure I really was leaving. I walked away at a pace, not only to be out of the policeman’s sight as quickly as possible, but also because I was angry. Angry with myself for not leaving the bar to catch the last train home, for trying to hail a taxi in the early hours of Christmas morning, probably the busiest time of the year for taxi-drivers across the city, but angry mostly for having fallen asleep in that doorway.
The night had started off so differently. I and many of my colleagues had gone to the bar round the corner from the office. It was Christmas Eve. Everyone was in high spirits. There had been a lot of banter. A lot of laughter. A lot of drink, of course. At one point, I was chatting to a girl from the office. I hadn’t really noticed her before, but she turned out to be an attractive, vibrant twentysomething, with long red hair and sparkling green eyes. She kissed me full on the lips, her mouth open. It was a kiss that promised much more and better to come. She wrote her phone number on the back of my hand.
“Call me,” she had said. “When Christmas is over.”
Then she was gone.
Gradually, one by one, my colleagues followed her out of the bar, off home to their families for Christmas, until I was left on my own. Perversely, instead of going for that train, I had another drink and another and another, convincing myself all the time that I would be able to walk out and grab a taxi, just like that. Unexpectedly, though, the bar closed before midnight, the staff also wanting to get home, and suddenly I was out on the street in the rain.
There were plenty of taxis going back and forward out there, of course, but all of them either were already occupied or didn’t have their For Hire signs on. So I began walking in the direction of my home town some ten miles away, hoping to pick up a taxi on the way. I seemed to have walked for miles when I saw that inviting shop doorway. Cold, wet and tired, I stepped into it.
And there I was again, hours later, still cold and wet and tired, still on the look-out for a taxi, still a long way from home. I felt like the most miserable man on the planet. I was thirty-five, living alone, in the process of divorcing my wife for adultery, and estranged from my three children. The last of those caused me the greatest misery. It was Christmas, and I wouldn’t be spending it with my children. One of my sisters had very kindly invited me and my younger brother, who was also single, to Christmas dinner with her family. I wasn’t looking forward to it at all; it wouldn’t be the same without my kids. I would have to put on a happy face for my sister’s sake, though, and get through the day somehow – if I ever managed to make it home in the first place, that was. But then, just when I thought life couldn’t be any worse, when shop doorways I was passing were starting to look inviting again, a little miracle occurred. A taxi, its For Hire light shining like a beacon though the rain-shrouded darkness, was heading straight towards me.
Probably both hacked off by our respective circumstances on that bleak Christmas morning, the taxi-driver and I hardly spoke throughout the journey. Even when we arrived in my home town, I didn’t want to spend any time giving him complex directions to find the building I lived in, so I asked him to drop me off in the High Street, and I walked the rest of the way. Once inside my flat, I was in the process of stripping off my sodden clothes when I remembered the phone number the redhead had written on the back of my hand. Needless to say, the ink had been smudged so badly by the rain that it was no longer readable.
“Par for the course,” I muttered and fell into bed.
By midmorning of Christmas Day, I was stripped to the waist, still getting ready to go out, when someone knocked on the door. Thinking it must be my wee brother coming early to collect me, I opened the door as I was. To my surprise, it was the petite twentysomething who owned the flat across the landing and who had recently broken up with her fiancé. She had red hair and sparkling green eyes.
“Merry Christmas!” she said, handing me a card and a gift-wrapped bottle of something.
She came closer and kissed me full on the lips, her mouth open. It was a kiss that promised much more and better to come. Then she told me where I could find her that night. After she had gone back into her flat, I closed the door and sighed happily. Life was looking up – for a little while, at least.
“You cannae stay in there, pal,” said the policeman. “Get yersel away hame.”
As I stumbled to my feet, clutching my briefcase, he added, “It’s Christmas Day.”
I had recognised my surroundings by then. I was in a shop doorway. I remembered going into it to shelter from the rain. But I must have sat down and fallen asleep.
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
Then I stepped back out into the night. It was still raining.
Without returning my greeting, the policemen stood back and watched me go, making sure I really was leaving. I walked away at a pace, not only to be out of the policeman’s sight as quickly as possible, but also because I was angry. Angry with myself for not leaving the bar to catch the last train home, for trying to hail a taxi in the early hours of Christmas morning, probably the busiest time of the year for taxi-drivers across the city, but angry mostly for having fallen asleep in that doorway.
The night had started off so differently. I and many of my colleagues had gone to the bar round the corner from the office. It was Christmas Eve. Everyone was in high spirits. There had been a lot of banter. A lot of laughter. A lot of drink, of course. At one point, I was chatting to a girl from the office. I hadn’t really noticed her before, but she turned out to be an attractive, vibrant twentysomething, with long red hair and sparkling green eyes. She kissed me full on the lips, her mouth open. It was a kiss that promised much more and better to come. She wrote her phone number on the back of my hand.
“Call me,” she had said. “When Christmas is over.”
Then she was gone.
Gradually, one by one, my colleagues followed her out of the bar, off home to their families for Christmas, until I was left on my own. Perversely, instead of going for that train, I had another drink and another and another, convincing myself all the time that I would be able to walk out and grab a taxi, just like that. Unexpectedly, though, the bar closed before midnight, the staff also wanting to get home, and suddenly I was out on the street in the rain.
There were plenty of taxis going back and forward out there, of course, but all of them either were already occupied or didn’t have their For Hire signs on. So I began walking in the direction of my home town some ten miles away, hoping to pick up a taxi on the way. I seemed to have walked for miles when I saw that inviting shop doorway. Cold, wet and tired, I stepped into it.
And there I was again, hours later, still cold and wet and tired, still on the look-out for a taxi, still a long way from home. I felt like the most miserable man on the planet. I was thirty-five, living alone, in the process of divorcing my wife for adultery, and estranged from my three children. The last of those caused me the greatest misery. It was Christmas, and I wouldn’t be spending it with my children. One of my sisters had very kindly invited me and my younger brother, who was also single, to Christmas dinner with her family. I wasn’t looking forward to it at all; it wouldn’t be the same without my kids. I would have to put on a happy face for my sister’s sake, though, and get through the day somehow – if I ever managed to make it home in the first place, that was. But then, just when I thought life couldn’t be any worse, when shop doorways I was passing were starting to look inviting again, a little miracle occurred. A taxi, its For Hire light shining like a beacon though the rain-shrouded darkness, was heading straight towards me.
Probably both hacked off by our respective circumstances on that bleak Christmas morning, the taxi-driver and I hardly spoke throughout the journey. Even when we arrived in my home town, I didn’t want to spend any time giving him complex directions to find the building I lived in, so I asked him to drop me off in the High Street, and I walked the rest of the way. Once inside my flat, I was in the process of stripping off my sodden clothes when I remembered the phone number the redhead had written on the back of my hand. Needless to say, the ink had been smudged so badly by the rain that it was no longer readable.
“Par for the course,” I muttered and fell into bed.
By midmorning of Christmas Day, I was stripped to the waist, still getting ready to go out, when someone knocked on the door. Thinking it must be my wee brother coming early to collect me, I opened the door as I was. To my surprise, it was the petite twentysomething who owned the flat across the landing and who had recently broken up with her fiancé. She had red hair and sparkling green eyes.
“Merry Christmas!” she said, handing me a card and a gift-wrapped bottle of something.
She came closer and kissed me full on the lips, her mouth open. It was a kiss that promised much more and better to come. Then she told me where I could find her that night. After she had gone back into her flat, I closed the door and sighed happily. Life was looking up – for a little while, at least.