by Ben Miller
‘Can you really fly?’ Torvil asked.
‘Only one way to find out,’ said the reindeer as it aligned itself with a convenient tree stump. ‘Come on. Up you hop.’
Before he had even paused to think how dangerous it might be to ride a flying reindeer with no saddle, no training, and no head for heights, Torvil set one foot on the tree stump and vaulted on to the reindeer’s back. At which point, the reindeer turned and cantered towards the forest.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Torvil, pointing at the orphanage. ‘It’s that way!’
‘Everyone’s an expert, aren’t they?’ said the reindeer, slowing to a halt. ‘I need a run-up.’
And then he turned once more, and began to gallop at full speed towards the gates.
‘Hold on tight!’ the reindeer called, and just when it seemed he was going to smash headlong into the ironwork, he sprang from the ground like an event horse leaping a four-star fence. Up, up into the cold night they soared, with the reindeer’s hooves pounding the air and Torvil hanging on for dear life!
Chapter Eleven
They landed with a clatter on the orphanage roof. Unfortunately, beneath their appealing covering of snow, the slates were rather slippery and, after trotting to what should have been an elegant halt, the reindeer continued to slide up and up the sloping roof, slowing under gravity until it crested the ridge, at which point it tipped ever-so-slowly forward and began to slide down the other side.
‘What are you doing?’ called Torvil.
‘Panicking,’ replied the reindeer. ‘Bail!’
Torvil needed no further encouragement, and jumping from the reindeer’s back, landed hard on his bottom. He and the reindeer were now sliding side by side, picking up speed, heading down towards the roof’s edge.
‘Quick!’ called the reindeer. ‘Grab the gutter!’
Torvil did as he was told, and the two of them executed a neat gymnastic move, flipping over the edge of the roof and landing with control on a window ledge beneath them.
Torvil and the reindeer looked at one another.
‘Cool,’ said the reindeer.
‘Sssh!’ whispered Torvil. ‘Look.’
Inside was a long, narrow room, its ceiling criss-crossed with wooden beams, with beds full of sleeping children. Next to an empty cot there was a lit candle and a small pool of light. Beside it, Miss Turi comforted the abandoned baby, while a stern-looking older woman fitted the cot with sheets and blankets.
‘I remember her too,’ whispered Torvil. ‘That’s Mrs Somby. We didn’t like her quite so much.’
The two women were talking to one another, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying.
‘Follow me,’ hissed the reindeer, and he and Torvil shuffled along the ledge towards the next window, which happened to be open.
‘What shall we call him?’ Miss Turi was saying.
‘Torvil, of course,’ replied Mrs Somby, pointing to the label on the basket. ‘Can’t you read?’
‘Torvil,’ Miss Turi said, chalking the name on a small blackboard at the end of the cot. ‘But what about his surname?’
‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Somby. ‘Perhaps something plain like Korhonen or Nieminen?’
‘We can’t just give him any old surname,’ said Miss Turi. ‘It has to be something special to him.’
‘Whatever,’ said Mrs Somby, and headed for the door.
As if he could hear Mrs Somby’s uncaring tone, baby Torvil started to cry.
‘Sssh, Torvil, sssh,’ said Miss Turi, stroking the baby’s cheek. ‘You’ll have lots of friends here. Look, this is Gerda, she’s going to be sleeping right next to you.’ As she spoke, Miss Turi carried the baby over to a nearby cot with a name-board that read: Gerda, 10 December. Right on cue, baby Gerda opened her large brown eyes and smiled. And, as if greeting a new friend, baby Torvil stopped crying and smiled back.
It was then the reindeer noticed that grownup Torvil had a tear in his eye. ‘What is it?’ whispered the reindeer.
‘Gerda,’ said Torvil, a tenderness in his voice. ‘She was my friend.’
Miss Turi was humming the baby a lullaby. Of course! Now Torvil knew where he had heard the melody played by the Copper Elf’s sack-pipe. It was the lullaby Miss Turi had sung to them at the orphanage.
Smiling, Miss Turi took up a piece of chalk, and wrote: Christmas Eve on the small blackboard at the end of baby Torvil’s cot. As her chalk formed the final letter, a thought struck her.
‘That’s what your surname should be!’ she said. ‘Christmas. Torvil Christmas.’
She tucked baby Torvil safely under the covers, and blew out the candle.
On the window ledge, the wind picked up, blowing thick with snowflakes, and Torvil found he could hardly see his hand in front of his face.
Miss Turi was humming the baby a lullaby.
‘Hello?’ he called, looking around for the reindeer.
‘Torvil?’ called the reindeer. ‘Torvil!’
But it was too late. Suddenly, as if a rug had been pulled out from beneath their feet, the ledge disappeared from under them, and with a shout of alarm, Torvil and the reindeer began to fall.
Chapter Twelve
Down and down they fell, flailing and kicking, the white wind whistling all around them. Torvil had never fallen from the top floor of an orphanage before, so he had very little with which to compare the experience, but it seemed to him that they fell for a lot longer than was justified by everyday physics. He was half-beginning to wonder whether they might ever hit the ground at all when they landed flat on their backs in an enormous snowdrift.
It was what you might call a soft landing, but Torvil’s relief was short-lived. He might have survived the fall, but he had sunk so deep that he was crushed by the sheer weight of snow on top of him. Summoning all his energy, he tried to sit up. It was useless. He tried to lift one leg, but he couldn’t do that either. Last of all, he tried to lift his little finger, but even that was pinned down as if by a ten-tonne weight. At that point, he started to lose all hope.
‘Reindeer, are you there?’ he whispered.
‘I have got a name, you know,’ said the reindeer.
‘I can’t breathe,’ said Torvil bravely. ‘If I don’t make it—’
‘It’s Rudolph,’ interrupted the reindeer. ‘My parents were German.’
‘Right,’ said Torvil, not really listening. ‘If I don’t make it, tell Gerda—’ Torvil paused, his lips turning blue with lack of oxygen.
‘Yes?’ said Rudolph.
But Torvil, whose breath was almost spent, found it difficult to get any words out. All that came from his mouth was a wheezing sound, as if someone was expelling the last thimbleful of air from a flat sack-pipe.
‘Tell Gerda what?’ pushed the reindeer.
Now Torvil could no longer even wheeze. His life, he thought hopelessly, was probably numbered in seconds.
‘Tell you what, I’ll get off you, and see if that’s any better,’ Rudolph said and stood up. It was then that Torvil realised the reason he couldn’t breathe was not because he was being crushed by a very great weight of snow, but because he was being sat on by a very great weight of reindeer.
‘What are you doing, you great oaf?’ Torvil shouted. ‘I could have suffocated under there!’
‘It wasn’t that comfortable for me, either,’ said the reindeer, glancing through a ground-floor window as he spoke. ‘You’re a sack of bones. Seriously, you need to chub up a bi– Oh my days! Christmas, you need to see this.’
Cross as he was, Torvil joined the reindeer at the window.
At first, he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. A dozen or so children sat, waiting patiently with empty bowls, while Mrs Somby served them supper. It was Gerda he recognised first, and as she held her bowl up for a ladle-full of grey liver, a shiver ran down his spine. She was beautiful and her eyes shone with kindness.
‘Wait . . .’ he said to the reindeer, ‘We’ve jumped in time. And if that’s Gerda
. . . then–’
‘The boy next to her is you,’ said the reindeer, finishing his sentence. And sure enough, there he was. Though whereas the younger Gerda was easily recognisable, Torvil’s younger self was alarmingly different. There was no hunch in his shoulders, no frown on his forehead: his posture was elegant, his eyes shone, and his tousled blond hair reached almost to his collar.
‘Wait. I remember this,’ said Torvil, recalling a distant memory. ‘It was Christmas dinner. Usually we had a slice of bacon, but this one year it was liver. I couldn’t eat it.’
Just as he spoke, the young Torvil made a face at Gerda and pushed his bowl to one side. Making sure no one was watching, Gerda took her bread from beside her plate and handed it to the young Torvil behind her back.
Across the table, Mrs Somby stopped ladling; she had seen Gerda’s crime. ‘Gerda! What was that you just passed to Torvil?’
Thankfully, at that very moment the door burst open, and in came Miss Turi. She was carrying a hemp sack and – much to the dismay of Mrs Somby – all the children immediately threw down their spoons and ran to greet her. Smiling warmly, Miss Turi reached into the sack and handed each and every one of the children a small present wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘Don’t get excited,’ she said. ‘They are just small things.’
‘I’d forgotten this,’ said Torvil to the reindeer, with a fondness in his voice. ‘Miss Turi always used to make us presents.’
It was only a matter of seconds before all the children had unwrapped their little parcels. Inside hers, Gerda found a rag mouse. She gave a shriek of joy and clutched it tight. The young Torvil had a rag hedgehog. Other children unwrapped rag snakes, rag kittens and rag puppies, all of them made by Miss Turi.
‘Thank you, Miss Turi! You’re the best!’ they cried, and threw their arms around her.
‘When I grow up,’ said young Torvil eagerly, ‘I’m going to be rich. Every Christmas I’m going to come back here and give all the children a present!’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ said Miss Turi, ruffling his hair. ‘Happy Christmas, all of you! Now, I must go and give these last few gifts to the babies.’
As soon as she left the room, something terrible happened. Mrs Somby, who was not only cross with Gerda, but also furious that Miss Turi was so much more popular than she was, snatched Gerda’s rag mouse, and threw it on the fire. Gerda was so shocked, she couldn’t even cry.
‘That’s what happens to little girls who break the rules,’ said Mrs Somby. ‘No sharing!’
‘That’s so unfair!’ muttered the reindeer.
‘Welcome to the world,’ replied Torvil.
‘Wait a minute,’ said the reindeer. ‘Hero incoming . . .’
Turning back to the window, Torvil saw a little scene unfolding that filled him with pride.
‘Cheer up,’ said his younger self, putting a protective arm around the distraught Gerda. ‘You can have my hedgehog. I don’t want it.’
Gently, Gerda took the toy and held it close. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Promise you’ll be my friend for ever?’
‘Promise,’ said young Torvil.
‘Hmm,’ said the reindeer, puzzled.
‘Hmm, what?’ asked Torvil.
‘I don’t get it. You were a good kid. Now you’re just . . . awful. What’s your deal?’
Torvil was about to answer, when he was almost blown clean over by another ice-cold blast of wind. No sooner had he recovered his balance than once again the air was bright with swirling snowflakes, as if the entire world was a snow-globe shaken by an angry giant. Then, as quickly as it had risen, the wind subsided, the snow settled, and a warm summer sun shone on the windows of the orphanage.
To stand in daylight again after weeks of darkness was magical, and for a moment Torvil could hardly take it all in. The trees in the orphanage garden bristled with icicles, and the frozen pond shone like a mirror. It appeared that once again, they had jumped forward in time. And, sure enough, when he and the reindeer approached the window, a new scene was unfolding beyond the glass.
All the chairs and tables had been cleared, and the orphans were sitting cross-legged on the floor, while Mrs Somby addressed them. Among them, Torvil could see his younger self and Gerda, now teenagers.
‘These four couples each have room for one child,’ Mrs Somby was saying.
The orphans began to chatter excitedly. Having their very own family would be a dream come true.
‘Children, please!’ Mrs Somby said with a forced smile, struggling to disguise her bad temper. ‘Be patient. All will be revealed.’
‘You want to know what my “deal” is?’ said Torvil to the reindeer, in a low voice. ‘Then watch this. This is when it all begins, when I start to learn what life is really like.’
The first of four couples took centre-stage. ‘Mr and Mrs Nyqvuist,’ said Mrs Somby self-importantly. ‘Have you made your decision?’
‘We have,’ said Mr Nyqvuist. ‘And we choose . . . Wilder.’
All the orphans at the back of the room burst into applause, and a red-headed boy stood up.
‘Ah,’ said the reindeer. ‘That’s so sad. They didn’t choose you.’
‘Sssh,’ said Torvil. ‘This is just the beginning.’
‘Next,’ Mrs Somby said, ‘we have Mr and Mrs Bergmann.’
Mr and Mrs Bergmann looked at one another, then at Mr and Mrs Nyqvuist.
‘Sorry, this is rather awkward . . .’ said Mrs Bergmann, her voice trailing off in embarrassment. ‘We wanted Wilder as well . . .’
‘Would any of the other children do?’ asked Mrs Somby.
Mr and Mrs Bergmann looked at one another again. ‘I think we’ll wait till the spring,’ said Mr Bergmann. ‘Just in case anything – I mean, anyone – better comes in. I don’t mean better, I mean . . . suitable. Anyone more suitable.’
‘Understood,’ said Mrs Somby.
‘Ouch,’ said the reindeer. ‘That’s got to hurt.’
Torvil was concentrating so hard on the scene that he didn’t reply.
‘Got it,’ said the reindeer. ‘There’s more.’
Inside, Mrs Somby was presenting the third couple, a Mr and Mrs Ekelund.
‘After much thought . . .’ said Mr Ekelund, with a dramatic pause.
‘We’d very much like to adopt . . .’ continued Mrs Ekelund, taking an even longer pause.
‘Ingrid!’ exclaimed Mr Ekelund.
Once again, there was a burst of applause from the orphans, and a very pretty girl with her hair in plaits stood up.
‘Though we would also like to give a favourable mention to Ranveig,’ said Mr Ekelund, ‘who we thought made excellent conversation during the meet-and-greet, and showed a lot of enthusiasm for housework during the tasks, but in the end just didn’t quite have it in the looks stakes. Maybe lose the braces?’ he said, pointing at his front teeth.
A little girl with curly brown hair burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.
‘Here we go,’ said Torvil, nudging the reindeer. ‘This is it coming up now.’
‘And Mrs Loven?’ Mrs Somby was asking. ‘I suppose you can’t really make a decision as your husband isn’t here.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mrs Loven, her golden hair catching the light, ‘I have never felt so sure of anything in all my life. You children are all so wonderful, and I wish I could take you all, but sadly, we only have room for one. And there is a child here with whom I felt a special bond. A generous, open-hearted boy who will make the perfect son. I choose . . . Torvil.’
Applause broke out in the middle of the room, and teenage Torvil, who hadn’t dared to hope that he might be chosen, sat open-mouthed in shock. Gerda, who was sitting next to him, gave him a huge hug. ‘Promise you’ll come and visit?’ she whispered, as he struggled to his feet.
‘Mrs Loven,’ he said, in a faltering voice. ‘I’m so grateful. But as happy as I’ll be to have a proper family, I’ll miss my friend Gerda. Is there any way you could take us
both?’
‘The ingratitude!’ roared Mrs Somby. ‘The cheek!’
‘Please, Mrs Somby,’ said Mrs Loven, with a smile. ‘This is what I so admire about this boy. He always thinks of others before himself.’
There was a pause while Mrs Loven tried to think of a solution.
‘We only have one spare room,’ she said, ‘but I suppose Gerda could sleep there, while Torvil sleeps downstairs in the shop.’
‘You have a shop?’ said Torvil, beaming with delight.
‘Then I suppose that’s agreed,’ said Mrs Loven, and the entire room erupted with laughter, cheers, and the sound of clapping.
‘I don’t get it,’ said the reindeer. ‘She just adopted both of you. Happy days, surely?’
But Torvil wasn’t listening. He had turned from the window towards an imposing figure marching up the path, clouds of breath billowing from underneath his considerable moustache.
‘Who’s that?’ whispered the reindeer.
‘Mr Loven. The butcher,’ said Torvil darkly.
‘Freeze,’ said the reindeer, its lips hardly moving. ‘He mustn’t see us.’
The two of them stood as still as statues, and watched as the butcher rang the bell at the orphanage door. Inside, Mrs Somby’s ears pricked up and she ran to let him in. Mrs Loven, meanwhile, took Torvil and Gerda by the hand, and waited to greet him.
‘Alva?’ said the butcher to Mrs Loven in a gruff voice. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bryn,’ said Mrs Loven. ‘I want you to meet two new members of our family. Torvil and Gerda.’
‘Two?’ said the butcher. ‘I agreed one.’
‘Aren’t they adorable?’ said Mrs Loven.
‘Expensive is what they are,’ said the butcher. ‘Children are like leeches,’ he growled, and every child in the room felt the chill of his cold heart. ‘All they do is take.’
