Gale Force Ten

by Sheryl K Lindsay © 2004

The satellite image showed a massive cold front, pushing bitter storms from the north and spiralling in frigid blue towards the islands.

“Looks bad.” Gail remarked, unsurprised. It was winter in the Orkney Islands. Storms had been a way of life for the islanders and they had accepted the damage to their livelihoods with cheerful resignation. Until, that is, they had discovered what Gail could do.

“Oh aye.” Phil, the enthusiastic meteorologist went on to describe the potential wind speeds and wind chill factors involved, should the storm hit. He pushed his small, wire framed glasses back up his nose and turned to the woman beside him. “Are you all right, Gail?”

She rubbed a hand over her neck, shifting her head to one side. “Just tired. It's been a busy year.”

“I'll say. You've had the whole gamut of freaky weather to deal with.”

“Thanks.” She tried to look interested in the image on the computer screen, but her spirit just wasn’t in it. The multi-coloured cloud pattern swept across the islands and for a moment, Gail contemplated the idea of allowing it to do exactly that.

Sensing that she was having a crisis, Phil switched the satellite image on to the his screensaver. Gail stared blankly at the grainy photographs of tornadoes; Images of Mother Nature's wanton destruction faded one to another. There was one thing to be said about Phillip Dawson, he loved his meteorology. Fresh from a Masters degree, he'd been a veritable godsend to her since the Council had put her on their books.

“Sorry.” He muttered and wiggled the mouse so that the plain Windows desktop showed, all grey and clinical blue. It still reminded her of the weather.

She sighed. “No, Phil, it's not your fault. I'm just feeling a little punch drunk.”

“The weather has been pretty erratic lately.” He agreed. “Or, would have been if you hadn’t dealt with it.”

“Ugh.” She grumbled, lowering her head onto the edge of the table with a soft thump. “I tell you, Phil, if it was just the weather, then I'd be allright. It's the endless phone calls from the Council, worrying that I won't be able to hold off the weather for the Hogmanay street party and they've already laid down criteria for next year, which days its allowed to rain, that kind of thing. They want it to be sunny every day that a cruise ship comes into the harbour, for heavens sakes! But, if I were to do that, then I'd have every gardener in Orkney on my case, needing more rain.” She shook her head despairingly.

He patted her shoulder sympathetically. “The tourists won't mind a bit of rain.”

“But the council do. I swear I've just become some kind of glorified council pawn since they found out what I could do.” She'd still never forgiven Naomi Peace in the local paper for betraying her secret.

“They're just taking you for granted, but you do so much good for the islands, Gail, never forget that.”

“What do I care for their stupid party anyway? Its not as if I want to go.”

She'd turned her head and caught the brief flash of what could have been disappointment cross his lean features before he cleared his throat and looked away. “I suppose you’ll need to rest up.”

“Precisely.” She muttered. “And it would serve them all right if I let this bloody hurricane sweep the marquee into the harbour and rain the whole poxy event off.”

“You can’t mean that?” He sounded horrified.

“No.” She sighed. “I don’t.” Wearily she got up off her seat. “I'd better go and deal with it before I change my mind.”

Phil smiled, leaped out of his chair and left it spinning to fetch her heavy green waterproof jacket from the coat stand by the door. “Your cape, madame.” He brandished it with a flourish.

She shook her head but was unable to keep the smile from her face as she left the Met Office building. A thick drizzle fogged the low lying landscape, rendering the sea the same shade of dirty white as the sky. A strong breeze chilled her cheeks as she walked over the car park.

She stood at the edge of the tarmac space, where tussocks of grass poked through, staring absently at the lovely view of the islands' small airport.

She focused, feeling the approaching weather front all those miles away over the Atlantic. Her eyes filled with swirling grey clouds as she sped up the severe weather so that it lost most of its power over the ocean. Then, just to make sure, she summoned a wind from the south to push the remaining front just far enough north to ensure that it missed the islands.

The hogmanay celebrations were safe. There would be no storm to disrupt everyone's plans. The drizzle had dampened her hair and the wind had reddened her nose. Sniffing she turned back towards the Met Office to say goodbye to Phil, but found that he had come outside to watch her.

“Is that our world saved again, Gail?” He asked, his tone wry. She nodded.

“Think you'll get a mention in the paper after new year?”

“No. I doubt it.” The Council liked to think that they singlehandedly organised the weather.

“Never mind.” Phil smiled, passing an arm about her shoulders. “You're still my hero.”

“Fancy a drink, Phil?” She asked him as they returned inside.

“Sure.”

x x x




Read more Flash Fiction?
Chat about this story on our BBS?
Or, Back to the Front Page?