A Road Under the Stars
The Mortons left Gran and Grandads cottage embarrassingly late. The lane winding out of Little Whimbleton towards the city lay deserted, the packed snow on the tarmac sighing gently under the ancient Vauxhalls worn tyres. The car was steeped in the distinct aroma of Grans mince pies, mixed with the peculiar exhaustion that comes after a gloriously raucous Christmas.
Twelve-year-old Simon, installed on the back seat, pressed his forehead against the frosty window. His breath painted fleeting, ghostly swirls on the glass, obscuring the sleepy cottages and skeletal branches sparkling with rime as they glided past in the darkness.
Try to doze off, love, its still two hours, at least, his mum, Evelyn, advised as she glanced over her shoulder. But Simon had no intention of sleeping. In the pocket of his duffel coat nestled a secret gift: Grandads battered old compass, with a needle that resolutely refused to point north. It doesnt find north, it finds what matters most, Grandad had whispered with a conspiratorial wink.
Simon flipped the compass open. Its scuffed brass lid clicked quietly, the glass cracked like a spiders web. The needle shuddered, then stubbornly aimed not along the winding road but off towards the depths of the forest flanking the carriageway.
DadColinfiddled with the radio. A fading Christmas classic warbled its last, then silence prevailed, broken only by the steady hum of the engine.
Suddenly the Vauxhall jolted, spluttered, and rolled peacefully onto the verge.
Not this again Colin groaned, twisting the ignition hopefully. All he got in return was the joyless click of a dying starter.
Batterys flat, he announced, confirming what they all half-expected. Told you before, shouldve swapped it. This weathers the death of the bloody thing
The cold wasted no time nibbling away at the cars precious warmth. It was minus six out there, easily. Colin braved the chill to faff under the bonnet but soon returned, clutching numb hands and looking every bit as helpless as he felt.
Thats it. Im calling for breakdown.
But Evelyns phone mustered only a thin, tremulous bar of signal. Colins had given up altogether and would have been better used as a paperweight.
The car filled with an uneasy hush, the earlier festive cosiness replaced by the creeping dread of being lone stranded souls in the English winter night.
So what now? Evelyn asked, clutching Simon for comfort.
Best we try the old light a fire and wait tricka bit survivalist, but at least we wont turn into human icicles, Colin offered, not sounding entirely convinced.
Just then, Simon peered again at his compass. The needle had perked up, pointing directly at a narrow path vanishing into the black tangle of woods.
Mum? Dad? he whispered, voice just above a shiver. We ought to go that way.
In the forest? Have you finally lost your marbles? Colin replied.
Grandad said the compass points to whats most important. Its telling us to go that way now.
The Mortons looked at each other. Only a certifiably mad family would ditch the car for a midnight trek through spooky English woodland, but staying and freezing their toes off wasnt exactly a masterplan either.
Evelyn suddenly squinted out Simons direction. Is that a light? Look!
Peering through the icy branches, all three saw it: a single pinprick of yellow, deep in the trees, like a warm window beckoning.
Could be someones shed Colin hedged.
Could be someone who knows how to fix a battery, Evelyn countered, bundling Simons scarf tighter. Id rather chance a stranger than risk Simon freezing.
And so, with a basket of rescued mince pies and the hallowed family Thermos, they ventured forth. Simonss compass, clutched tight in his mittened hand, led unwaveringly.
But the forest wasnt frightening. It was silent, spellbound by ice and starlight, the cold making every noiseevery crunch of snowa cosmic tickle. They trudged in single file, hearts slowly swapping panic for the secret delight of adventure.
The light resolved into something less magical, but still comfortinga porch lantern swinging outside a tidy timber lodge. Smoke drifted from a short brick chimney. By the gate: a snow-caked quad bike. A tall aerial bristled in the moonlight.
Colin rapped on the door. It opened to reveal a white-haired, solid sort of chap in glasses and an oversized woolly jumper.
Stranded revellers? he grinned, ushering them inside without a second thought. Come in, come in! Youre just in timemy only companys usually the stars.
Inside, the lodge felt more like a wizards study: books stacked everywheremeteorology, astronomy, poetrymaps thumbtacked to the pine-panelled walls, including a giant, browning star chart of the northern hemisphere. The air was scented with old paper, toasted pine needles, and the faint tang of solder.
But the heart of the room was a sort of spaceship control panel: a mighty radio set flickering with emerald and amber bulbs, battered headphones, and a microphone that looked like a metal daffodil. Beside it: a battered leather-bound log, listing, London, 23:45signal spot on, Auckland, 06:20discussed the cyclone.
The man looked warmly at his guests through his spectacles. Leo Nicholls, at your service, he said, shaking Colins hand. Bit of a hermit, but not by choice! My visitors are usually beamed in on a frequency, not a snowdrift.
While Evelyn shed her coat and practically welded herself to the stove, and Simon went wide-eyed over the star maps (annotated in wobbly biro: little arrows, clouds, swirling numbers), Leo busied himself at the kettle.
Sorryno whistling copper, just this. He flicked the electric kettle on. But the teas local stuffmint and fireweed from my garden. Better than any supermarket tipple, I promise.
His calm, wry voice was oddly reassuring. With Leo, it was as if all the frantic cold and panic were left outside, frozen to the doorstep.
Do you really live here all alone? Evelyn asked.
Morally? Probably questionable. Practically? Glorious, Leo assured, laying out mugs decorated with cheerful daisies. Did my time in the big city, ran operations at the Met Office. Then one day, I got called by the quiet. Nowwellme and the radio do the rounds. I listen in on the planet: the static, the sferics, the hiss of the aurora in the airwaves. New Years Eve is the best: greetings from everywhere. Sydney, Montreal, Rio. Like standing on a hill, watching the lights of the world. But its all ghosts and echoes, reallyIve never been to any of those places.
Simon, enchanted, inched nearer.
Could I listen in?
My absolute pleasure. Leos eyes twinkled. He perched the headphones over Simons ears and twiddled the dial. What dyou reckon?
Simons mouth fell open. Amid the fizz and pops came scraps of laughter, scattered phrases in odd accents, children carolling, Morse code tappingEarths festive jamboree, etched in electrons.
Im not a total recluse, Leo told Colin and Evelyn. I keep the Met Office up to speedtemperature, pressure, drizzle. Its not just about forecastsits a diary. Every evening I mark it down, (he nodded at a neat shelf crammed with identical brown ledgers), like the trees grow rings, I grow notebooks. And some nights, if someones in a pickletourists mostlyI steer them out with a bearing or two. Im a sort of forest caretaker. My only weapons a radio wave.
Colin looked at Leo with a reluctant awe. Here was a man who clearly knew something precious. Something city life had squashed right out of the Mortons.
Doesnt it get lonely? Colin ventured.
Oh, it gets a bit uninspired some days, Leo admitted, but not lonely. Theres always someone on the ether, and tonight theres you lotmy rare and absolute treat!
After demolishing the last of the pies and relaying their automotive saga, Leo checked the grandfather clock.
Well thenPlan A! Ill zip you and me back to your car on the quad. Could be frosts popped a connection, easy fix. Failing thatwell try a battery jump. Cant leave you out in this weather, can we?
And us? Evelyn asked, more than a little apprehensive, eyeing Simon.
You two should keep toasty here, Leo insisted. No point freezing the lad any further. Well be only half an hourback before you know it. If notPlan B: all back here for a slumber party. Ive sleeping bags coming out my ears.
Colin let out a properly British sigh of relief. Marvellous plan.
Bundled up and loaded onto the quad (really more flying carpet than farm machinery in the Mortons minds) Leo and Colin vanished down the woodland track, the night air jangling with icy starlight.
Leos years alone must have taught him a trick or twosoon the ancient Vauxhall came into view. Leo shone a torch beneath the bonnet, scrubbed battery terminals with some magic goop, unhooked the quads battery and wired it in. Colin held his breath, then twisted the key. The starter howledand miraculously the engine rumbled back to life. Headlights scythed into snowy blackness.
Were back in business! Colin cheered, whacking the steering wheel like it was a winning lottery ticket.
He stumbled out and, because a simple thanks wouldnt do, enveloped Leo in a hearty embrace, much to the radio mans shock (and possibly, to his delight).
Youre a star, Colin said, an utter legend. Tea, mince pie, batterycouldnt ask for nobler hospitality.
Old woods, old rules, Leo said, trying to seem modest but failing, as he straightened his glasses. Never leave a soul in the lurch, top priority. You keep the car warmlet me fetch your family.
He vanished into the shivering dark, leaving even the Vauxhall feeling grateful, somehow.
Riding back on the quad was a true winters fairy tale for Simon; the forest held no terrors now, only glitter and possibility.
After a round of cheery goodbyes (and swapping phone numbers, naturally), Leo insisted, Come by in summer! You wouldnt believe the blackberries. Peace like thisno city can buy it.
We definitely will, Evelyn promised, and even Colin looked as though hed gone soft at the edges.
The drive home was transformed. Simon, at last, dozed on the back seat. Colin steered through the inky night, and Evelyn watched the little towns go by, starlit and quiet.
You know, she whispered, I dont think its just politeness. We will go back. Hes part of our story now. Our Christmas.
Colin nodded. He was so glad to see us. He saved us, but maybe in a way, we saved him too.
When they finally pulled up to their little semi, in the dead of night, Simon rummaged in his pocket.
Mum, Dad wheres Grandads compass?
A frantic search revealed nothing. It dawned on them all: the compass was still tucked away on Leos desk, right by those meticulously ruled journals.
For a moment Simon hesitated, then broke into a bright, understanding smile.
Well, thats alright, he said softly. Its better off staying there, where its needed. Andhis eyes flickered with a warm, determined lightit means well just have to go back for it. And for Leo.
And in those simple words was a quietly certain hope. Not loss, but promise. The missing compass wasnt a tragedy, but a signthe story hadnt ended with goodbye on a B-road verge. Thered be a next chapter.
Summer at the lodge, a garden table groaning with cake; Leo teaching Simon to fish for satellites; the compass needle twitching once more, not to rescue, but to return from the whirlwind of life to that oasiswhere theyd always, now, be welcome.
