The camp was full of happy, expectant people of all ages though the smiles they wore were like the smiles of children waiting excitedly outside Santa’s grotto. There was an sparkly anticipation that filled the air like the run up to Christmas aided and abetted by the vast expanse of soft, powdery snow that extended far beyond what the eye could see, and was so much different to the slushy stuff they were all used to.
On her way out of the cabin, Laurie’s path crossed with the man she’d seen in the coffee shop a couple of times.
‘Well hello again,’ he said. ‘I might have known you’d gravitate to the hot chocolate. That’s where I’m heading now.’
‘It’s very nice,’ said Laurie and held up her cup. ‘This is my second. Just the thing to keep you warm. And probably fat.’
The man chuckled. ‘I think hot chocolate counts as medicine to keep you alive in these temperatures. It’s minus twenty degrees tonight, my son tells me. He’s sitting on that bench over there.’
He pointed towards a figure sitting on a thick pelt on a bench, gazing up at the sky.
‘That’s your son?’ she asked. Even with a furry trooper hat on and a huge coat, she could recognise his beloved shape.
We, he’d said. She’d presumed it was a woman.
‘You’re here with him?’ Laurie asked, swallowing.
‘Aye. That’s my son Pete. We’re taking a father and son trip. If we don’t see these Northern Lights, he’s going to give me some proper earache for convincing him that this would be a better option than going to Italy on his tod. I’m just going in for supplies and then I’ll introduce you if you like. I’ve spoken enough about you to him. He’ll murder me for telling you that he’s single . . .’ Laurie didn’t hear any more. Her heart was swelling in her breast, its beat drowning out his words, drowning out the world.
*
There were twenty-eight steps to the bench exactly. Laurie knew this because she counted every one.
He saw her when she was ten steps away from him. Something shifted his attention from the skies to his side.
‘Laurie.’
‘Hello Pete.’
‘Hello.’
‘You came here with your dad?’ Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her.
‘Yes. How . . .’
‘I keep meeting him in the coffee shop.’
‘You’re the . . . the hot chocolate woman. The one travelling by herself?’
‘Yes. That’s me. The lone traveller. The hot chocolate woman.’
Laurie sat down on the bench beside him before she fell. Their arms were touching, just like that night in the cinema. She’d sat too close, but she couldn’t move, didn’t want to move.
Pete felt a low current tremble through his whole body, and it was nothing to do with the cold. God in heaven, where to begin? There was no gentle slope down into the pool of words. He just had to dive headfirst into them. Say everything without censor or cut.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for just running away from you like that, I’m sorry for behaving like a selfish, cowardly idiot. I’m making no excuses. I . . . I found out that my wife was in love with someone else when she died. I think she was going to tell me she was leaving me for him . . . that night.’
Tell her everything. Give her the chance to run – or stay.
‘The baby couldn’t have been mine. I found out I can’t have kids, Laurie.’
He steeled himself for her reaction, felt her press ever so slightly closer to him and a honeyed warmth flooded his chest.
So he knew, thought Laurie. But did he know it all? What the hell did it matter? She wasn’t going to lose him again. They’d work it out somehow. As Alan Robertson’s dear old great gran, God rest her soul, used to say, among her other adages, Life is here and now – live it or miss it. And she wasn’t going to miss any more.
‘I found out that Alex was going to leave me too. That night,’ said Laurie. ‘The engagement ring wasn’t for me. It was for someone he’d found who made him happier than I ever could.’
So she knew, thought Pete. His arm shifted position, moved behind her so that she felt the wonderful weight of his gloved hand as it came to rest on her shoulder. He turned to her and that word came to his mind: apricity. His mother’s word. This was what apricity was, then. It was minus twenty degrees, the moon was out and yet he felt as if his face were lit with sunshine.
‘My beautiful Laurie.’ Her lips were dusted with chocolate and cake. She tasted how home felt. He would never let her go again.
A sudden rush, shouts, shrieks as people spilled out of the tents and the log cabin, heads tilted to the skies where grey wisps were billowing to greens, deepening to pinks. The Northern Lights spread like arms, embracing the earth, reflected for a moment or two in all their shimmering wonder. The solar winds had brought them here, or something else that defied reason and science. They suffused the sky with colour and then faded as suddenly as they had appeared. A glimpse into a world beyond where two souls, among many, were smiling down. Their job done.
One True North
Pilgrims for love, they had travelled alone
On separate journeys, crossing foreign seas,
No compass to guide, no magnetic stone,
Just the stars’ chilly glimmer in the dark skies.
Hearts were at low ebb, there were many storms,
Searching the unknown with a taper light,
Nothing to hang their hopes upon, only dreams,
Adrift and shaken in an endless night.
Then the sight of warmth in another’s eyes
Was their landfall; the promise of a home,
A miracle of finding, no disguise.
The breath of new love, and no longer alone.
Pilgrims for love, finding the beauty and worth
Of becoming each other’s one true north.
JAMES NASH