It was an overcast day in late May, as a bleak wind moaned over the barren moor. It bent the grasses and flowers, carrying with it the vague dampness of rain, which was falling in the distant mountains. Anne Clark was at her wit’s end. She and her twelve year old son Rory were on their way to a holiday camp in the mountains for the weekend, when a tyre on her car had developed a puncture. She’d opened the boot, only to discover that the spare tyre had somehow gone missing. Now, she and Rory were alone by the side of the road, miles from nowhere, hoping for help to arrive.

Sitting on the front passenger seat of his mother’s Skoda, facing backwards, and looking down the road, Rory mumbled, “Try it again?” His mother only shook her head. “It’s no use, Rory.” She said, looking helplessly at the mobile, clutched uselessly in her hand, “I can’t get a signal. We’ll just have to wait for someone to happen by.” Anne looked at her son. His blond hair was tousled by the wind, as he stared sullenly down the empty valley. She glanced ahead, up the long hill, hoping against hope to see another vehicle appear like magic over the rise. But, after four hours of waiting, they were still alone, with nothing but each other and the wind, for company.

Rory shifted restlessly in the seat. “I’m hungry,” he sulked, “and cold. Some holiday this turned out to be.” Anne frowned. “Oh, stop your complaining, Rory. If you’re cold, put on your anorak, for goodness sake. Besides, where’s your sense of adventure?” She brushed a strand of her long brown hair from her eyes, forcing herself to smile, “Trust me, someday you and your mates will get a laugh out of all of this.” Rory just rolled his eyes and said nothing.

Anne sighed and leaned her head back against the driver’s seat. Just then, over the wind, she thought she heard a noise. “Mum!” Rory exclaimed, “I think someone’s coming!” With a rush of relief, she got out of the car. Shading her eyes against the mid-afternoon glare, Anne followed the direction of her son’s finger, as he pointed down the valley. There, in the distance, a vehicle was slowly winding its way up the long road. She anxiously watched what looked like a blue motor home, crawling along the narrow pavement with a wretched grinding of it gears.

As it finally came up to them, it stopped. Admonishing Rory to stay put, Anne walked over to the driver’s side window of the old Morris camper. Rory angrily slumped down in the seat, muttering, “I’m not a child, you know.” His mum looked hopefully at the driver, “Can you help me, please?” A thin, silver-haired man rolled down his window and smiled at her. “What’s the matter love? Have a break-down, did you?” He asked cheerfully. Before Anne could reply, the man’s wife had already climbed down from the passenger seat of their beat-up camper, and was clucking over Anne’s misfortune. “It’s a good thing we happened along, isn’t it dear? You could have been out here all day! Hardly anyone takes this road any longer, since they put in that new motorway.”

The old woman didn’t seem to notice Rory still sitting in the car, as she steered Anne to the side door of the vehicle. “My name’s Emma, by the way, Emma Plock.” She spoke rapidly, “Come on now, why don’t I make you a quick cuppa’ tea, while my John sees to your motor, alright?” Before Anne could protest, the short, rotund woman had bustled her inside the cramped interior of the camper. Anne never noticed that John never got out of the Morris, never had time to realize that the old man hadn’t even bothered to switch off the engine. In fact, Anne never noticed anything else, ever again. Rory cried out as her heard his mum’s terrified scream from inside the old motor home. He rushed out of the car calling for his mum, but it was too late, the camper was already driving away. Inside, the two old people were laughing.