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After taking the junction for Christmas Land, Bonnie began to see more signs. The landscape had changed, becoming beautiful, all rolling hills and moorland as they entered the Lake District. In the distance she caught glimpses of glittering water whenever they crested a rise. After a while she nudged Debbie awake. The younger girl looked up blearily, grinned, and said, ‘Are we there yet?’
‘Not yet, but nearly. Isn’t
it pretty?’
Debbie looked around. ‘Where
did all the hedges go?’
Dry stone walls had
replaced the grassy hedgerows, the roads narrowing in many places to a single
lane punctuated by small passing places.
‘It’s so charming,’
Bonnie said, unable to keep a grin off her face. ‘All these hills and lakes—’
‘Fells and meres, Bon,’
Debbie said.
Bonnie frowned. ‘What?
You fell where?’
Debbie shook her head. ‘The
hills are called “fells”, and they call the lakes “meres”, “waters” or “tarns”.’
‘Well, aren’t you the
expert?’
Debbie grinned. ‘Countryfile. Got to do something with my
unemployment. You know, when I was a kid growing up, I used to fantasize about
John Craven dressing in black and fronting a goth band.’
‘So no My Little Ponies,
then?’
‘Had one once. I cut off
its hair and painted it red.’
‘I bet you were popular in
playschool.’
Debbie grinned. ‘No one
ever pushed me off the slide.’
They passed another
Christmas Land sign, poking out of an overgrown verge. Someone had scrawled Father Christmas is dead in red paint
diagonally across it. Debbie glanced at Bonnie and raised an eyebrow.
‘So it looks like this
mythical place really does exist.’
‘Well, it did, at least.’
‘Sounds like my kind of place,’ Debbie said.
‘I’d turn back, but the
tank’s low and I haven’t seen a petrol station in miles,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m
counting on them to have one.’
‘All or nothing,’ Debbie
said. ‘Have you seen Deliverance?’
Bonnie groaned. ‘Of course
I have.’
‘What about Wrong Turn?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘I’m
not familiar with that one.’
‘It’s about these kids
who break down and end up caught by a family of rednecks—’
Bonnie put up a hand. ‘I
can imagine. Can’t we talk about mince pies or something?’
‘There’s a man flagging
us down up ahead,’ Debbie said.
‘Is he wearing a
Christmas hat?’
‘No, but he has some kind
of stick.’
Debbie was right. An old
man in Wellington boots, a tweed jacket and a flat cap was waving a stick at
the car.
‘Lock the doors,’ Debbie
said.
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