Johnny and the Stranger

Johnny walked the bike hurriedly along the rough track, known as “Windy Path” to the locals. It clattered over the loose stones, and the front wheel made a scraping sound whenever it rubbed against the mudguard. Darkness had descended like a blanket, and were it not for the pale moonlight, it would have been pitch black. He was late for supper, and imagined the family seated round the small kitchen table, its centre occupied by an assortment of sauces and pickles that his mother thoughtfully provided. It was to be spaghetti Bolognese tonight - his favourite - and his stomach felt uncomfortably empty, while his mouth watered at the thought of food. He shouldn’t have stayed so long at Kevin’s, but they had become engrossed in “Space Hulk” on Kevin’s PC, and time had slipped by imperceptibly and unnoticed. Perhaps too he shouldn’t have borrowed his dad’s bike after all, and taken the trouble to fix his own mountain bike, which he was more familiar with. His dad didn’t like anyone using his Rudge, and he remembered the fed-up expression on his father's face when, he had asked if he could use it.
“Can I borrow your bike dad? Mine’s got a puncture.”
“Why don’t you fix it?”
“I don’t have a repair kit.”
“I don’t know!” his father said exasperated,
“You children never seem to have anything when you need it”. Then more condescendingly, “You can use my repair kit if you want. It’s in my saddle-bag.”
“Oh come on dad. It’ll take me ages. I’m already late.”
His father sighed with resignation. “Very well then. As long as you look after it and don’t ride it to hell!”
His dad rarely used his bike these days, but he treated it with loving care, and regularly kept it clean and oiled. They walked to the shed together and extricated the ancient Rudge from the stack of other bicycles leaning against it. His father automatically dusted the chrome headlight with a rag before finally handing the bike over.
“Now look at the state of it,” Johnny thought guiltily. His father would be furious. Of course, it wasn’t his fault. He had been careful, keeping well to the side as he cycled back along the A-Road from Kevin’s. The Rudge was far too big for Johnny really, and his feet could hardly reach the pedals on their full downward cycle. He felt unsteady on it, and too high up. Nevertheless, it had sailed along smoothly, it’s tyres humming along the tarmac, and the headlight throwing a pool of yellow light a few yards ahead. But he would have felt more at home on his own mountain bike.
Then he had seen the lights of a car in the wing-mirror, blazing full-beam. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he prudently moved as much to the edge of the road as he dared, trying to peer into the gloom cast by his own elongated shadow. He was sure he was visible, as his windcheater had fluorescent patches sewn on, and the pedals of the Rudge were fitted with reflectors. But another glance over his shoulder told him the car was coming up too fast and too close. It seemed to leap at him from behind like a wildcat. Johnny swerved - off the tarmac and onto the rough track alongside. He felt the whoosh of air as the car roared past, and the tinkling laughter above the thump-thump of the disco music blaring from stereo speakers. At the same time, the bike wobbled crazily, and he hit something rock-hard. Next moment he and the bike were tumbling into the brambles.
He lay there for a moment, stunned and shaken, the bike lying over him, its rear wheel still spinning. He could just about see the taillights of the car disappearing into the distance. He disentangled himself from the bike and brambles, painfully aware of the thorns, and rose shakily to his feet. Then he up righted the Rudge and inspected the damage, more by feel than vision. The front wheel was bent and out of shape, the tyre flat. There was no way he could ride it. He let out a groan of despair, and silently cursed the road hogs who had driven him off the road. It would take him too long now to continue on the A-road. The only alternative was the shortcut through Windy Path whose entrance lay a little distance ahead.
He weighed the alternatives momentarily; Windy Path was okay in the daytime when he and dad took Nipper the dog for walks. But it was spooky at night, especially around the deserted and derelict cement works, whose chimneystack stood tall and silent, like a lonely sentinel.
Now he trundled the old bicycle along the pathway, already late for supper and wondering if he would be sent to bed hungry. The thought was unbearable.
All at once he heard a twanging sound, and the front wheel of the Rudge came to a scraping halt. He stooped down and examined the front wheel of the bike, peering into the darkness and feeling with his fingers. One of the spokes had snapped and become entangled in the front fork. He tried with freezing fingers to disentangle it, bending the wire this way and that, but to no avail. The front wheel was now firmly stuck, trapped by the broken spoke. He really needed a pair of pliers. Propping the bicycle against the wire fence that ran along one side of the pathway, he went to the saddlebag. Locked! He swore with frustration. Not only was it locked, but it was padlocked too! His father had taken the precaution to sew on a leather strap to the saddlebag, and fitted a small padlock. Johnny pulled and tugged, but the lock would not give way.
He gave up, and sat down on a small square rock on the side of the pathway, blowing and rubbing some warmth into his frozen hands. A pale watery moon rode high up in the night sky, partly obscured by a galleon of a cloud that drifted past. An owl hooted somewhere, and Johnny shivered as he contemplated the situation. The only solution was to lift the front wheel off the ground and half drag the bicycle back home.
Just as he was getting up to do this, the shadowy figure of a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Having some trouble, lad?” a voice said.
Johnny had been taught, under normal circumstances, not to get in conversation with strangers, but this was an emergency and perhaps the man could do something to help.
“My bike’s broke,” Johnny said. “The front wheel’s jammed and I can’t wheel it along.”
“Let me see,” the man said. He bent down to examine the wheel, and a few moments later said, “No. I’m afraid it’s well and truly stuck.”
At that moment, Johnny felt something cold and wet brush against his hand, and looking down saw it was a black Labrador dog sniffing around him. He pulled his hand away quickly.
“Oh don’t worry about Blackie,” the man said, “He’s quite friendly and doesn’t bite.” He patted the dog’s head to reassure Johnny. “Well,” the man continued, “the only thing we can do is carry the bike to the end of the path to my house. I live just there.” He pointed into the distance to one of four houses standing at one corner of the close, at the end of Windy Path. “I’ll grab the front wheel and you grab the rear.”
Like this, they carried the bike between them to the end of Windy Path, and across the narrow bridge over the stream, and to the house that stood at one corner of the close.
“We’ll just leave the bike here, beside the gatepost,” the man said. It’ll be perfectly safe, and then you can come over tomorrow and collect it.”
Johnny looked up at the man. It was too dark to see his face clearly – just a pale patch.
“Do you have a phone?” Johnny asked.
“Oh, of course. You’ll want to ring your parents, I’m sure.”
He opened the front door, which led into a small hallway, and switched on the light. There was a phone mounted on the wall, rather an old-fashioned one with a dial instead of the usual push buttons.
“You make your phone call, and I’ll get us some hot cocoa. You must be chilled to the bone.” He went down the passageway, followed by Blackie, to the kitchen at the end. Johnny contemplated the phone. He had never used a dial phone before, but had seen how they worked on old films he watched on TV. He twirled the dial one digit at a time, and waited to connect. But all he got was an unavailable tone. He tried again and again, but to no avail. Meanwhile the man returned with two steaming mugs of cocoa.
“Come into the parlour,” the man said and get this down you. It’ll soon warm you up.”
Johnny didn’t really want to. He was already late and in a stranger’s house. But at the same time, he didn’t want to appear rude, since the man had taken all the trouble to help him with the bike and make him a hot drink.
“Did you manage to get through to your parents?” the man said.
Johnny shook his head.
“Oh that’s a pity. I hope the phone still works. I don’t use it very much.”
Still standing, Johnny blew into the mug the man handed him and sipped the hot cocoa. He looked around the parlour. It was dimly lit, and all the furnishings looked very old and faded; an over-stuffed sofa with some flower-patterned cushions; a standard lamp behind, its shade askew. A rickety armchair and an old-fashioned TV stood in a corner – probably a black and white one at that, Johnny thought.
“I’d best be getting home,” Johnny said. “My parents will be worried.” He put the half-drunk mug of cocoa down on a small, unsteady three-legged table.
“I’ll see you to the door.” the man said. He and Blackie accompanied Johnny to the front door.
“Thank you very much for your help,” Johnny said. “And the cocoa.”
“My pleasure,” the man replied. “Now don’t forget. Come round any time in the morning. There’s no need to call or anything.”
Johnny patted Blackie on the head and looked up at the man again. He still could not see his face clearly, as he was standing with his back to the light. He hurried into the night, turning back once to wave to the man and dog framed in the open doorway.
It was only a ten-minute walk back home. He dreaded the telling off he was going to get when he finally arrived back. But to his surprise, his father only said, “Good Heaven’s boy! Where on earth have you been? Your mother and I have been sick with worry. We were just about to ring the police.”
Breathlessly, Johnny explained the whole situation, ending up with an apology about the Rudge.
“Oh well. It can’t be helped,” his father said, shrugging his shoulders. Thank God you weren’t hurt. That’s the main thing. Now best have some supper. Your mother’s kept it warm in the oven for you.”

* * * *

Early the next morning Johnny and his father arrived at the house of the stranger who had helped Johnny. There standing beside the gatepost was the Rudge, fully repaired and gleaming in the morning sunshine. It looked almost brand-new. After a moment’s inspection of his beloved bicycle, Johnny’s dad rapped on the door with the knocker, and they waited a while for an answer. When none came, they both peered through one of the curtainless windows. It was the parlour where Johnny had had his cocoa with the stranger the night before. But to his surprise, the room was completely bare, with not a stick of furniture to be seen.
“Hello. Can I help you?” a cheery voice called out from the house opposite, where a man with a flat cap and pipe was leaning against the gate.
Johnny and his father turned around. “We’ve just come to collect my bicycle,” Johnny’s father said. “My son had an accident on it and he left it here overnight.”
“Well, there’ll be no one there,” the man said. “That house has been empty for years.”
“But I was here last night,” Johnny spluttered, “with the man who helped me with the broken bike!”
“Ah. That’ll be Len,” the man said. “Always willing to do someone a good turn.”
“Well, where is he?” Johnny’s father said. “I want to thank him for helping Johnny out and also for repairing my bicycle. He must have been up half the night fixing it.”
“Ah! There’s the problem,” the man said. “Poor Len’s been gone all these years.”
“What do you mean?” Johnny’s father queried.
“Drowned he was,” the man said glumly, “helping that poor lad who fell into the cement works’ reservoir. Jumped in after him, did Len – both he and his dog Blackie. The poor lad was drowning, not knowing how to swim. But neither did our Len. ‘Twas only Blackie that saved the boy by dragging him out by the collar of his shirt. But it was too late for poor Len. Drowned his self just trying to do someone a good turn.”
“Do you mean he’s some sort of ghost or something?” Johnny gulped.
“Well, some say this and some say that,” the man said, knocking out his pipe. “We don’t talk much about it. But there’s folk who say they’ve seen old Len and Blackie walking along Windy Path. It’s either that or some trick of the moonlight. But there’s one thing that’s certain. If anything’s broke – be it an old pipe or a kiddie’s toy, just leave it on the gatepost,” he pointed to where the Rudge was, “and the next morning it will be fixed and as good as new!”
Both Johnny and his father looked at the gleaming Rudge. His father put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Better not say anything to your mother,” he muttered. Then, looking up into the sky he said, “And thank you Len wherever you are, for helping my boy and for fixing up my bike.”
And the three made their way homeward – Johnny, his father and the Rudge.