Lucy Knott - Wishes Under a Starlit Sky

As a kid I was always outside. Even in London, my parents walked everywhere, and I can count on one hand the weekends that weren’t spent at a park. Family holidays were spent hiking in Cornwall, visiting farms in the Cotswolds, or backpacking around Yosemite in California. It wasn’t until I got with Scott and moved into the middle of London away from my parents that I stopped paying attention to the great outdoors. And when my writing took over and I started working for Pegasus Entertainment I fell easily into a routine with Madi; curling up behind my desk, wrapping myself up in blankets on the couch, tapping away at my laptop. When we did acknowledge the outside world, it was for a walk straight to a coffee shop, parking our butts inside and commenting on the rustic, outdoorsy feel of the indoors; the irony wasn’t lost on me.

Up ahead I find a clearing where a couple of trees have been cut down making short stumps perfect for sitting on. I sit down and pull out the notebook that I had stuffed in my coat pocket. I look up from my spot on the stump and where the trees have been cut back leads to an opening in the canopy where the sky peeks through. It takes my breath away. The stars are golden and twinkling against the lightening sky, there’s a slight touch of pink mixing with the wispy grey and blue as the sun is beginning to rise and I can hear the faint twit-twooing of the owl I saw swooping in to the trees in the earlier darkness.

This would be the most idyllic spot for a romantic picnic and star gazing with your one and only. I shudder. I don’t want to ruin the moment thinking about Scott or romance, so I take a chilly breath in and watch the sad thoughts go by, replacing them with the sound of the owl and the rustling of the pines in the wind.

I put my pen to the paper and don’t pause to concern myself with conscious thinking. I write, and I write some more. I dare to write my deepest wishes, the scenes I can envision playing out in the beauty of this spot and the magic that nature can hold. It occurs to me that while, yes, a romantic night for two under these stars would be quite something, it’s incredibly special and beautiful by myself too. As I take in my surroundings once more, I don’t feel so alone.

The sky is much lighter when I next look up. Gone is the inky grey and black, replaced by a fabulous orange and pink, and I have but a few pages left in my notebook. My body, though now I notice it feels cold, is not tense. My shoulders are at ease, my eyebrows relaxed and my feet like feathers on the ground, delicately resting on the pure white snow.

Writing gives me that release and I remind myself how lucky I am to love my job and to be working for a company that I adore so much. I smile as I fold my notebook gently to push it back inside my pocket; I need to get back and finish this script. I stand from the stump and do a little star jump to encourage the blood back to my feet when I hear crunching to the right of me. In my calm state, I don’t worry, I simply hold still not wanting to scare whatever animal it might be with my crazy jumping, if I am trespassing in its home.

Two giant snow boots come into view attached to my dad who steps into the clearing, holding two Christmas mugs. I can smell rich black coffee and a vanilla tea. Dad hands me the mug full of burning-hot coffee and I take it gratefully, with a smile.

‘I thought you might have turned into an icicle by now,’ he says with a playful smirk. Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he takes a sip of his tea, his bluey-green eyes assertive and on me.

‘How did you know I was out here?’ I ask, holding his gaze and knowing full well that my dad would always know where to find me. I was twelve the first, and only, time I ran away. My parents and I have always had a special bond and I never truly went through any awkward phase where I hated them. To me, my dad was the coolest person in the world. He took me to concerts, let me listen to music that other parents wouldn’t let their kids listen to and I never felt trapped or like my parents wanted me to be, dress or act a certain way – not like Madi’s did. As long as I was kind, did well in school and acted with love, there wasn’t a problem.

So, it had been a bit of a shock when I left a note one Friday night telling them that they were the worst parents in the world and that I had run away. Because I had never done this before, they didn’t have a record to go off, a pattern to follow. I could have been anywhere. But an hour into my having run away my dad found me in the most hidden-away part of Hyde Park.

If I remember correctly, I’d actually forgotten why I was mad by the time he had turned up. My dad always looked so cool in his ripped black jeans and vintage tees and faux leather jacket, that I greeted him with a wide smile. He had looked at me and said, ‘Nice choice, I used to come here a lot too.’ And that was pretty much the end of my grumpy years. I think a kid had got to me at school that day, picked on me for having dirty hippie parents and a dad who made soap for a living. I believed the kid and I let him get to me. I didn’t care to be laughed at. But when my dad walked into the alley looking like a dadlier, but still incredibly cool version of Jim Morrison, the memory of the kid’s opinion had vanished in a matter of seconds. My parents had taught me better than that – if it wasn’t constructive or kind then I didn’t need to listen to other people’s opinions.

‘Remember that day when you were twelve and ran away? Well, I still got it,’ my dad replies. He’s right, he hasn’t lost an essence of his cool since that day and I smile into my coffee that he is thinking about the same thing I am.

‘This place is beautiful, Dad, but even more so this time of year. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to visit for the holidays.’ I look around taking in the rising sun hitting the bark of the trees, making the snow sparkle. Dad looks around too, with a fond smile on his face, then his eyes come to rest on my face once more.

‘Are you going to talk to me, kid, or would you like your space?’ my dad asks, always so considerate of my needs.

I can’t remember how long it’s been since my dad and I had an honest to goodness heart-to-heart and that pains me a little. Since my last visit, I’ve made time for quick phone calls and the odd Skype call, but I haven’t really made them a priority. Standing in front of my dad now, I don’t know how I’ve got through the last two years without his guidance and wisdom. Maybe that’s why I’m in this predicament I find myself in now with Scott and my lack of enthusiasm for work or anything in life.

I look into my dad’s blue-hazel eyes, which match my own, and the sparkle that is reserved for me is still there. Mum tells me he has had that since the day I was born, and it has never faded. I can’t lie to him. With my dad, the wall I have built over the past year comes crashing down. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. I’m not a guarded person, I’m more an open book. I wear my heart on my sleeve. The closed-off and reserved person I am becoming is starting to scare me. Under the covers of my bed, hiding from the world, is not where I want to spend the rest of my life.

‘I’m struggling, Dad.’ The words come out surprisingly calm. My dad’s face wrinkles, but his olive complexion, grey stubble and kind eyes make me feel safe and free from judgement. He puts an arm through mine and starts walking between the trees. My toes are grateful for the movement. The thoughts inside my head have been distracting me from how cold I have been getting. I take another sip of coffee and with the blood now pumping through my veins, my body is warming up again.

We’re walking in silence and I’m getting lost in the sherbet-pink-coloured clouds that are disappearing into the baby blue sky that is peeking through the canopy of oak.