Victor found himself driving his lorry down a winding country lane, the hedgerows rising like waves on either side, muffled under the soft haze of an English twilight. Moonlight filtered through wisps of fog, and everything shimmeredhis hands on the wheel, the radio humming a cheery old melody, the piping-hot pasties his mum had packed that morning. They filled the cab with the fragrance of potato and onion, memories rolling in with every bite.
Despite it being a bank holiday, he was workinga delivery to make, a promise to keep. Night crept in, gentle and odd, a patchwork of shadows over sleepy fields. On a curve just before the village, he caught sight of a girl by a lamplit bus stop, arm raised, hair tangled by the breeze.
He slowed, the lorry sighing to a halt beside her. She was wrapped in a cardigan much too thin for the night, and her eyes shone with a strange weight.
Could I bother you for a lift? she asked, voice as quiet as the dusk.
Of course. Not many cars out this late, he replied, brushing crumbs off his lap. Been waiting long?
She hesitated, her lower lip trembling, and then tears began to spill down her cheeks. Victor watched, a wash of puzzlement and concern rising in his chest.
Has something happened? he asked softly.
She breathed deep, tears subsiding, her story spilling out in the rolling, dreamlike speech that only dreams tolerate.
My name is Prudence, she started. Tonight is Old New Years Evestrange, isnt it?and I was meant to meet a friend in the village for a little celebration. Her husband was sure to make a proper roast; mince pies and a bucket of punch. We planned an evening in the garden shed, dancing and laughter. She told me to ring her from the bus stop by the shop, and shed dash down to fetch me.
She laughed, the sound brittle. I said yes because Id just broken up with my boyfriend before Christmas, and she was worried Id spend the evening brooding at home with the cat for companyfunny, I dont even have a cat. So, I boarded the bus to Cherrydown, or so I thought. When I got off and called, she told me to nip into the shop, shed be five minutes. Onlythere wasnt a shop in sight, nothing but shadows and the crunch of dry leaves. The village was a good way off, the wrong place entirely.
I turned, desperate, and saw the tail lights of the bus Id just left, Rosefield painted across its rear. Wrong bus, wrong place. My villageCherrydownwas nowhere near. I tried to call out, but the night swallowed my voice. After hours shivering at the stop, I realised it was the last bus. No cars heading to town, not a soul for miles. I nearly wandered off across the fields, but hoped for a miracle, andwell, here you are. Thank you, ever so.
Victor smiled, breaking the lingering silence. Shall we drop the formalities? Call me Victor.
She grinned, dimples appearing like forgotten footpaths in the moonlight.
He found himself liking Prudence immenselysomething about her honesty, her old-fashioned charm, and the way shed landed herself in a muddle without seeming helpless. He pulled over onto the grass verge and rummaged in his bag.
You must be half frozen. Here, my mother makes the best pasties in Oxfordshire, he announced, offering her one.
They split the pasties and shared bits from her handbaga chunk of cheddar, a few slices of ham, and a bar of dark chocolate. The lorrys cab was thick with the scent of food and the gentle static of late-night radio.
Settling in for a nap, Prudence stretched above the front seats while Victor curled among the coats. As the clock in the dashboard blinked past midnight, she whispered, Victor, are you married?
He shook his head, voice muffled by the thick wool of his scarf. Not yet.
Why not?
Havent met anyone whos felt right. Until, perhaps, just now.
She smiled in the darkness; words drifted away like feathers.
They slept, not entirely because of tiredness, but because sleep is what night requests of travellers caught between destinations. In the misty dawn, the journey felt lighter. Prudence laughed at the absurd adventure, saying she was almost glad for her mistake.
As the road brought them back to the city, Victors heart skipped strangely. Might I have your number? he blurted, clumsy in his eagerness.
She teased, And what about the girl you fancied?
He barked a laugh, embarrassed. I meant you. Her face brightened as he added, Id be more than happy if we could keep this chance meeting going.
Only if you promise more of those pasties, and perhaps an adventure or two, she replied.
Victor and Prudence married in April, as daffodils tumbled thickly through the market square. Some say such oddities are fates doings, as if grown from mist and hope on lonesome country roads.
