No One’s Fault, or The Way the Stars Aligned
William held the restaurant door open for his wife, letting her step through first. The door whispered shut behind them, muffling the rhythm of the music and the clamour of tipsy voices. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights shimmered, while a winding string of lampposts stretched toward them through the dark.
“You look pale… Should we take a cab?” asked Eleanor.
“No need, we’ll manage. Just stuffy in there—I’ll cool off and we’ll go.” William pulled her close.
“But you’ve had a drink,” Eleanor persisted.
“Barely a sip, and that was hours ago. It’s out of my system. Besides, the roads are quiet at this hour. Don’t fret,” he reassured her.
“Mum rang. Charlie won’t sleep without us,” Eleanor sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Then let’s go? Half an hour and we’ll be home.” William fished the keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob. Deep in the car park, their Ford responded with a chirp, headlights blinking twice.
William edged the car out of the lot of the rustic-chic countryside restaurant, steering confidently toward the city. Beside him, Eleanor stretched her tired legs, resting her head against the seat—no need to mind her hair now.
“Tom’s wedding was lovely, wasn’t it? Though ours was better,” William mused, watching the restaurant lights shrink in the rearview mirror.
“Truthfully, I hardly remember ours,” Eleanor murmured, closing her eyes.
“Neither do I.”
“No one remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why it feels better than others’.”
“True enough.” William chuckled.
“Think Mum ought to stay the night. By the time we’re back, then driving her home…” Eleanor yawned.
“Of course. My eyes are closing too.”
“I *said* we should’ve taken a cab. You never listen,” Eleanor muttered faintly.
“Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back tomorrow to fetch the car.”
Eleanor didn’t reply. Eyes shut, she dreamed of home—shedding the tight shoes blistering her feet, slipping into soft slippers, stepping under a warm shower…
Had she looked, she’d have seen William’s white-knuckled grip on the wheel, his strained stare fixed on the road ahead. Beads of sweat pricked his forehead; his breath came uneven. But Eleanor noticed none of it.
He hadn’t confessed it, but William already regretted driving. His heart clenched painfully, forcing blood through his veins. Each throb brought sharper pain, each breath grew harder. Pull over? No—better to push on home and rest…
Trees flanked the road like a dark wall, the city taunting him, seeming to retreat rather than near. William pressed the accelerator, but in that moment, pain ripped through his chest, his vision dimmed. The crash jolted the sleeping outskirts, but William heard nothing.
The lorry driver scrambled from his cab, sprinting toward the crumpled car pinned under his front wheels. One glance told him the other driver was dead. Beside him sat a woman. He yanked at the door—jammed. Reaching through the shattered window, he fumbled for a pulse at her throat. His fingers trembled too much to tell.
He dialled 999, then waited.
He was cleared. The Ford driver’s blood held alcohol; the post-mortem revealed a massive heart attack had killed him before the collision, sending the car veering into oncoming traffic…
The lorry driver visited the hospital to ask after the woman. Two surgeries down, she needed another—a new hip joint, or she’d never walk again. But the procedure cost money.
***
“Edward, you’re back! I’ve found the perfect flat—just as we dreamed. Fifth floor, lift, city centre, gorgeous layout. Needs work, but I haggled hard. We’ll view it tomorrow. How much do we have saved? If you haven’t touched it, there should be enough.” Margaret babbled excitedly as Edward washed his hands in the sink.
She hovered, blocking his path, searching his face.
“Wait, Margaret.” He nudged her aside, stepping out.
“Wait for *what*? Flats like this vanish. I talked the seller into holding it. I tried calling—your phone was off!” She dogged his steps.
“I don’t take calls while driving. You know that.” Edward slumped at the kitchen table. “Just let me eat,” he said tiredly, avoiding her gaze.
Margaret grabbed a plate, lifted the frying pan’s lid, then froze.
“Changed your mind about the flat?” She whirled around. “New plans? You quit a steady job to drive a cab for pennies… Is there someone else? Why won’t you *speak*?”
“Don’t be daft. There’s no one. And no money either,” he added quietly.
“What?” Margaret sank onto a chair, clutching the empty plate. “Where is it? Did you buy *her* a flat?”
“Enough!” Edward snapped. “I gave it to that woman—to the hospital, for her operation.”
“The one whose husband died? But you were cleared! I don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t at fault. Neither was he. Wrong place, wrong time. He died; she’s disabled, with a boy to raise…”
“So you pitied *her*. What about me? About *us*? Years of scrimping, you never home… We’ve lived in this shoebox forever! I found *the* flat, picked out furniture… You’ve lost your mind.” She hurled the plate onto the table, storming out.
Edward sighed, following. She sat stiffly on the sofa, arms crossed, glaring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder. She shook him off.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask. But I earned that money—it was mine to spend. We’re alive, unharmed. She’s crippled, raising a child alone. I had to—”
“But why *you*?” Margaret’s voice cracked.
“I just did.”
“We’ll never save that much again.” She wiped her nose.
“Why do we need a big place? If we’d had kids…”
“Now it’s *my* fault? I begged to adopt!” She screamed, hurling a cushion at him before banishing him to the kitchen’s narrow sofa.
Edward tossed restlessly. How could he explain? The years of long hauls, sleepless drives. His age. The court’s verdict hadn’t absolved *him*. He replayed the crash endlessly—his lorry merging onto the bypass, the car appearing from nowhere. He’d slammed the brakes, but heavy vehicles don’t stop fast. What else could he’ve done?
He quit, turned to taxi work. Less pay, but peace.
At the hospital, he’d seen her—drugged into sleep. The surgeon said she’d never walk without a new hip. They couldn’t perform it here; specialists from London would come—for a price. So he’d emptied his savings, asked them not to name him.
He knew her address but couldn’t face her. What would he say? Would she blame him—alive while her husband lay dead?
Two weeks passed in silent hostility. Then, returning home, he found a suitcase by the door. He’d expected it.
Margaret left for a widowed friend. Called him a fool, a failure.
One Saturday in August, he drove to the woman’s street. Golden rowan berries blazed in her garden. He lingered, eyeing the house, too nervous to knock. Then she appeared—leaning on a cane, pleading with a boy clutching a heavy bag.
“Charlie, *please* let me carry it.”
“Hello. Need a hand?” Edward stepped forward.
“Who are you?” she tensed.
“Edward Whitmore.” Her flinch told him she knew the name. “Yes—the lorry driver.” He took the bag from the boy.
“I want nothing from you. Just… help. Second stairwell?”
“Yes,” she said, following.
“You still limp? The surgery didn’t fix it?”
“Helped, but I need another. Waiting for funding. Sick of hospitals.”
“Your lad’s a trooper. How’s school, champ?”
Charlie scowled, silent.
“I know you’re innocent. *I* should’ve insisted on a cab. He looked ill, and I let him drive—even dozed off…”
“No one’s to blame. Just… the way the stars aligned.”
At her door, the boy fumbled with the keys. A note fluttered out—a handyman’s note, missed while they were out.
“Oh, I *forgot* him!” she groaned.
Edward set down the bag, turned to leave.
“Wait!” She bit her lip. “The tap drips—drives me mad. Could you…?”
He fixed it temporarily, promised to return.
“Stay for tea. Or supper?”
“Supper. My wife’s gone—I’m hopelessAnd so, in that quiet kitchen, Edward and Eleanor found a new beginning amid shared bowls of warm soup and the soft murmur of a kettle on the stove.
