Victor found himself driving along a winding country lane until he reached a peculiar little village, the name of which he couldnt quite grasp in the swaying dusk. Suddenly, in the odd amber glow of his headlights, he saw a girl standing at the roadside, her silhouette both familiar and out-of-place, as dream people so often are. It was latesomewhere between yesterday and tomorrowand no other souls seemed to exist in the chilly air. Victor slowed to a stop.
Could you give me a lift? the girl asked, her voice thin like mist.
Yes, of course, he replied. There are hardly any cars about tonight. Have you been waiting long?
Yes, she said, and then, as though a cloud broke overhead, she began to weep softly. Victor gazed at her in silent astonishment, the tears somehow both rain and reflection on the glass.
Victor had set out that evening in his old lorry, the kind that rumbled along English backroads with the tenacity of a mule. The air inside swelled with the warm, doughy scent of pastieshis favourite, filled with fluffy mashed potato. His mother had made a batch that morning for him, and the thought of her careful hands made the night feel less empty.
Though it was a public holiday, Victor still workeddeliveries didnt wait for holidays.
He reached beside him, and drew out a still-warm pasty, eating it with a satisfaction that was almost ritual. He tuned the radio to a jaunty tune and let laughter fill the cab.
By the time he rolled into the village, the sky had already been tucked into its nightshirt, and the hedgerows bowed beneath the weight of dreams. Beside a lonely bus shelter, he noticed the same girl, arm aloft, trying in vain to catch the eye of another passing ride.
Without a word, Victor brought the lorry to a halt. She hurried towards him, her breath swirling like incense in the frosted air.
Could you give me a lift? the girl repeated.
He saw her coat was thin, her ankles shivering.
Yes, of course. Hop in. There aren’t many cars aboutit’s late. You must have been waiting for ages?
Yes, I have, the girl replied again, voice trembling, and she began to cry anew.
Victor, perplexed, asked, Is something the matter?
Wiping tears from her cheeks, she explained:
My name is Harriet. Todays Old New Years Day, and the weekends just begun. A friend from work invited me to the village for a holiday get-together at her cottage. Her husband was meant to cook something on the grill, a proper spread and all that. She told me to ring her when I arrived and shed come fetch me from the bus stop near the shop.
Id just parted ways with my boyfriend before Christmas, and thought I rather not sulk at home alone. So I agreed and jumped on the bus heading to Appleford, but when I got off and rang her, she said to pop into the shop because shed be there in five.
I had a look about and realised theres nothing at allnot even a light in the distance, and the village was a good three hundred yards down a black lane.
Then I glanced at my bus, which was already ready to roll, but the sign on its windshield readCoppleton.
Id taken the wrong bus, you see, and the place I neededApplefordwas clear on the other side of the fields.
And the bus rolled away, while I shouted after it, but the driver was deaf to dreams and diesel. After two hours or so, it dawned on me that bus was the very last for the night.
No cars came by, not a single one heading towards town. I thought about walking to the village, but stayed by the shelter hoping I might hitch a lift.
And here Ive stood, or rather drifted, for what seems like near three hours.
If it hadnt been for you, I dont know what wouldve become of me. Thank you ever so much
Lets not stand on ceremonycall me Victor, he said with a lopsided smile.
Harriet nodded, the corners of her mouth tilting up as though lit from within.
Victor found Harriet enchanting: unpretentious, forthright, unspoiled by airs or artifice. Self-sufficient, you could tell. He pulled over along the green and said,
Youve warmed up a bit. Now its time for supper. My mum bakes the best pasties in Oxfordshire, if you fancy one?
They shared his pasties as a moon above spilt yolk-yellow through the lorrys windows. Harriet had in her bag some slices of roast ham, a lump of farmhouse cheddar, and a bar of bitter chocolate.
Later, settling in for the night, Harriet curled up in the bunk overhead, Victor stretched out on the springy seats below. When silence began to sing around them, Harriet suddenly asked,
Victor, are you married?
No, he replied, the ceiling blooming with invisible stars.
Why not?
Well, I only just met the girl I quite fancybut I havent told her yet.
I see.
Sleep now, Harriet. Ive a cargo to deliver at daybreak.
Their journey continued uneventfully, Harriet laughing and saying it was the strangest adventure of her life, and all the better for it. Victor meanwhile grew certain fate itself had placed Harriet in his path.
When they finally returned to the city limits with morning a-dawdle in the hedges, Victor asked for her phone number.
And what about that girl you mentioned, the one you fancy? she teased.
I was talking about you, he laughed softly. I really do like you, and would love to see you againif you want, of course.
Id like that, Harriet replied, her cheeks flushed. Youre a true gent, not leaving me stranded and treating me with such kindness.
Victor and Harriet were married the following April. Sometimes, when the wind bends the right way and the night lays heavy on the land, the strangest meetings turn out to be written by destiny itself.
