The dew still clung to the grass, the mist slowly retreated to the far bank of the river, and the sun rolled out from behind the jagged edge of the forest.
Fred stood on the porch, admiring the beauty of the early morning, breathing in the crisp air. Behind him, he heard the soft slap of bare feet. A woman in a nightdress, a shawl draped over her shoulders, stepped up beside him.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Fred sighed deeply. “You’ll catch a chill out here. Best go inside,” he said gently, adjusting the shawl that had slipped from her rounded shoulder.
She immediately pressed close to him, wrapping her arms around his.
“Don’t want to leave you,” Fred murmured, his voice thick with affection.
“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice like a siren’s song. *Stay, and what’s next?* The thought sobered Fred.
If it were that simple, he’d have stayed long ago. But twenty-three years with his wife couldn’t be erased, and the kids… Sophie was practically gone already, spending more nights at her fiancé’s than at home, soon to marry. And Tommy was only fourteen—right in the thick of the difficult teenage years.
A lorry driver could find work anywhere, but the money here wouldn’t be nearly as good. Right now, he could afford to spoil Jane with pricey gifts. But if his wages dropped—even halved—would she still feel the same? That was the question.
“Don’t start, Jan,” Fred waved her off.
“Why not? The kids are grown—it’s time to think of yourself. You *said* you and your wife were just going through the motions!” Jane pulled away, hurt.
“Ah, if only I’d met you sooner…” Fred exhaled heavily. “Don’t be cross. I’ve got to go. Already running late.” He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “Jan, I’ve got to make it home tonight. Got a load to deliver, a contract.”
“You always make promises. You come, stir up my heart, then rush back to her. I’m tired of waiting. Mike’s been asking me to marry him for ages.”
“Then go,” Fred shrugged.
He wanted to say more but thought better of it. Slowly, he descended the porch steps, rounded the corner of the house, and trudged through the garden toward the road where his lorry waited. He always parked there to keep from waking the village at dawn.
Climbing into the cab, he settled in. Normally, Jane would walk him out, kiss him goodbye. But not today—she was really upset. He shut the door, hesitated, then dialled his wife. He never called in front of Jane.
The line beeped indifferently—*phone switched off*. No missed calls either.
Fred stuffed his mobile away, fired up the engine, listening to its deep, steady growl. The lorry shuddered awake, wobbling over the uneven ground as it rolled forward. He gave a quick honk, pressed the accelerator.
Back on the porch, the woman shivered as the engine’s roar faded, then retreated inside.
From the radio, Elton John crooned softly—*”Your Song”*. Fred hummed along, thinking of the woman he’d left behind. But soon, his mind turned home: *Why can’t I reach her? Been trying for two days. When I get back, we’ll sort this out…*
Meanwhile, in a hospital bed, Fred’s wife, Polly, was just waking from anaesthesia—and remembering everything.
***
She and Fred had been married over twenty years—twenty-four, to be exact. A lorry driver, he earned well. Solid family, nice house, two kids. Sophie was grown, engaged, working as a hairdresser. Tommy, fourteen, dreamed of joining the Navy.
Then the call came.
At first, Polly thought it was a prank.
“Hello, Polly. Waiting for your husband? He’s delayed…” The voice was syrupy, dripping.
“What’s happened?” Polly cut in, heart pounding—*an accident?*
“Oh, nothing *terrible*. He’s just… with his mistress,” the voice purred.
“*Who is this?!*” Polly screamed into the phone.
“Just wait… *wait*…” The woman laughed before the line went dead.
Polly’s hands shook. Panic set in—*was it true?* Only two people knew Fred’s schedule and her number: him… and *her*.
She tried calling Fred but hung up. *What if he’s driving?* She forced herself to wait.
But the laughter, the voice—it haunted her. The house was empty. Sophie was out with her boyfriend, Tommy at a mate’s birthday party.
Needing air, she grabbed her bag and headed to the shop—mayo, onions, beer for Fred’s weekend drink.
Taking the shortcut through the alley was a mistake.
A man ripped her handbag away, and Polly stumbled. She ran after him in vain, then—*pain*. Her ankle gave way. She hit the pavement hard, wrist scraping concrete. Tears blurred her vision.
No phone, no help. She screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the emptiness.
Headlights cut through the dark. A man stepped out—opening a garage.
“*Help!*” she cried, voice cracking.
He hesitated, then approached.
Rob inched closer. “You alright?”
She begged for an ambulance. Instead, he scooped her up—*heavy breathing, sweat on his brow*—and drove her to A&E.
“Call your family,” he offered his phone.
Fred wouldn’t answer. Neither did Sophie (*music too loud*) or Tommy (*probably asleep*).
Three days later, discharged, Polly called Rob—she had no one else.
Fred returned a week later, smelling of home cooking—not the road.
“*You weren’t on a job,*” Polly said, tears threatening.
His face flickered. *Guilty.*
“If you know already… I’ll go. I’ll send money.”
As he packed, Polly’s heart splintered. *Twenty-four years. For what?*
“Oh—taking Tommy fishing,” Fred added at the door.
Alone, she wept.
The knock startled her.
Rob stood there, holding groceries.
“Thought you might need help.”
Polly’s tears fell anew—but this time, not from despair.
