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 like a golden coin.
Thomas stood on the porch, drinking in the beauty of the early morning, filling his lungs with crisp air. Behind him, the slap of bare feet sounded on the wooden boards. A woman in a nightgown, a shawl draped over her shoulders, stepped up beside him.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Thomas exhaled deeply. “You’ll catch a chill—best go back inside,” he murmured, adjusting the shawl where it had slipped from her smooth shoulder.
She pressed closer, wrapping her arms around his.
“Don’t want to leave you,” Thomas said, his voice thick with tenderness.
“Then don’t.” Her voice was like honey, sweet and coaxing, pulling at him like a siren’s song. *Stay, and then what?* The thought cut through him like cold water.
If it were that simple, he’d have stayed long ago. But you don’t just toss aside twenty-three years of marriage, nor the children. Emily was practically gone already, spending more nights at her fiancé’s than at home—soon to be wed proper. And little Tony was only fourteen, right in the thick of the worst teenage years.
A trucker could find work anywhere, but the pay here wouldn’t be half what he earned now. Right now, he could fling money around, buy Diane expensive gifts. But if his wages shrank to a third of what they were, would she still look at him the same? Doubtful.
“Don’t start, Di,” Thomas waved her off.
“Why not? The kids are grown—time to think of ourselves. You’ve said it yourself, you and your wife just go through the motions.” Diane pulled away, hurt flickering in her eyes.
“Ah, if I’d only met you sooner…” Thomas sighed noisily. “Don’t be cross. I’ve already stayed too long—gotta get back. Cargo’s waiting.” He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “Di, I’ve got to go if I want to make it home by nightfall.”
“Promises, promises. You come, you stir me up, then dash back to her. Tired of waiting. Mike’s been asking me to marry him for months.”
“Go on, then.” Thomas shrugged.
He nearly said more but bit back the words. Slowly, he descended the porch steps, rounded the corner of the house, and trudged through the garden to the ring road where his lorry waited, parked deliberately out of earshot to avoid waking the village at dawn.
He hauled himself into the cab. Usually, Diane followed to kiss him goodbye. But today she hadn’t, truly upset. Thomas settled in, slammed the door. Before waking the engine, he dialed his wife. He never called in front of Diane—too awkward. A robotic voice informed him the line was switched off. No missed calls, either.
He stashed the phone and fired up the engine, listening to its deep, even growl. The lorry shuddered awake, shaking off sleep, and rumbled onto the road, swaying over the uneven tarmac. A quick honk, a press of the pedal, and he was off.
The woman on the porch shivered, listening to the engine fade, then retreated inside.
On the radio, Elton John crooned, *”Sweet dreams are made of this…”* Thomas hummed along, thoughts lingering on the woman he’d left behind. But soon, his mind snapped homeward: *What’s going on there? Can’t reach her for two days. When I get back, we’ll sort this out.*
Meanwhile, in a hospital bed, Pauline—Thomas’s wife—woke from anesthesia, and in an instant, she remembered everything…
***
They’d been married over twenty years—twenty-four, to be exact. A trucker’s pay kept them comfortable: a solid house, two kids. Emily was grown, about to marry, a hairdresser fresh out of trade school. Tony, at fourteen, dreamed of sailing the seas.
Then came the call. At first, Pauline thought it was a prank or wrong number.
*”Waiting for your husband, Pauline? He’s running late…”* The voice dripped like treacle.
“What’s happened?” Pauline cut in, already imagining a wreck. Long hauls were dangerous.
*”Oh, he’s perfectly fine. Just busy with his mistress.”*
“Who is this?” Pauline shrieked.
*”Just… keep waiting.”* A woman’s laughter crackled down the line before the call died.
Pauline stared at the phone. The laughter echoed in her skull. Panic set in, tangling her thoughts—visions of crashes, of another woman in Thomas’s arms. Who else knew their number? Knew he was on the road? Only *her*. How dare she call? How dare she laugh?
She dialed Thomas, then hung up. What if he was driving? What would she even say? Best wait till he returned. She tried chores to distract herself, but her hands fumbled. The mocking voice, the laughter—it wouldn’t stop.
Emily was out with her boyfriend, Tony at a mate’s birthday sleepover. Alone, she grabbed her bag and headed to the shop. Thomas liked a lager or two on weekends. He’d be back for dinner. *Or would he?*
She took a shortcut—an alley between a concrete wall and a row of garages. Barely twilight, but already desolate. Then—a yank. Her bag was torn away. She stumbled, nearly fell, spun to see a man sprinting off. “Stop!” she cried, but he vanished around a bend.
She chased, heel caught a stone—her ankle twisted. She hit the asphalt hard, pain shooting up her leg. Her elbow scraped raw. She tried to rise, but agony spiked through her. The ankle swelled, purpling. No phone. No help.
She waited, back against a rusted garage door, tears streaking grimy cheeks.
Headlights. A car stopped. A man stepped out, unlocking a garage. She screamed, “Help!”
He hesitated, then approached. “You alright?”
“Robbed. My ankle—please, call an ambulance.”
He frowned, pulled out his phone, then pocketed it. Her breath hitched—what now?
“Ambulance’ll take ages,” he muttered. “I’ll carry you.”
He lifted her, groaning, and dumped her in his car. “Name’s John.”
“Pauline.” And suddenly, the whole story spilled out.
***
Sunlight flooded the hospital room. Pauline blinked awake. Her head throbbed; her leg was numb until she shifted—then fire.
“Awake?” A nurse smiled. “Your husband’s here.”
*Husband?*
John walked in. “Sorry—said I was him to get in. How’re you feeling?”
“Fine.” She forced a smile.
“Brought cherries.” He set a bag on the bedside table. “Washed ‘em. Thought about strawberries, but didn’t know if you’re allergic.”
Later, Thomas arrived. “Emily called—said you were here. Couldn’t reach you. Had to ring every hospital.”
“My phone was stolen. Who was this ‘husband’?” she asked.
“The bloke who brought me in. They wouldn’t let him visit otherwise.”
Thomas frowned. “Why’d he come? Those his cherries?”
*John brought fruit. My husband brought nothing.*
“I’m off again tonight,” Thomas said flatly.
“*Tonight?*”
He avoided her eyes. *Liar. You’re going to her.*
“Buy me a phone. Just a cheap one. Emily can bring it.”
He left. Pauline wept.
***
Emily visited that evening. “Mum, what happened?”
“Sprained my ankle.”
“Dad got you a phone. I kept it. Brought mine instead.”
Pauline nodded. Emily devoured the cherries.
“Tony’s fine. Got pissed at the party. Didn’t tell Dad—he’d kill him.”
Pauline sighed. “I’ll ask to go home.”
“Don’t! Who’ll look after you? Dad’s working, Tony’s out with mates, and I’ve got plans.”
*Was this her family?*
Three days later, John drove her home. The fridge was empty. He offered to shop. She refused.
Thomas returned a week later, looking refreshed. “Any food?”
“You weren’t working. You were with *her*.”
His face twisted. “Who, Diane?”
*So that’s her name.*
“Might as well leave now. I’ll send money.” He packed in silence.
“Taking Tony. He’s been begging to fish.”
The door shut. Pauline sobbed herself to sleep.
A knock. She hobbled to answer.
John stood there. “Thought you might need help.”
