The Road We Never Took Together
Margaret and Arthur Whitcombe dreamed of one thing—a car. Not just a hunk of metal on wheels, but a ticket to the freedom they had imagined since their wedding day. Nearly thirty years—work, the cottage, seasonal odd jobs, countless small sacrifices—all for this one dream: to buy a car and drive off together on an adventure. No schedules, no rush, just the two of them and the open road.
And they did it. A silver Hyundai Tucson appeared in their old garage beside the faithful Ford Fiesta that had served them for decades. Arthur circled the car like a child with a new toy, running his hand tenderly over the bonnet, peering inside, while Margaret pictured them racing across bridges they’d never crossed, camping under the stars, drinking tea at service stations, watching sunsets in unfamiliar towns…
The plan had been set for ages. Every detail was accounted for: the route, overnight stops, meal breaks, packing lists. Arthur would handle the driving and all things mechanical—he’d pored over maps, noted coordinates for campsites and petrol stations, calculated distances, even printed a schedule. Margaret took charge of atmosphere, food, and memories—her notebook brimmed with local eateries, landmarks, perfect photo spots. They told no one. This was their story alone, intimate and sacred.
Summer was fading. A few final chores at the cottage remained. September’s chill crept in on the breeze as they set off for home—just twenty miles to their flat. The sun dipped low, Margaret gazed out the window, Arthur hummed quietly to himself. Everything felt perfect.
Until, in an instant, it wasn’t.
He slammed the brakes, gripped the wheel, his body lurched forward—then went still. The car stopped dead in the road. Margaret jolted against her seatbelt, disoriented. Then—screaming, panic. Arthur didn’t answer. Just slumped, forehead against the steering wheel.
She called an ambulance, tried to rouse him. The paramedics arrived fast, but… He wasn’t breathing anymore.
His heart. Gone in a flash. The seatbelt still smelled of his cologne, but he was already gone.
Formalities followed—police, their daughter and son-in-law, tears, questions. But Margaret heard none of it. She sat in the car, right where she’d been dreaming just moments before, watching as they took him away. Not a single tear fell. She was hollow.
Nine days passed. Then forty. Then three months.
Their daughter visited, brought meals, tidied up. Tried to coax words from her mother. Futile. Margaret had retreated inside herself, moving mechanically through the flat—sleeping, rising, making soups—but her soul was frozen.
Then one day, their daughter asked, as if casually:
“Mum… that silver car. Whose is it?”
“Arthur’s…” Margaret began—and then the memory struck like a fist to her chest. Visions flashed: him choosing the colour, his excitement, his notes on petrol stations… And then she wept. Properly, for the first time. Not silently, not restrained—but violently, so hard their daughter grew frightened. She cried all day, long into the night. Then she slept. And when she woke, she knew: she had to live. For him.
Come spring, she returned to the cottage. Opened Arthur’s untouched rucksack and found a blue folder. Their route. His handwriting. His notes: “coffee stop here,” “you’ll want a photo here.”
She snapped it shut. Tears threatened, anger boiled. “What bloody dream?” she wanted to scream. She nearly threw it away. But couldn’t. Slid it into her bag instead.
The cottage was a train ride now. Their son-in-law took the car—promised to drive her, but life got busy. She didn’t mind. Didn’t need it, anyway.
But at night, she opened the folder. At first, furtively. Then regularly. Read. Remembered. It was like he was there, whispering: “Let’s go, Meg.”
And one evening, she made her choice. Back in the city, she booked a course—not the usual kind, but advanced driving lessons. The instructor, a bloke in his twenties, scoffed at first. But Margaret was relentless. She learned, practised, clutched the wheel like it was life itself.
She earned her licence. A proper one. With the endorsement. Proudly.
Then she visited her daughter. Calm. Certain.
“Eleanor—come down, please. With the keys. And the paperwork.”
She took them, approached the car. Ran a hand over it. Got in. Started the engine.
And then—she drove. Without a word. Three days later, she was abroad—in the country where their route began.
Further and further she went.
She’d talk to Eleanor later. Her daughter would understand. This had been their dream—hers and Arthur’s. And now it was Margaret’s road. A road without him. But still, somehow—together.
