I have never done this before. Even now my instinct for self-preservation is urging me: "Take your foot off the brake pedal and put it back onto the accelerator! Don't be a fool! Don't stop! Drive on!" The car comes to a halt 30 yards ahead of her. I watch in the wing mirror as she approaches along the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, arms clasped across her chest, head down, wet, frozen.
It has been a pig of a drive home from my office on the other side of Town: darkness, cold driving rain, searing headlights, flying spray. Is it just me getting more aware of such things as I get older, or does everyone really go fucking mad in this kind of weather? Luckily, driving has become much easier now that I have reached the residential suburbs. It also helps that the rain had eased to a thick, misty drizzle. Then, a few seconds ago, my headlights picked her out, slightly built, walking fast, shoulders hunched, head down, wet, cold and seemingly utterly miserable. There is something about her that makes me take notice. Is it something in the manner she holds her body? Or is it something about the way she moves? Whatever it is, it has caused me to break a decade-long driving rule: never stop to pick up strangers, not even a woman on her own and possibly in distress. It could be a trap. There may be an accomplice with a gun or a knife hidden in the nearby shadows! What a sick, paranoid world we now live in!
I watch her approach in the mirror. Goddamn it! She doesn't even have a proper coat on! She must be soaked to the skin! She comes alongside the car and I lower the window. "Excuse me, ma'am, do you have very far to go? It looks pretty cold and wet out there. Can I give you a ride?"
She jumps away as if startled by the sound of my voice. She stoops and looks inside the car but stays well back in case I try to grab hold of her. What does she see? Nice car, Mercedes, not new, four years old purchased second-hand a year ago. And the owner of the voice inside the car asking the question? Late fifties, going a little bit grey at the temples. Well dressed, trim build, but patently no fitness freak. A bit like the car, sleek, pleasant, comfortable but not handsome. My clients like me to look successful, but not too prosperous.
Would I get in the car with me, a total stranger, if I was her? Probably not! I would ignore my soaking discomfort and say "Thank you, but no thank you" and continue on my way. She seems just about to say something along those lines when another heavy squall of rain hits us. With a moan of despair she opens the door and gets inside.
The girl kind of perches on the edge of the seat squab, "I'm so wet I'll ruin the nice leather." Her voice is light and pleasant. I appreciate her consideration. Most people would have just sat back, grateful to be out of that awful rain and cold.
God, she is young! Much younger than I thought. No more than seventeen or eighteen! She is shivering violently. Her hair is plastered to her head, looks to be fair but it is impossible to say whether it is dark blonde or light brown. Intriguing pale grey eyes, narrow face, nose a little bit too big, generous lips almost blue with cold. There is no smell of cigarettes about her to offend me – not even her drenched state could hide that ugly smell. I reach over to the back seat where I keep the heavy woollen travel rug that I wrap around the frail aged parent when I pick her up from the rest home on a Sunday and take her out for a drive. Mom is always cold, even in the middle of summer. I hand it to the girl and tell her to put it around her; "You could have got hypothermia out there."
She nods agreement. Her teeth are chattering so badly she can hardly speak. She struggles with the heavy rug and I want to help her with it, but I am scared that she will think I am making a pass.
I pull away from the curb. The rain squall has stopped as quickly as it started, but she makes no sign that she wants to get out of the car. We drive for five minutes with only the quiet murmur of the engine, the clack of windscreen wipers and the swish of tires on the wet road to break the silence. There is hardly any other traffic around now. I ask her, "Do you have far to go?"
She doesn't speak for nearly another minute, "I'm sorry, I should have told you. We passed the end of my road a couple of blocks back."
I slow the Merc and prepare to turn around, "That's okay, I should have asked you sooner."
Her hand emerges from beneath the rug and she touches my shirtsleeve. Her fingers are freezing cold still. "Please! You have been so kind…stopping for me and all that. And I know it's a lot to ask, but could we drive for a little longer? If I get home soaking wet like this my Dad will kill me!"
I stop the car and turn to her. My mouth starts speaking without any input from my brain: "You're not going to get dry just by driving around in a car for a while. My place is only five more minutes down the road." Why the hell am I saying this? "You could have a hot shower and we could dry your clothes in the drier while you have a mug of soup or something."
She looks grateful at the suggestion, if a little apprehensive, "What about your wife? Won't she mind you turning up in the middle of the night with a total stranger?
It is only eight o'clock in the evening.
"I live alone. My wife died twelve years ago. My two sons are married and living overseas doing their own thing."
"Oh, I'm sorry…" She gazes steadily at me. She is trying to weigh up the risk I can tell, and very wise of her too. She comes to a decision, "That's very nice of you…as long as it won't be any hassle?" Her fear of her father must outweigh her fear of me.
"No hassle at all." Warm realisation flows through me – it really won't be any hassle at all! "You are most welcome."
"Okay then…"
We drive on. I ask her what her name is. "Carrie…"
"Short for?"
"Short for Caroline."
"With your permission I will call you Caroline, it is a lovely name."
The girl smiles for the first time. She has nice even teeth. "Thank you, and you are?"
"I am Jim."
"With your permission, I will call you James."
We laugh companionably together. It is very odd, but I feel more at ease with this young stranger than I have felt with any other female in years. "Permission granted, ma'am!"
We do not speak again until reach my house, but our mutual silence is comfortable; there is no need to explain ourselves yet. I can tell that Caroline is impressed by the size of my home and the discreet affluence it indicates. I drive into the garage and lower the automatic door behind us. She looks surprised and then pleased when I move round to open the car door on her side and hand her out. She is not used to such old-fashioned gallantry. Now that we are both on our feet we find that I stand a head taller than she does. Caroline leaves her small hand in mine as I un-set the intruder alarm and usher her inside.
The heaters are preset to come on an hour before my usual arrival time so the house is cozy. I give her a quick guided tour of the downstairs area, showing her where the kitchen and lounge areas are, and then I lead her upstairs. "You will have to use my bathroom. The one I normally use for guests hasn't been used for a couple of years now and probably needs a good clean."
"That's okay," she murmurs lightly, but her fingers tense in mine when she finds that we have to pass thorough my bedroom to get to it. Thank goodness I made my bed before heading off to work this morning!
I show her into the bathroom and demonstrate how the instant hot water control works, "You can shower for as long as you like…the hot water will never run out! I'm afraid the only deodorants and stuff are for men, but they'll have to do for now. Now, you just hold on a minute and I go get you some towels and a bathrobe."
When I return the bathroom door is closed. I rap on it softly with my knuckles, "Towels and stuff ma'am."
Caroline opens the door a crack and snakes her bare arm out to take what I have to offer. "Just hold on a second, James," she says from behind the protection of the door. Then her arm reappears with her hand holding a neat pile of wet clothes. As I take them from her I catch a brief glimpse of bare shoulder, hip and thigh. Caroline is naked.
On my way to the clothes drier I see that she has given me everything, including her bra and panties. We have reached a remarkable level of intimacy and trust in such a short time! I cannot help looking at her underwear as I carry her stuff downstairs. Her lingerie is not new and it shows signs of frequent repair, but it is scrupulously clean. I put everything into the drier and head into the kitchen to break out a can of soup for my guest.
When Caroline rejoins me in the kitchen she is shiny pink and fresh-scrubbed from the hot shower water. She looks about ten years old dressed in my spare terry bathrobe, which almost buries her, and a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. When she come close and takes her soup from me I can tell that she has used my deodorant. It smells different on her. "Aren't you having any?" she asks indicating her mug.
"Maybe later," I reply. I am staring at her too hard! "Come through to the lounge and relax."
