A Chance Encounter

An Accidental Meeting

Emilys winter coat barely kept her warm anymore. The down inside had slipped to the bottom, so the top half felt more like a flimsy rain jacket, tugged and tormented by every English wind. Thank goodness for thick woolen trousers and her ancient pair of wellies, plus the hand-knitted cardigan she kept pulling up over her shoulders just to stop her teeth from chattering.

The car that Jane, her friend from the market, had promised turned out to be a letdownanother thing on Emilys list going awry. So now, surrounded by their bulky bags and boxes, they waited by the side of the main road, arms outstretched, trying to flag down passing cars. Still, there was too much baggage for a single vehicle, so after a quick, tense goodbye, theyd split up. Each was on her own.

Back when Emily worked for her employer as an assistant, things were simpler. Now, raising two children single-handedly, she found herself joining the ranks of market traders on weekend buying trips with Jane. There wasnt more money these days, not reallymost of the goods sat unsold in her hallwaybut the struggles had multiplied.

Every morning she had to drag her wares to the market, pack up every evening, and then drag it all up four flights of stairs to her little council flatunless by chance her son was home to help.

Not long ago, Emily used to belt out We Want Change with her friends in the pub; now the changes had caught up with her in the ugliest way. The local council where she worked as a secretary shut down, redundancy letters sent around like confetti, and her husband had vanished off to find himself years before. In the end, Emily had no choice but to throw herself into selling. She always thought retail was not for hershe hated haggling, disliked the long hours, but there was no alternative.

So there she stood by a muddy lay-by, a young woman still, but chapped lips, wind-reddened cheeks, and eyes prickling with bitter tears from so many endless days spent in the drafty corners of the market. Cars whooshed by, spraying brownish slush and ice from the kerbs. Emily made a point of looking away, staring instead at rooftops and the stark, leafless oaks dusted white along the horizon, anywhere the snow was still brilliant and clean. There was so much grit in life, she thought, surely the best thing was to ignore it altogether.

With practiced resignation, she raised her arm once moreand finally, a battered foreign car rattled to a halt. Like everything else here in the grey of winter, it was streaked with dirt.

Could you drop me at Queensway for a fair price? she asked, leaning into the open windowthen faltered.

She knew him immediately. As if all those years had vanished into fog. He seemed almost unchanged, perhaps even more handsome: the same serious eyes, quizzical eyebrows, a faint, familiar smile tugging at his lips.

While she tried to recover, he jumped out, lifting her bags into the boot with an easy strength.

Emily collapsed onto the passenger seat, fussed with her scarf, already rehearsing excusesready to explain why she looked so worn today. Surely, hed recognize her, too.

Or perhaps not. So many years. How many?

***

She was twenty-two then. Sent for her placement in a remote country estate, she was to return soon to London, where her fiancé Simonyoung, ambitious, reliablewaited. Everything seemed set: placement, degree, wedding.

Three months in Dorsetit couldnt change anything, could it?

The landlady of the cottage was Mrs. Catherine Smith, retired, sharp-tongued but kind, who lived with her hard-of-hearing, aged father-in-law. Emily, with her sweet and easy temperament, got on well with both of them.

Then one afternoon, the old man collapsed. Emily rushed for help, but the neighbours were out. Just then a tractor trundled past. She flagged it down. Out jumped a young man: tall, striking, with grave but gentle features.

He carried the old man, strong arms sure and calm, into the cab. Emily scrambled in beside them, frightened that he wouldnt make it to the nurse in time.

He did. The paramedics came. While the old man was seen to, Emily and her rescuerhis name was Olivertalked for the first time. It turned out they worked at the same estate, lived only a few doors apart.

It was already late, the country nurse said theyd sorted things for the night. How to get back? No ambulances would cover the lanes twice in one night.

Come on, Oliver said. My mates mum lives round the corner. We can stay. Itll be fine.

She hesitated for an English momentwas this all right? But something about Olivers manner put her at ease. He wasnt the type. She agreed.

The next morning, Emily woke in a pile of soft, sweet-scented quilts, the house quiet and bright, Mrs. Liddell bustling with tea and eggs and country gossip. While Emily ate, Mrs. Liddell confided that Olivers wife had deserted him, leaving their little boy behind. Olivers a good lad, she said. He minds the farm, built half the village himself. A heart of gold, just needs the right woman, you know?

Emily only smiled. She had a fiancé, after all. She was going to be a professional soon, and a divorcee with a child was hardly her dream.

Yet after that day, Emily noticed Oliver everywherein the farmyard, down at the village pub, on the woodland paths. Mrs. Smith saw it too.

He likes you, that Oliver, she teased. Asked after you, turned crimson. Hes a good one. Proper. Got his own livestock. A sweet boy, too. Needs a proper mum.

But Emilys heart did beat a little faster in his presence. He had about him a quiet power, a respect he drew from all around without ever asking for it. If ever she was stumped, the local men would say, Ask Oliver, hell know.

She was something of an exotic in that villagea bright, purposeful city girl in a shockingly pale coat that skimmed the mud with every step. Whenever she passed, the local men straightened up, tamped down their language, became, for a moment, almost gentlemen.

Madam, surely you dont belong way out here? theyd joked.

Walks from the estate were short, but the weather was always unkindrain lashing, wind biting. Oliver always offered her a lift.

And your son? Who keeps an eye on him? Emily asked.

Lets not be strangerscall me Oliver, he replied with a smile. Hes over with Mum or my neighbour most days; we take turns. Hes growing.

Whats his name?

George, he said, fondness flickering in his eyes. Couldnt ask for a friskier lad. Always off getting into trouble. Keep your eyes peeled for himyou never know where hell end up!

Dont you like it here? he asked her suddenly.

Its all right

Just wait till spring, when everything turns green. The streams lovely. Only shameno streetlamps. But well sort that.

He spoke as if he took responsibility for the village like it was his own family.

Oh, if only shed known that was the best kind of man.

Olivers attention became more obvious. He visited, brought firewood, did errands in town. Emily could not let herself reciprocate. She could not picture living here in the countryside, although little tethered her to London except Simon and impatient relatives back home, planning weddings and holidays.

What if you lived in a village? her mother would gape.

And what if her groom turned out to be a divorced farmer? What scandal it would bea university graduate settling for swine-herding and muddy boots! It would break her mothers heart.

Yet at night, between the dogs bark and the old oaks pressing at the windows, she pictured it: the future, Olivers strong arms, George running to greet her. Hed love her, honour her, be grateful if she loved his boy too. Their own children, perhaps, with the same broad grin. But that was just a dream. She had obligationsSimons wedding band bought, his mothers savings for the big day, her fathers expectations. One cant just let everyone down.

Still, something inside ached for the hope of a new love. That hope, and a burgeoning spring, blurred her resolve.

In time, Simon seemed a pale ghost next to Olivers living presence. That, paradoxically, made the whole affair more romantic, more dangerous.

And one day, in the heat of a particularly emotional evening, Emily reached for closeness with Oliver. She hardly understood the impulseperhaps it was a way to say goodbye, or a brave leap into the unknown. He resisted at first, his eyes searching hers, but they crossed the boundary together.

For Emily, it was a firstbut so gentle, beautiful, it left no room for regret.

And yet she never made the final decision. Foolishness? Naivety? Or simply too little experience of life?

One bright morning by the old village well, she met little George teetering on the edge. If she hadnt hurried, he might have tumbled in. She scolded him gently, but he immediately dashed off, clutching the skirt of a plainly dressed young woman.

You must be Georges mum? Emily ventured.

Just looking after him. Thanks for saving him, the girl replied with a guarded kindness. Hes a handful.

Was this the famous Mary, neighbour and helper? Jealousy flickereda child lives with habit, not fluttering newcomers. How could she compete with history?

Later, Olivers mother, Mrs. Clarke, tracked Emily down, tears brimming in her mild blue eyes. She told her that George had become attached to Mary, that Mary was in love with Oliver, and that everything could have been perfect if only Emily hadnt arrived. Its not my intention, Emily protested. But to Mrs. Clarke, that made her a homewreckerthough Emily herself felt the aggrieved party.

Oliver pleaded at the train station for her to stay. He said his mother and Mary were mistaken, that he felt nothing for Mary. Emily, wounded and proud, refused to listen.

So, he watched her board the train, sleeves rolled up above his broad arms, his face drawn. That was how shed remember him.

She cried all the way home to London.

Thus ended her three-month placement on the Dorset countryside.

But time heals. Emily surged forward. She married Simon; soon the whirl of marriage and young children began.

**

Emily sank into the car, adjusted her scarf, and prepared to justify why life had etched itself so plainly across her features. Of course, he would recognize her.

Or maybe not. She was heavier now, lips roughened, her coat shabby and lumpy, scarf askew.

How many years since then?

Sixteen. Sixteen long years.

At first, they drove in silence.

Awful weather, isnt it, she managed, as a passing lorry splashed water high over the windscreen.

Only here in town, he shook his head. Out in the country, its white and clean. Roads are clear too.

Is that where you live?

I commute. Work to and fro.

Thanks for picking me up. Janes car broke down, and it just had to be today. Usually, I drive myself, but not today. I can pay

He turned, met her eyes, that old mysterious gazehurt, reproachful. Emilys heart skipped; he remembered.

Hullo, she said quietly.

Hello, Emily.

So you did recognize me, then? I thought for sure youd have forgotten.

Not forgotten, he said, eyes on the road, his voice heavier than she remembered.

Beneath her coat, heat prickled painfully in Emilys chesthis voice, his hands, his gaze. She slipped the scratchy wool scarf off her head.

How are you, Oliver? she exhaled.

He paused; perhaps fighting his own rush of memory.

Oh, I get by. These are strange times. You too, it seems.

Do you still work at the estate?

He smiled. No, the place went bust years ago, back during the privatisations. Id left even before that. Now I set my own hours.

Right. These days, thats best. Me too And the business? Still farming?

Weve got the farm, and a butcherydo a bit of trading as well. Meat products, retail.

Everyones buying and selling now, she remarked, trailing off.

It suddenly hit her: Prudens Sausages, Prudens Piesshed noticed them on the supermarket shelves. Coincidence?

WaitPrudens? Those sausages and pâtés? Yours, really?

He looked at her, a trace of humour in his eyes. You dont like them?

My mum makes a special trip for them, she stammered. I never expected

He waved a hand sheepishly, as if embarrassed by success. It started small. Mum and I couldnt sell all the meat, so we tried making sausages, pies. People needed work, soslowly, we grew. Now we supply Brighton to Bristol. Factory, shops, the lot.

Impressive. All on your own?

Theres a team, but Im the one behind it. Still, couldnt manage alone. Quite a few from the village came with me, actually.

Emily felt her face flush. Once she was the promising city girl in a creamy coat, now she sat in a frayed puffer jacket, market boots, next to a man whod turned the muddy village of her memory into the foundation for a sprawling business. Theyd switched places, almost.

Hows George? she asked.

Oliver grinned. Three boys now.

Three?

He nodded. And you?

My Jamies at grammar school, Emmas in Year Eight, she replied quickly, dabbing at her brow.

Georges in the army nowtough times. We lost sleep over it. Mary went completely grey. Luckily, hes back in the spring. The middle ones in college, and the youngest is still at primary.

Mary. So hed married the quiet neighbour after all.

How desperately Emily wanted to say she regretted choosing her old life! Shed thought it so many times. Now, sitting beside Oliver

Simon turned out feckless, a disappointment. Promising as an engineer, perhaps, but he drifted from job to job, drank too much, lost their home, left her with his mother, then disappeared altogether. When Emilys father died, she divorced Simon and moved to her mothers little flat.

She wanted, desperately, to pour out her heart. But instead, she said, Jamies aiming for medicine; Emmas bright, full of ambition. We get by. I sell what I can at the market, battered by gales but we manage. The pitch is cold, but its worth ityou need a good spot these days.

She needed him to see shed survived. She wasnt beatennot fully.

Oliver listened, a deep crease between his brows.

And Maryhows she?

He shrugged, as if caught still in some distant thought.

Shes all right. Bakes bread now.

Bread? Herself?

Started on her own. Then we opened the shopthe Old English Oven on the High Street.

I know it. Ive even been in. Your shop?

He nodded.

Emily remembered thenher friend Sarah had dragged her in for the bread, raved about it. Behind the counter, a petite, capable woman, sharp haircut, pink scarf artlessly folded. Now she saw it: that was Mary.

Here we are, Oliver said, eyeing the street signs. Is this the right one?

Yes, go up to the next turning.

He pulled over, leapt out. In a half-dream, she watched him dash to a flower stall and return with a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Opening her door, he laid them gently on her knees atop her baggy grey trousers.

Looking down, Emilys vision blurred. She hurriedly wiped tears awayshe was meant to be strong.

He helped with the bags, carried them up to her doorher blocks scruffy foyer, daubed with marker pen. She clutched the flowers, speechless.

Would you like to come in? she ventured, half-hoping hed say nothe flat was chaos, stock everywhere, mother-in-waiting behind the door, questions poised.

Still, a part of her dared to wish he would see, understand, pity

He shook his head gently. No, Emily. Too much to do today. He took her wrist, warm and firm, and held it for a heartbeat, then released her.

He bounded away down the stairwell.

Call out? Confess?

Emily stared after him. She understood suddenlyit was hardest for him, too. This was farewell. And with that realization, she felt a surprising sense of relief.

She heaved her bags inside.

Her mother appeared straight away, full of gossip, concerns, family news, not noticing Emilys distracted air. She tossed off her wellies, dropped them by the heater, carried out her tasks mindlessly.

Finally, sitting at the table, she asked, Mum, do you remember what I told you before my wedding? About that man from my Uni placement in the countryside? The farmer who used to visit?

Vaguely. Why?

You said, As if youd go live on a farm, raising pigs! Remember?

Absolutely. Youd have been knee-deep in muck.

I saw him today.

Did you? Where?

Doesnt matter. MumPrudens meat you love? Thats his. And his wife runs the Old English Oven. Thats Mary.

Her mum froze, cup in mid-air, a flicker of pain in her eyes. She was silent for a moment, then quietly, to herself and to Emily, said, Still, you cant choose your fate. If we could, wed all be brawling over it.

Emily felt a swell of pity for her mother.

Look, its fine, Mum. Today I sold two suits and three coats. Were hanging on. Dont worry.

Thats right. If you knew where youd fall, youd lay down straw to soften the blow. Thats how it goes

Soon Jamie was hometall, serious, with that same searching, mysterious look that belonged unmistakably to his father. And just as Emilys kin believed all those years agonobody ever questioned how a three-kilo baby could possibly be born two months premature.

He sat down.

Mum. Dont be angry, but Ive got a job at the stables, mucking out the horses. It pays well. I promise my studies wont suffer.

Emily breathed out. A different day and shed have fussed. But today

All right, Jamie. Youre old enough. Honest works always good. Youll need the money too. I dont mind.

He beamed, spoon tapping the bowl, sensing that something had changed in her, though what exactly, he couldnt say. But it felt goodthis trust.

Emily lay awake late that night. She didnt cry, no, nor wallow in regret. An odd mood settled over her.

She gazed at the white chrysanthemums, thinking of destiny, of that days chance encounter, knowing that now each must walk on, facing whatever came next alone.

Their meeting long ago had split her life into before and afterand today brought just that same feeling.

There would still be more surprises, more chances for happiness ahead. They would not cross paths again, but something of each would always remain with the other.

Everything happens for a reason.

Perhaps today was given to her so she might finally understand something importantsomething she needed for the rest of her journey.