Roadside Recovery

She'd had a lovely day. It was not often that she did lunch anymore. There was something about eating out in the middle of the day that spoke of leisure and luxury. Having the time to do this was the territory of the privileged. This wasn't grabbing a pre-packaged sandwich, trapped behind a plastic window or a made-to-spec sub roll.

There was water in glass bottles, multiple knives, multiple forks, napkins, and leather couches, designed for lounging, with throws for comfort if needed. More than that, there was good company and good food, made fresh, served hot, and delicious to taste.

This meeting was long overdue. Old friends, 30 years known and still sharing time. It wasn't often and it was usually only a few hours but with the droplets of well wishes and shared news via messaging apps in the time that they were apart geographically, they managed to stave off emotional distance.

It was, as it always was: like they had never been away from each other.

But it was soon time to leave. She had a long journey ahead of her, had had a long journey to get there, but it had been worth it.

"I find it difficult to travel in the dark now. It's my eyes," she told her friend. Her friend and her sister were interested in the overglasses she had to wear now to stave off the car's LEDs that sent light spears at her eyes that splintered her vision. The glare from strangers' cars verged on incapacitating, that blast of white causing near momentary blindness.

"I'm alright as long as I wear these," she explained, "but I prefer driving in daylight."

With that, the winter sun, which had complimented the bright blue decided to tip its hat and begin its exit stage west, the grey edges of night not yet arrived but peeping expectantly to come full stage.

Her friends wanted her to be safe, bid her farewell and "Safe travels!", and getting into her car and heading away from the warmth of the meeting, she set her course for home, with the calming cadence of classical music as companion.

She reflected on her day and how lucky she was to have friends who stood the test of time. A couple of times that day she had teared up with emotion, prompted from the meandering paths that their conversations had taken them on, to places of candour and vulnerability. It had been, in so many ways, a treat, like an emotional spa day.

She was looking forward to the drive home, to the isolation of driving, in the security of her petrol-powered capsule, motoring freely on a motorway that, for once, seemed clear of restriction where she did not have to compete with the spray or impatience of others.

She decided to stop for fuel and pulled up at a services. She didn't want the angst of getting closer to home and running low. Best get some now so that she had a clear run. That done, she set off again, thinking about what she would do for the evening. Her husband had been doing some DIY; she hoped the kitchen was clear. She would be tired after spending almost 5 hours on the road. She didn't fancy picking up a cloth and wiping down counters and floor tiles.

The stretch of motorway that she was on had once been very familiar to her. She had flown down and up every day on her way to work and she indulged in reminiscing about those days and how she was glad that was not her reality now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp noise of alert issued from the car. She looked at the dashboard and a red light appeared: STOP, it said. Looking at the explanation the car provided to this order, she was disappointed to see: Engine Breakdown Failure.

Oh God.

She couldn't just stop despite the instruction. She would need to find a safe place. No hard shoulder on this "Smart" motorway. She would need to pull in. She looked at the dashboard. The light had disappeared! She was sceptical but cars, they don't play cruel tricks on you, do they?

What should she do?

She had slowed down and moved to the left to allow for her having to pull in soon. No light showing.

Continue or stop? What to do?

Services were not for a while yet. She'd just been at one after all.

It was decided for her. STOP. Red light. Again.

Oh God. Again.

She saw the bright orange of the SOS phone box on a cold metal pole and the yellow painted layby that denoted the emergency area and slowed and pulled in. She could see some sort of hot mist emanating from the driver's side of the bonnet. Smoke? Steam? She wasn't sure.

She turned the car off.

Fuck.

She sat. The car throbbed with the motorway traffic as she thought about what to do. Call her husband. She told him what had happened.

"I've broken down."

She explained where she was, that she didn't know where the recovery number was, that she didn't know where to direct him to look. He wasn't panicked or if he was, he didn't pass that on to her. She was glad. She was panicked enough for two.

Online. Everything was online. That's why she had no papers. What was the point of printing them off when they provided them virtually? Saving trees. She wished she had a bit of paper though.

She logged in to her insurance, praying she had the password right. Bingo! Right first try. She felt her panic ebb a little. She found the number to call for recovery. She thought about what she knew to do in these situations. Very little, she realised.

Call them, she thought. Get the ball rolling.

She should get out of the car. She knew not to open the driver's side door and so scrambled to get into the passenger seat. She felt ungainly but she managed it. She opened the door and the noise hit her. Booming, rapid.

Juggernautical.

She got through immediately to the call centre. She had to shout. She was struck by how cold it was. Biting. Still light, luckily.

Are there any conditions that we need to be made aware of? she was asked.

She thought. No, she replied and then added, But I am a woman alone and it is going to be dark soon.

She was advised that she should leave the car and stand behind a crash barrier if there was one. The cold was already seeping into her bones. She was not going to be able to do that. It also struck her that if she was standing there, exposed, everyone would know that she was a woman on her own? Did she really want to advertise that? She thought not.

She didn't tell the call-centre woman that. She was told to await a text (no-one calls anymore) which would give her a link where details of the engineer's arrival time would be provided. She climbed back into her car, passenger side and sat again.

She phoned her husband again to tell him what had happened. She was conscious of her phone battery and so they talked briefly. The call ended and she once again sat. She put the side lights on, the hazards already flashing orange. Their regularity was comforting as the scores of vehicles thundered by.

Sit tight, she told herself. You're going to be alright. She took deep breaths to steady herself as the car shook with each passing lorry.

A text. It was 4.30pm. She clicked on the link:

Your engineer arrival time will be updated shortly

She refreshed. Same. She refreshed. Same. She refreshed. Refreshed. Refreshed.

Same.

Eventually:

Your engineer will be with you between 5pm and 6pm

Okay. Now to sit and wait.

She had her Kindle but she couldn't settle. She wondered if she should tell her friend where she was but realised that that would only worry her. What about her mum? No, she would be concerned too. Just sit.

She allowed her mind to wander. The light gradually diminished, punctuated only by her car's orange flashes and the blazing headlights of the journey bound rushing past. She thought of all the people that she had seen at the side of the road when she had zoomed past on previous journeys, looking dejected and lost, and had an inordinate amount of sympathy for their plight.

Sitting. Waiting.

A call. Husband. Checking.

Sitting. Waiting. Refreshing the page. No change. 5pm -6pm. Not too long.

Her phone rang again. An unknown number.

It was a stranger from the rescue company, not the engineer.

He's on his lunch right now. He'll be with you in 45 minutes to an hour.

It was 5.08pm. The company she used felt it essential to add an addendum to all their calls, saying We do not accept abuse from customers under any circumstances and your policy will be cancelled immediately with no further cover given.

Portentous.

She does not comment. She wants to be helped, recovered, get what she paid for but she also wants to swear and shout at this person with his glib manner towards her and his need to tell her that the engineer is lunching. The distinct lack of sympathy to her and her situation jars. This man is a prick.

She calls her husband. Sees that the time has been refreshed to 6.10pm-7.10pm. He tells her to call the SOS number and get someone to come to her so she's not on her own.

She is frozen. She feels forgotten. She is starting to feel frightened. What's going to happen? she thinks. But she is one to help herself. Calling someone to make them aware is a good idea.

She doesn't want to get out of the car but her teeth are chattering and her feet are ice blocks. She is a woman alone. She is having to depend on others to be rescued and it is a feeling she detests.

She opens the door and the noise once more assaults her. She wraps her coat around her, a thin jacket. She was dressed for lunch, not standing outside. She is aware of her vulnerability again: from the cold, from the speed of others, from her solitude.

She calls and shouts to a man through a handset. She tells him about what's going on. She repeats what just went through her mind: that she is cold, alone and adds that it is dark, her recovery has been pushed back, she is scared. Her teeth chatter as she talks from the cold and not knowing what's going on.

He says he will chase the recovery company. He says he will send welfare officers. He advises her to stand behind the crash barrier for safety and she tells him she is too cold. He tells her that there is a chance that her car could be hit, that something speeding fast could collide with her and that she should be outside the vehicle. He tells her that if she must sit in her car to sit on the passenger side with her seatbelt on. This man is kinder and she senses he will help. She does not think he is a prick but she does wish that he had not told her about the collision. Having it stated so explicitly only adds to her sense of vulnerability.

She is not going to stand outside. She will sit and hope. She puts her seatbelt on as advised. She thinks about the futility of this if she's hit by a speeding, fully-loaded lorry.

The quiet of the car helps. She can hear herself think. She talks to herself, talking herself down from the heights of anxiety.

You'll be okay. You're going to be okay.

She calls her husband. Her phone charge is vastly diminished. She is conscious of this and talks briefly although she likes hearing his familiar voice and his offer to come. But he is hours away and what about the car? She knows that he would do that for her, that he would come. It helps.

She sits. She leans herself away from the speeding vehicles on her right as if adjusting her posture will protect her, her back a shield to their collision potential.

Time passes. Lights pass. Rumbles too, persistently. Shakes move her, from outside vehicles and from the cold seeping ever deeper.

A man taps the window. It is the welfare officer. He is kind. He tells her that she shouldn't be in the car, that she should stand behind the barrier. She touches his hand so that he can feel how cold she is and says I am too cold. I have a choice: hypothermia or chance of collision. I'm taking my chance with death in here.

The officer looks embarrassed for his comment, knowing that he has to say it, that Health and Safety regulations decree it, just as all the others had to too. He knows that it is a fatuous thing to say to this woman who has been left alone on the side of the road, seemingly forgotten, unprioritised. He has nothing to give her. Her hands are like ice.

He offers her a foil blanket, says These help to keep the warmth in and than adds, the cold of her hands still fresh in his mind, but I guess you have to have warmth for them to work.

She smiles, wanly at him but takes it anyway, grateful for the thought and to have something, even a crinkly useless metallic sheet to put over her. It helps to have it. She covers her legs.

The officers must have pulled in behind her because finally, the recovery truck arrives and pulls in front of her. It is only a little layby, not built for many vehicles. The welfare officers go and talk to him. She can't hear what they say to him but she can see that he is waving his arms around as if he is sorry.

The officers leave him and he goes to his truck. The officers tap on her window and say that they are leaving now. She thanks them for their kindness and they leave. The recovery man rushes over and tells her to get into his truck and he turns the heater up to full blast to warm her up and apologises for the delay.

Later, he will tell her that he was sent to a non-urgent call before her. She tells him that she was told he was having his lunch. He looks uncomfortable and she thinks she knows the truth. He shows her that she is priority 3 which is not urgent on his truck's diagnostic gadget. If this is true, she wonders if the prick she spoke to is a malicious prick who changed the priority. She wonders if the woman she spoke to when she registered the call is incompetent. She wonders if this engineer did finish his lunch.

He tells her he will look at her car and hopefully fix it.

She is warmer now. She has a feeling that this is not the end of her night.

She calls her husband. He asks her to keep him informed. Are you okay? She replies Yes but she wonders, Am I? She is certainly feeling more composed but she is still concerned. What if they can't fix it? What then?

Her husband says, Find out your options. Let's see what he says.

She begins to relax. Warmth returns. The hum of the engine drowns out some of the road's roar. She waits.

The engineer returns. I cannot repair it, he says.

She is disappointed but not surprised. So. What now?, she asks.

I know a man. He will take you home for a fee.

It is the mention of home that finally makes her break. She just wants to go home.

Her husband texts her: Do whatever you need to, to get back here. The money's not an issue. You know that.

The recovery man makes a call. She will need to wait half an hour. Another man will come and load her car onto a trailer. What choice does she have? She leaves the heated cab of his truck and returns to her car. Once more, she sits and waits, swayed by speeding lorries and Saturday shoppers.

Eventually, she knows she will make it home and this night will be a memory, an experience that she can quote and regale as a story, something that happened to her. Its darkness will fade and it will form part of the fabric of her existence. But she's not there yet.

She won't be there for a while. She won't be there when the truck arrives after she follows it on a tracking app and sees the driver on the opposite side of the motorway as he draws close and flashes the yellow lights on the top of his cab to show that he is there like he says he would be, and she won't be there when she is in his cab absorbing his vape smoke because she couldn't tell him no when he was her ticket down the road, and she won't be there when she finally leaves the motorway and winds down the lanes, through the trees and past the fields that she can't see out of the window because it is night but she knows they are there, and she won't be there when she steps into her house and is able to take off her jacket and warm her feet by the fire and have a hot drink and think about eating. She'll be closer but not there yet.

It will still feel dark, then.

But perhaps days later, she'll be able to ruminate on it, articulate it, and write it all down: her fear, her vulnerability, the noise, the helplessness, the lack of preparedness.

It will be now.