Meanwhile, Jim is man-handling the big steering-wheel of his tanker-truck.
“What time’s your train?” he asks her.
“There’s one at two O’clock.”
“We can take it easy then... ” He pauses. “Quick, get down!”
“What?”
“There’s a road-block ahead. I’m not allowed to give lifts.”
She dives down below the dashboard. He throws a coat over her. Two traffic-police, in high-vis jackets, beckon Jim to stop. He does, then opens the cab-door to speak with them.
“Where d’you come from?” one cop asks, while the other walks around the lorry, checking underneath.
“Birmingham.”
The guy at the rear of the vehicle signals all is ok with a thumbs-up to his colleague at the front. Jim gets waved on.
Back on the road, he pulls the coat away and she sits upright, again, on the bench-seat.
“I could lose my job,” he says, gruffly.
She strokes the back of her hair. “I can’t thank you enough,” she replies, in her refined voice.
“Wanna bet?” He gives her a ‘look’.
She realises what she has just said, and her eyes widen with concern.
The truck-driver, has another good look at her legs. “You a model, eh?” he asks.
“No,” she replies, soberly, with a slight laugh, as if to say: don’t be silly.
“You could be.” He has another letch at her legs. “You’ll be glad I came along?”
“I’m very grateful to you,” she assures him.
“I hoped you’d say that,” he smirks.
Jim's head is darting from side to side, as he looks about outside, trying to find an 'appropriate' place to stop. He finally pulls the wagon into a deserted lay-by, putting on the air-brakes, with a clunk and a hiss. It is a cold, grey, damp and miserable, day.
“What’s the trouble?” she asks him, with surprise, and wariness, on her face.
He leans towards her. “I thought we’d settle the fare…”
Jim then lunges towards her. She lets out a cry, fights him off, opens the door, and jumps out of the cab.
