“Are you alright?” he says, with genuine concern.
“Yes,” she replies, regaining her composure.
“Well, what are you doing out here anyway?”
“Trying to get to Bromwood Station.” She is tying a scarf over her head in an attempt to protect herself from the horrible weather conditions they are both currently enduring.
“Can I give you a lift?”
“In your state? You must be joking,” she curtly replies.
He pauses, looks concerned, and decides it might be better to just leave it at that. He walks over to his car, gets in, and begins to drive off, leaving her standing in the lay-by, on her own, in the torrential rain.
As he starts to drive away, he looks back at her, through his wing-mirror. She is battling with her scarf, and the wind, in the lashing rain. He can’t bear to drive on and leave her stranded, and so he stops the car, and reverses. He rolls down his window, and shouts to her.
“There are other ways of getting killed, you know! You can drown, or die of pneumonia.” His voice is assertive. “Come on, get in,” he commands her, but in a friendly way.
The girl totters towards the car and gets into the passenger seat. He drives off while she gathers herself together. She takes her scarf off, opens up her coat, and starts to settle into her status as the car-passenger, of a stranger, rather than a lorry-driver's bit-of-skirt.
As she is adjusting to her new role, he fetches out his whisky. In a generous offer, he hands her the bottle. “Here, this’ll warm you up.”
“No thanks,” she politely declines, almost primly. He seems slightly taken aback by her reaction. She continues to dry off her face and neck with a handkerchief.
