Ahead, the road was a black twisty snake beneath the bright blue South Island sky. There was such a sense of freedom doing a roadie she’d thought, as Helena handled the camper around the corner with the expertise of someone who’d been driving it for the best part of the last month. She was thinking that one day she’d like to do a trip like this down Route 66 in the States, and that was when Isabel spied the car. It was still too far away to register what had happened, but she understood instantly that it was not good.
As Helena slowed and they drew closer, she saw the little hatchback had folded itself around a telegraph pole. The crumpled bonnet was still steaming like an alien ship that had crash landed.
‘Shit!’ It had obviously just happened, and Isabel wasn’t sure if she’d sworn out loud or if it had been Helena.
Her friend braked and veered the camper over to the grass verge.
Isabel’s hand hovered over the handle in readiness for the van to stop. ‘You ring 111 and get help. I’ll see what I can do.’ She jumped down from the camper van a beat later, racing over to the car hoping for the best but petrified of what she might find.
Now, here she was, willing this poor old woman to be all right. She should not die like this; it would not be fair! To have lived this long and to die in the arms of a stranger on the side of an open road in the middle of nowhere was not how it should end. Isabel was no doctor, but it was obvious the woman was too old to survive the shock let alone her injuries. She watched as the woman’s eyes, weighted down by crepe paper lids, fluttered before drifting and locking on hers. That her irises were the same piercing blue as the sky Isabel had been admiring only moments ago, she vaguely acknowledged as she continued to whisper her soothing platitudes.
The woman was trying to summon the strength to speak, a herculean task given the twisted groaning metal wedged against her chest from the impact.
‘Shush now, you’ll be fine. Help’s on its way.’
‘Wanted to go back to Wight—Tell Constance I’m sorry. Was wrong—should never have left—too late, too late. Tell her for me—’
Her voice held the traces of an accent, almost forgotten it had lived elsewhere so long, but it was one which Isabel recognised as being from her part of the world. The woman’s eyes fought to hold on to hers. She knew that she would not let go until she answered her and so she found herself nodding. ‘I will; I’ll tell Constance.’
‘Promise.’ The lips formed the words, but the breath behind them was faint.
‘I promise.’
A smile flickered then the light behind those bright blue eyes clouded over, and then she was gone.
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