Fog Chance

She had stepped off the bus onto a wide and dark road overarched by bending trees. Leaf mulch was on the ground. The houses were old and separated by large gardens. There were few cars. There was fog. The street lamps fuzzed orange through the fog. She wasn’t sure why she had left the bus at this place. The road had stretched ahead, a seemingly endless tunnel of branches into ever greater darkness. The street lamps becoming further spaced apart until the winding hedgerows, the black fields where anything at all could be going on.

The fog clung to her coat. It was a good coat but the night was cold. The bus from which she had just alighted was probably the last one. It was an hour or so after twelve; her phone’s battery had died. The driver had not mentioned to her as she alighted that there would not be another bus, nor had he expressed any concern as to where she was going or why. It was not his responsibility to enquire after that kind of thing. One was never suspended in this way in the city centre, suspended on the fog threads and so on. The uncaring efficiency of individuals smoothed out in the overall benevolence of the system. The system always supported. There was always a vehicle to jump on.

She somewhat regretted getting off the bus, but did not know if staying on board would have led to anything better. It might have taken her to a bus shelter. She had slept in bus shelters before and was ambivalent; they kept the rain off but they attracted others. She could have hidden on the top floor of the bus and slept under her coat, exposed but undetected, but the driver would probably have found her when checking the vehicle over at the end of his shift. He might have been tired and skipped it, but she was never that lucky.

From the corner of her eye she saw a small orange light appear at the far end of the drive across the street. The front door, small at this distance, was opening. Someone had turned on the porch light, which looked to be one of those ones made up to look like an old fashioned lantern while actually of course being electric. A low shout came through the fog. Being fearless she walked to the bottom of the drive, close enough to hear the import of the shout; being wary she went no further.
‘Are you alright there?’ went the shout as it repeated. She did not reply. ‘Are you alright there?’ repeated the voice again, concerned-sounding, warm but dull as a rusty gong.

‘Who’s asking?’ she shouted after thinking a moment. There was equally a pause from the other side.
‘I live here,’ was then the reply, which seemed insufficient from her point of view. ‘Are you lost?’ the shout continued. She squinted from the bottom of the drive to gauge the shape of her interlocutor. It was not clear, a smudge against the orange light. It was cold, and the damp was creeping into her coat. She walked up the drive. She did not answer the smudge’s question regarding her being lost or otherwise. She asked, ‘What’s your name?’
Still silhouetted the smudge answered, ‘I’m Geoffrey, I live here.’ As she walked closer she saw a small old man in a dressing gown, a round crumpled face. ‘Are you lost? I’m sorry. I happened to be awake and saw you from my window, and you seemed to be lost.’
‘I’m alright,’ she said.
He looked uncertain. ‘Would you… like to come in?’ he asked, motioning into the dark hallway.
‘What are you offering?’ she asked.
His eyes remained concerned; a small smile crinkled his lips. ‘Well, I could make some hot chocolate, I always enjoy hot chocolate on a cold and damp night.’ He paused. ‘You could sleep here, if necessary. It is late. On the settee. There is a spare room but it’s full of clutter, I’m afraid.’

She liked hot chocolate. It was cold, and her legs were tired. She had a penknife in her pocket if it came to it. She nodded. The old man led the way down the dark hallway out of the orange light. A little fog crept in after them. At the end of the hallway was a lit kitchen with brown tiles and a big stove. The man lit the gas on a small ring, placed on it a battered saucepan and filled the pan with milk. He went to the cupboard and took out a large, old tin, creaked open the top and began spooning brown powder into the pan. She watched. He did not speak. He was wearing striped pyjamas under his dressing gown. She left him hunched over the pan and walked back through the hall to the other lit room, at the front of the house. It was a large but worn living room; dark velvet curtains hung to the floor, parted slightly to show darkness through the bay window. She sat down in a leather armchair. In the corner opposite was a small, dusty television. Bare floorboards showed around the rug. She was searching around for the remote control when the old man came in with a tray bearing two mugs of hot chocolate and some biscuits. She took a mug and no biscuits, and thanked him gently.
‘So what brings you here tonight?’ he asked.
‘The bus,’ she replied.
He nodded and sat back in his chair. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘Another part of town,’ she replied.
He nodded. He gestured towards the television. ‘Did you want to watch the television?’ he asked. She shook her head. He nodded. ‘Nothing much on at this time of night, of course. Only the news, on channel one.’ She sipped the hot chocolate. It tasted rich and dusty. ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘a little while ago there wouldn’t have been news at this time. It’s this twenty-four hour business now. They show the news when there aren’t any other programmes to show. There’s another channel where they show nothing but the news, I’m told. You’d know about that, I expect.’ She sipped the hot chocolate. She remembered a friend whom she had visited in halls, whose housemate had often stayed up watching the television all night, slumped in the neon lit communal area. He watched the Russian news on the digital television that they provided because it reminded him of home.
‘I don’t like to watch the news too much,’ the old man continued. ‘These riots. You’d know about that as well, I suppose.’ He looked at her without malice. He leant towards her. ‘You’ll have wanted to get away from it, I suppose. Out here where it’s a little quieter. But there’s still fog, of course.’

After a pause, she nodded. There had been fog the other day as well. She had lost her friends in it as the streets became indeterminate. ‘Still fog,’ he repeated. ‘But no riots, not here. Of course, I know of riots. But it all…’ He hesitated. ‘One can only be brave for so long,’ he said. She shifted in the chair. The old man was now staring downwards, thinking of something. She looked around. This house was different from the halls, from the neon lit communal area. Similar to the way her old house was, sometimes. She felt the knife in her pocket. She relaxed a little. She was tired. After a short while they fell asleep in their chairs.



She woke as grey dawn began to creep through the space between the curtains. The dark was heavily settled on the room but began to lift. Her neck was at an odd angle but she was comfortable. She yawned and settled back into the chair but did not return to sleep. She heard small noises from outside; birdsong. There were few cars and no sirens. She turned her eyes towards the window. The fog had lifted a little perhaps, and it was drizzling. She turned towards the chair where the old man had slept. He was still there, mouth open and head tilted back but not snoring. In the light he seemed more like her grandfather. She looked back at the window. She wondered when the first bus might be. She began then to drift off again.

As her eyes closed a memory returned to her. In the night, just as like now she had been drifting off to sleep, she had thought that she heard a knock at the front door. Three knocks on the brass doorknocker. She had tensed up a little, but the knock did not recur as far as she remembered, and at the time she then doubted if she had really heard it. Anyway, she had thought with sleeper’s logic, the old man will hear it, this being his house.

At the memory she tensed up again and felt suddenly that she ought to leave. She stood up and picked up her rucksack from the floor. She was still wearing her coat and shoes. She stretched out her cramped limbs. The room seemed smaller.

As she walked past the old man to the door she heard him say something under his breath. He was still asleep, as far as she could tell. She leant her ear closer to him. He said it again, more distinctly this time. She tensed, and frowned, and walked more hurriedly towards the front door. The cold, damp air met her. She pulled up her hood and walked toward the bus stop. The lamps were beginning to blink off in the daylight.