Passengers
by Maire Fisher

There, there dear, you might not think so, but things really do have a way of working out for the best. Why don't you sit quietly for a moment, and I'll tell you a little story?

My life was very uneventful, until one night over forty years ago. I was going through a rough patch. My husband, it seemed, was not at all happy. In those days, the words male menopause and mid-life crisis were just coming into vogue and Peter was a textbook case if ever there was one.

Anyway, that night we'd been invited to a dinner party. I can still see the dress I wore. Loose, flowing, very similar to the one you're wearing in fact. I looked good that night, and I felt curiously hopeful. I was looking forward to getting out, relaxing with our friends. Maybe, just maybe, we could enjoy an evening without arguments or long miserable silences.

Peter had been tinkering on the car and when I came down he was still in his old clothes, his hands grease blackened, his face filthy.

"Aren't you going to get ready?" I asked.

"I'm not coming," He wouldn't look at me, ignored my pleading. "I don't care what people think," he said. Normally, I would have phoned, made up some excuse, tried to cover up the cracks yet again, but I'd had it up to here. I grabbed the car keys.

"I'll go alone," I said. Not quite the done thing, and bound to set tongues wagging, but I was beyond caring.

"Do you know how to get there?" he asked. I certainly wasn't going to tell him I wasn't sure where Joe and Maggie's new house was. I snatched scrawled directions from the telephone table and slammed the door behind me.

And there I was, hopelessly lost on a thick foggy night in a part of Cape Town I didn't recognise at all. I seemed to drive forever, crawling along, peering at street names, shadows looming out at me. I cursed myself for leaving the map book behind. Eventually, I found myself on a narrow unlit street. Tall trees met overhead in a long frightening tunnel. When the thin beam of my headlights picked out a young woman walking along the road, I almost sobbed with relief. I wound down my window. Particles of mist clung to my eyelashes, making her into a vague blurred shape.

"Can you help me?" I gave her the name of the street I was looking for.

"You're not too far from there," she said. In a better frame of mind I might have been able to take in her directions, but I was jittery, kept getting them mixed up. "Look," she said, "why don't I come with you?"

"Won't that take you terribly out of your way?"

"It'll be much easier if I show you how to get there."

She slid into the seat next to me. She was wearing a long dress, almost the same midnight blue as mine. She kept her head turned to the window, her face a wavering reflection. I followed her quiet directions, and an easy silence settled between us.

"You shouldn't be out on your own at night," I said. I sounded maternal, chiding her as if she were my daughter.

"I'll be fine." She smiled. "The question is, will you be?"

"I'm sorry?" I wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"You seem very upset." Her voice was kind, soothing.

I honestly don't know what came over me then. Words tumbled out and I told this young stranger everything.

"He's so difficult to live with, nothing seems to satisfy him. I don't know what to do." My voice cracked on the last words. Her hand on mine was pleasantly cool in a car full of the heat of my helpless frustration.

"The future's an interesting place," she said, "but going there means leaving the past behind."

"But my past is who I am. My husband, my children - I can't begin to think of changing."

"Things change all the time, and joy happens when we least expect it."

I laughed, a soggy sniffling sound, but a laugh nonetheless. "You're very sweet, but very young. I wish it were that easy."

"I think this is where you want to be," she said, "22 Hope Street?" The house in front of us was brightly lit and I recognised the Baker's Pontiac, the Wilson's station wagon.

"You've been terribly kind," I said. "Can't I get someone to run you home?"

"I'll find my way." She turned towards me and I found myself staring into eyes the same shape and colour as mine. "You will too, you know."

She closed the car door, and I watched her walk away. The hard anger that had knotted my stomach was gone and I felt peaceful for the first time in months. As I leaned over to get my bag, I saw a small silver object lying on the seat. I called after her, but she had vanished. It was a locket, so ornate and intricately fashioned that it took me a while to realise it was shaped like a heart. When I clicked it open, I saw my face, tiny and happy. It was a photograph I had never seen before. On the side where Peter should have been, a dark-haired man looked out with a quizzical smile. I turned the strange little object over and over in my hands and stared into the night. The mist had lifted and the night sky was clear and star-studded.

I started at the knock on the window. "Are you coming in?" Joe opened the door for me. As we walked up the path, I made a silly excuse for Peter's absence. Joe laughed, "Well, Maggie will be relieved. The Bakers have arrived with an unexpected guest and she's been agonising over the seating plan. Some chap out from Australia for a short visit." I slipped the locket over my head and walked into the house.

Well, my dear, thank you for listening to an old woman rambling on. There's the address you were looking for. No need to thank me, this part of Melbourne can be very confusing. Don't worry about me - I can get home from here quite easily. Go well, dear, and listen to your heart. It will show you the way.

© Maire Fisher