He Asked For A Lift To A Village That Was Demolished In 1965

He was standing where the lane meets the main road, which is a stupid place to stand, and he had a bag on his shoulder, and it was February and it was dark at five.

He asked for a lift to Thornhaugh.

There is no Thornhaugh. There has not been a Thornhaugh since 1965, when they flooded the valley and made the reservoir, and my grandmother, who was born there, used to talk about the church tower being visible in a dry summer.

I said, "There's no Thornhaugh, mate."

He said, pleasantly, "Then take me as far as the crossroads and I'll walk."

I want to tell you why I let him in. I let him in because he was completely, boringly normal. Fifties. A donkey jacket. A canvas bag. A tired man at the end of a shift. If he had been strange, I would have driven on.

He gave me directions. He said, "Left at the top, then the second right, past the chapel."

There is no chapel. There is a bend and a bus shelter.