The last time my grandmother and I went out together, we drove up the steep sides of Hebden Bridge to reach the roads which cross the moors at the top of Calderdale. I aimed the car at Oxenhope, and saw the mist come fingering its way over the starting valley, which sometimes spreads for miles and sometimes shuts you in. The mist crawled quickly, laid over the place, sheet-white, and brought the curves of the road closer, until each next corner became all there was. Then, out of the mist, a man appeared, waving at the road. There had been a crash, and the front of a silver car was torn open and buckled in; the car was up on the bank by the side of the road, half way through a dry-stone wall at the edge of a field. ‘Terrible,’ said Grandma. The mist had kept its secret until the seconds it took to drive past.
|Issue number||No. 3 (2020)|
|Publication status||Published - 17 Aug 2020|