It was the sort of merciless, pelting rain that leapt back up off of the pavement, wetting your pant legs twice—the very sort of weather that made Shaun detest living in Derbyshire three seasons out of the four.

Dingy clouds had hung low in the sky since well before dawn, looking morose and threatening a downpour. The road crew had only just managed to begin packing away their machinery when the first low rumble of thunder was heard overhead. That far-off warning was followed by a chill, dogged wind that tossed about the bare branches of the nearby chesnut trees and—finally—brought in the deluge.

"Shaun! Hold 'em off, hey? We're nearly ready to go here!"

Shaun cups a hand over his eyes against the spitting rain, calling back: "Aye! Put a rush on it, yeah? This weather is shite."

He is currently propping up a heavy, freestanding stop sign, struggling against the early October squall. On any other morning, he would be standing up high on the balls of his feet and craning his neck, examining the long, angry line of cars and lorries stretched out in front of him on Makeney Road, all of them idling and wasting their petrol while they impatiently wait for him to flip his tall stop sign to 'Slow.'

Aye, on any regular, weekday morning (without a bleedin' Category 5 hurricane descending over his sorry head) Shaun would be impatiently watching for the dented, blue Astra and its pretty driver, craving the hot coffee she brings him in the paper Puccino's takeaway cup. And most especially—craving her bright, chummy smile and almost embarrassingly eager to hear her chirp: "Good morning, Shaun! Still hard at work, then?"

Her name, Shaun had finally managed to discover on the third day she drove his route and got held up short by his stop sign, is Belle French—and he doesn't believe Belle French and her posh, takeaway coffee will be coming by today.

Because the driver of the blue Astra is like clockwork, right?

Every weekday morning at 8:15 on the nose, Belle French's old car crests over the nearby hilltop, and Shaun stands up a wee bit straighter and prepares to flip his 'Slow' sign to 'Stop' and—maybe, possibly, oh please God—locate his misplaced goolies and try for her bleedin' telephone number.

At the very least, even when he inevitably loses his nerve and fails to ask her out casual-like for chips and a pint, he and Belle French always manage to have a nice, friendly chit-chat about the autumn weather, or the local road conditions, or Liverpool's slim title chances this upcoming season.

And those brief, chummy chats make his whole day—they really do.

But now it's already 8:35 according to his rubber wristwatch, and it's absolutely minging out, and it's time to pack this shite up and head back home to bed until this foul autumn weather leaves off.

Shaun tells himself it's about the coffee.

The stuff Belle French brings him is really so much better than the bitter, dredgey sludge he leaves cooking on the hot plate while he showers and dresses himself in the early morning dark. Bitter, thick, and black as tar was how his best mate Daz took his coffee before he passed away last summer, and consequently Shaun has never learned to make it any other way.

"Alright, Shaun! All set here! You can let 'em through."

Grimacing, his shoulders hunched tight against the driving rain, Shaun lowers the stop sign and waves the waiting cars ahead, trudging slowly out of their way, over to the muddy side of the road.

What to do with himself for the rest of the day is the question.

Get back under his cruddy, stale duvet, most likely. Watch a bit of boring telly. Give his willy a bit of rough handling and try not to think about how long it's been since someone's done that for him. Make a toasted cheese sandwich and heat up a can of soup on the stove top. Think about Belle French. Have another go at himself. Maybe head on down to the local for a pint come the evening.

Christ, it's a lonely life.

Shaun loads his stop sign into a covered construction truck. He begins walking back alongside the torn-up road to his rusted Volkswagen, kicking loose chunks of asphalt out of the way—and then he sees it!

Aye, it's the blue Astra driving towards him!

His heart makes a funny flip-flop-thud within his chest, and he pushes his wet, messy hair back out of his eyes. He smiles nervously—he cannot help it—and stands up just a wee bit straighter.

Belle French signals with her right blinker, then pulls her car over to the shoulder of the road, crunching over loose gravel and rolling to a slow stop just three yards in front of him. Her windshield wipers are flapping frantically against the rain.

She reaches hastily around behind her car seat and pushes open the rear door on the driver's side, calling out:

"Hey there—get in, Shaun!"

He breaks into an awkward, stumbling run, then ducks his shaggy head and scrambles quickly inside. He is dripping wet, but her grey upholstery is already stained and threadbare, so he doubts it matters very much. The heat is turned up high inside the small car, and the windows are mostly fogged over from the humidity.

Belle remains twisted around in her car seat with her foot on the brake, facing the rear and smiling at him.

Her lovely face looks strained and tired.

An elderly gentleman is sitting beside her in the passenger seat, absently playing with the broken latch on the glove compartment. Lying prone upon the old man's wide lap, looking peevish and vaguely forlorn, is a Welsh Terrier of indiscriminate color with bushy, overgrown eyebrows and a dripping nose.

The listless animal takes no notice of Shaun.

Belle says, "I was worried I might miss you! Here is your coffee, no cream, three sugars—" she reaches for the paper cup next to hers in the cup holder and carefully hands it back to him, "—and, ech, I'm so sorry, Shaun. We're running a bit behind today. This morning got off to a rough start…"

"No worries!—thanks so much for the coffee…"

He reaches hurriedly for the door handle, disappointed but not wanting to hold up her morning commute. After all, some people have proper, permanent jobs to get to that don't involve serving as bleedin' brainless human signage.

At that very same moment, the elderly gentleman tires of the glove compartment latch and reaches to let himself out of the car.

"No, Daddy, stop! It's raining buckets out there—Aggie will get loose!"

Belle twists around and makes a frantic jab at the power lock on the side of her car door, accidentally jostling Shaun's paper coffee cup and spilling the contents all over his boots and her floor mats. She wasn't quite quick enough, though—the elderly gentleman swings open his car door just as the window lock clicks into place. He unbuckles his seat belt and steps determinedly out into the heavy downpour, holding onto Aggie's fraying collar.

"Daddy, no!"

She is after him in a flash, thrusting the blue Astra into park and throwing off her own seat belt, then recklessly shouldering open her car door, altogether heedless of the heavy morning traffic.

Shaun follows fast on her heels, ignoring the rain and the startled honks from passing motorists.

"Daddy, what are you—"

The elderly gentleman is bending down over the tall grass at the side of the road. The back of his plaid, button-down shirt is already damp through, and he is tugging a small clump of violet asters out of the wet soil. He holds the wildflowers close to his broad chest and straightens upright, looking lost and confused.

The dog stands beside him, furry head bowed against the rain.

"Oh Daddy, flowers again? But they're dirty, Daddy! Just look at your pant legs. Oh, please drop them—drop them! Come on, let's get you back in the car…"

Shaun holds open the dented passenger side door, and together they manage to coax Belle's disoriented father back inside. Aggie is relegated to the back seat, where she promptly shakes off her wet, smelly fur, flinging water droplets against the windshield, side doors, and dashboard.

"I found him in the back garden last night, pulling up the pansy bed," Belle confesses, crossing her arms tight over her chest and shivering.

Shaun nods, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

Oblivious, she goes on: "He wandered away twice this past weekend and let himself into a neighbor's flat. He started to make himself a toasted cheese sandwich and left the butter smoking in the pan—the second time it happened the woman called the police, and—and, oh God—oh God, he doesn't even know my name anymore…"

Her face crumples, and she begins to cry quietly, hastily hiding her wet eyes and twisted mouth behind cupped hands. The rain has flattened her thick, brown hair against her scalp.

Shaun has never been the sort of man to say the right thing to say at the right moment, but he knows enough to take a woman in his arms when she is crying. He steps forward and tentatively wraps his arms around her thin, shaking shoulders, making a low, sympathetic sound and encouraging Belle to hide her face against his damp work shirt.

She gratefully sinks into the embrace.

"Hey now," he says clumsily, resting his cheek on top of her wet hair, trying to keep some of the rain off, "Hey now—he's safe now…"

"I have to take him to the day care center today," Belle snuffles into his shirtfront, gripping the flannel in two great fistfuls, "Today is his first day, and he doesn't want to go—he wouldn't leave the bloody house this morning without Aggie, and they won't take a dog into an adult day care center—and I can't take her with me to work, so I'm going to be late, and I—and I don't even know what I'm doing anymore…"

Her mouth twists again, and she's back to loud crying.

Shaun lets her, because sometimes that's the best thing, right? Not saying anything—just letting grief work its own way out.

He strokes a careful hand over the back of her wet hair, enjoying the slick, warm feel of it beneath his palm and fingers. She fits perfectly within the tight circle of his arms, and that's really quite unusual given that he's so slight. But with Belle's damp head tucked underneath his chin, Shaun feels a bit taller.

Hell, he feels almost whole.

It takes her a full minute, but she manages to collect herself at last, stepping clumsily backwards and scrubbing at her pink eyes with the heels of both hands.

"I must seem like an absolute madwoman, but it's just that—we visited the center last week, and all the workers talked to him like he was a child, you know? 'Well, don't you look smart today, Mr. French?' 'What is your very favorite program to watch on telly, Mr. French?' I know they're just trying to be nice, but—Daddy served in the war! He was awarded a Distinguised Service Cross! And now he'll just be one of the dozens and dozens of elderly people they scold and feed banana pudding and call 'duck' and—and he'd absolutely hate that…"

Throughout this impassioned little speech, Mr. French has been watching his daughter through the fogged-over car window. His mouth is ajar, and his pale, blue eyes are woeful. It is as if he already knows what this dreary day has in store for him.

Aggie also watches from the back seat, her furry head cocked. The dog's wet, snuffling nose has left smears upon the window.

"You know, if you're not altogether comfortable with this day center place, I…ah…" Shaun doesn't let himself think too hard before plunging ahead, "…I could watch your Da—until you find something better, that is. I spent the past I-don't-know-how-many-years looking after my best mate. I'm pretty good at it, actually."

He realizes, as he says this, that it's true. He does have a worthwhile life skill, regardless of how bleedin' hard he struggles with those baffling 'career aptitude' forms.

Belle steps further back, searching his face. "Wait—what?"

Shaun explains: "I'm—it's just something I know how to do. I could watch him. For awhile. Just until you find something better."

She sniffs loudly and brushes at her wet eyes again. It—and her smeared makeup—is a lost cause, though. The rain hasn't let up any.

"But—what about your construction job?" she asks.

His shoulders slump slightly. He really wishes he didn't have to admit to this part. "Well, it's only temporary-like. It'll be over by the end of the week. I'm not part of the regular work crew here. I'll have to be out looking for something new anyhow."

Now it's Belle's turn to look embarrassed.

"Well, I—it's just that—Shaun, I'm a copy editor for the local newspaper, and I'm afraid it doesn't pay very much. That's why I had to settle for this day center. The health service won't cover anything more expensive—such as in-home care. I'd only be able to give you two hundred a week."

It's fifty quid more than he's making right now, but Shaun isn't about to volunteer that sort of mortifying information.

Instead he simply says: "That's fine. That's just fine."

Belle laughs, and it's a shaky, relieved little sound.

"Well, alright then," she says, throwing her shoulders back, "How about you follow me back to my humble, little flat? I really hope you aren't allergic to dogs. Is that your brown Volkswagen up ahead?"

Shaun smiles, allowing that the old rust bucket belongs to him—then he ducks his head, hunches his shoulders, and makes a run for it, trying to avoid the deepest puddles.

With the car key in the ignition and the windshield wipers beating out a steady, urgent rhythm, Shaun sighs and allows his wet head to rest against the steering wheel for a brief moment.

He mutters a quick prayer, then puts on his blinker and prepares to follow Belle French wherever she might lead him.