Red hot rod with supercharged engine

It was a red coupe, the old sort from before the war, low at the nose and bright as a fire engine. Sitting up through the bonnet was a great blower, all ribs and polished iron, breathing at the front like a bellows in a smithy. The spokes of its wheels were blue as a jay's back, and orange flame had been painted along the sills so the whole thing looked like it was already moving while it sat still. The driver climbed out, lifted his cap, and asked for water and the road to the coast. Maud gave him a jug, Ted gave him a cup of the sharp stuff from the barrel, and the man drank it standing in the shade of the Bramleys.

He said the engine had been wanting to run since 1948, and he had promised it a long straight road, but every road he'd ever taken had a village waiting at the end. So they walked the car down between the rows, and he eased her into second, and the blower spun up with a shriek that sent the rooks off the church roof. Apples thudded down all around them like hail. Maud laughed until she had to sit on the mounting block.

He was gone before supper, leaving a track in the dust that the rain never quite washed out. Next spring the grass in the lane grew up in two thin, bright lines, and Ted never once mowed them. If you go up there after dark, you can still smell hot oil and cider, and the windfalls under those trees are always the sweetest on the hill.