Promises To Keep
The Writers' Block #31 - Theme: Promises To Keep
The headlights of the Land Rover seemed to scan the curves ahead like a white radar. Jewelled eyes watched from the hedgerows.
‘Nearly there,’ muttered Rob, as a badger scrambled up a bank and out of their way. He glanced to his left. In the dashboard light, he could just make out Tom’s profile, sleepy-eyed and grumpy.
The country lane veered left and right, up and down. Winding away behind them, melting into the town’s distant streetlights, Rob saw puddles splashing as he looked back. Approaching corners a little fast, he braked and saw, in that rear-view mirror, the lane’s outline glowing as red as Hell, whereas their white lights in front beckoned them onwards.
Although the downpour has stopped, tufts of grass in the centre of the tarmac sparkled with the raindrops that had failed to touch the ground. The car’s passing rectified the situation.
Finally, their turning came into view. The gravel track, the familiar gateposts, the muddy driveway, then the old cottage. Battered, weathered, but welcoming.
‘We’re here,’ Rob muttered. He got no response from his brother.
The sensor light by the front door clicked on as Rob fumbled with the keys. Door open, lights on, fire lit. Car unpacked.
They sat in silence, staring at the crackling wood, with sleep sneaking up from the shadows.
‘I’ve got some Penderyn!’ Rob’s shoeless feet padded to his rucksack on the table. He produced the whisky, returning to the high-back chair via the kitchen cupboards. The chink of glass and bottle sounded so natural in the cosy setting.
‘What shall we toast to?’ asked Rob.
‘Us.’
Rob nodded. ‘To us!’ The whisky was harsh on his tongue and throat, the heat seeping down his neck into his stomach.
Sat there until the early hours, the brothers chatted, laughed and drank, reminiscing, having fun.
As the sun rose, it was a race to the sea, with the mixed laughter and shocked screaming cold water touched warm skin.
After a fried breakfast, sandwiches prepared, water canisters filled, backpacks loaded, they were walking along the coastal path.
Tom stood by a small rock, his hair blowing wildly into the wind, looking for all like a Victorian explorer. He shouted, ‘Your beard’s going grey, old man!’ They laughed as Rob took a picture on his phone, spending an eternity trying to get the angle just right.
It started to drizzle, so lunch was in the remains of an old stone house. Backs against the wall for protection from the wet wind, the Penderyn magically appeared. Tom laughed and they took it in turns to drink from the bottle.
Slightly drunk now, they chased each other in a game without rules.
Rob’s sides ached. He hadn’t laughed like this in such a long time. Here, everything seemed so simple.
He reached the stile first and wandered off the path, onto the promontory where, as a child, they had sat each evening and watched porpoises and gannets and choughs. He walked until the mossy grass began edge towards the horizontal. Finding a shielded tussock, he removed his rucksack and allowed himself to sit down with a thump.
Rob felt tired suddenly.
Looking out beyond the islands, all was grey, the horizon smudged like a watercolour. There was nothing between the sea and the sky, just a slight difference in tone.
He opened his rucksack and took out the whisky. A few shots left, so he helped himself to one. Then he removed the urn and looked up at Tom. Their eyes met and Tom’s face lit up with that cheeky grin of his.
Rob unscrewed the urn’s lid and allowed the contents to drift away in the wind. He raised the bottle high, took a long, final swig and closed his eyes.
The rain fell onto his face and mingled with his tears.
His beloved brother Tom was gone.