2 Jan '21
It was a grim-faced day, the sky starved of light, resting on the skeletal shoulders of the trees. It was the sort of day that sucked away vitality, leaving in its place a plateau of nothingness. She whizzed down the road, gazing at the valleys below and a lonesome red kite above while the sun bloomed a murky pink in the greyness beyond.
She met the brothers at the edge of the Rushmore estate. A year had passed since she had last seen them, and the sudden rush of joy at meeting once again clouded their thoughts and clarity of thinking, each not knowing how or where to begin. They chained the bike and set off at a swift pace, talking more ‘at’ than ‘to’ each other, not finishing answers to their own questions, only to begin another rapid string of questions in successive machine gun bursts. Neither wanted to talk about themself and impatiently rushed their turn of interrogation in the hope that the others would lose interest. By the time they had reached the bottom of the hill, all three were exhausted and rather dissatisfied at how little they had learned of each other.
The coombe was silent. The woods, mute. Ignoring a PRIVATE sign, the three friends carried on their march through the colourless mist and mud and mizzle. But she wanted to stop. She just wanted to look at them both, drink in their faces and analyse their expressions. She never likes just walking after not seeing a dear friend for so long. She can never concentrate, flitting onto this experience and that explanation and those reasons for whatever choice made. Walking someone else chronologically through the time spent since the last meeting is never an enjoyment, the convoluted monologue of stories blunting themselves after each telling.
They find a nice sheltered part of the coombe, scale a barbed wire fence, and nestle further into the woodland. A hand-made stove is produced, the shape of a shiny metal neck and shoulders, and they set to work coaxing life from damp hazel twigs and some old UCAS student discount papers. It isn’t long until they have a little fire, the water bubbling and hissing from the tops of the hazel twigs. She passes around enamel cups of bright yellow turmeric tea from a bright yellow flask and some sweets from a screw of brown paper. She's brought these from the Italian Alps, made from wild herbs with a hidden drop of honey at the centre. The combination is excellent. Smells of moss, damp earth and wood smoke hang like breath around the three who sip their rooty tea and swirl the zingy sweets around their mouths. It was a beautiful moment, snatched and unusual like most moments are with the Winby boys. Rain begins to fall and the temperature drops further, the profound misery of this weather making the time spent together more poignant, their determination to resist its grimness an achievement.
The light is quickly dying now. They stomp out the fire and set off up the hill, back to the flinty sludge to the edge of the road where they met. After exchanging Christmas cards and presents, they go their separate ways, the light disappearing fast, thick clouds hurrying them to their homes. She cycles back along the ridgeway, drenched in icy fog, battling against the wind and rain which occasionally turns to snow. It’s a relief to race down the hill to relative cover.
She can't help feeling sad. She always does after saying goodbye to those boys. There’s never enough time, always too much to say. She can't help feeling that she could’ve done better, could’ve been more interesting, could’ve been, should’ve been…that old lament infesting the mind once again. A new thought has also started to make its unwelcome appearance. I’ve changed. I’ve lost my voice. I’ve lost my colour. She worries that this shell of detachment, of numb coldness is no longer a shell but part of a new identity, one not to discard and pick up as and when she pleases. It’s ok, she speaks aloud, letting the wintery wind whisk away these gloomy ideas. I'll just have to grow another.
