Katherine Hanna - Breakdown

Brian berated himself for not saying anything. He felt sick with the strain of the whole thing and was glad that the ride was nearly through.

The bus pulled over by an old stone shelter. Ian was down the aisle in a flash and had the cargo bay open by the time Brian and Chris joined him. In spite of the long day, he was full of energy. He pulled out their bags and bundles and held Chris’s out to him.

“Thanks, mate,” Chris said, and Ian almost smiled. The bus pulled away.

Chris looked around him as he slung his bags and adjusted the straps over his shoulders. The shelter stood at a crossroads. On their right the road curved away up a hill; on the left it continued down. A petrol station stood on the opposite corner with a few stone houses across from it.

“The village is down the hill.” Brian pointed. “We’re up this way. We’ve got a bit of a walk from here.”

“Lead on,” Chris said. “Can’t be all that far.”

Brian turned and started up the road. Chris followed. Ian hurried to take the lead in spite of his heavy pack, head down, determined not to lag behind. Usually, Brian took his time going up the hill from the bus, especially if Ian was with him, but today even Ian knew this was no time to dawdle, and all three set a quick pace at the edge of the disused tarmac.

“Not much further,” Brian said. The top of the chimney became visible past the trees on their left, and shortly after, the little attic window under the peak of the roof glinted with the reflection of the sinking sun at their backs. Brian realized the house would soon be alerted. He wondered if he should tell Chris. The road straightened out some. They could see the gate in the high wall that surrounded the house and yard.

“Nice place,” Chris said. Of the three, he was breathing the easiest, but he seemed tightly wound, anxious.

“Yeah, plenty of room,” Brian said.

He turned a bit, and Chris slowed.

“Maybe you should go on ahead,” Chris said. “Tell them.”

“They’ll know anyway. Likely we’ve been spotted from that window. Preston takes his binoculars up there and waits for us on Saturdays. He won’t know you, but he’ll tell them someone is with us.”

Chris nodded, his face a mask.

“You okay?”

Chris nodded again. “Doesn’t seem real, after so long.”

They reached the gate. Ian grabbed it and pushed. It swung inward on squeaky hinges. Brian and Chris followed him through into the yard.

To their left stood the small gatehouse, then another section of stone wall. Beyond that, the garage, barn, and other outbuildings ranged around the left side and back of the yard, casting long shadows as the sun continued its fall. The big house rose up on their right, the end wall of the kitchen with its tall windows facing the yard. Fiona was already coming out of the kitchen door, with Preston right behind her. She stopped on the step, saw them, and came out through the small walled garden. She had her blond hair pulled back and clipped, the way she wore it when she was working in the kitchen all day. She rarely wore an apron, but she had a small towel tucked into the front of her jeans. She stared at Chris. Her hand went up to her mouth, and she quickened her pace, meeting them only a few steps from the garden.

“Hello, Fiona,” Chris said, his voice low.

“Oh, Chris!” she gasped, and stepped forward to hug him. Brian was surprised at how readily Chris accepted the hug, how he put his arms around Fiona, his face against the side of hers. “Chris, this is wonderful! It’s so good to see you!”

“I’m so glad you’re all okay,” he rasped.

Fiona pulled back to look at him, bit her lip. “Sophie?” she asked in a whisper, and then almost immediately, with a look of pain, “Rosie?”

Chris shook his head, blinked a few times.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

“It’s okay.”

She hugged him again, sniffed, put a kind of smile onto her face. Preston had been hanging back, shy and wary, but wanting to be in on things anyway.

“You’ve not met Preston,” Fiona said, motioning him forward. “Preston, this is your Uncle Chris, Uncle Jon’s brother.” At nine, Preston was generally more adventurous than his older brother and therefore needed closer supervision. He had a more rugged build than Ian, and his hair was dark like Brian’s. He had his mother’s grey eyes. At the moment they were wide and curious.

“Hi, Preston,” Chris said.

The boy echoed a shy hi.

Brian glanced off toward the Dealy farm, saw Jon just opening the gate in the gap between the machine shed and the henhouse. He was watching the group of them, but obviously hadn’t recognized Chris yet.

“Here’s Jon,” Brian said to Chris, pointing, and Chris froze for an instant, then moved, stepping around Fiona and the boys, pulling the bedroll off his back and letting it drop.

Jon scowled as he scuffed along the path between the two farms, his jeans leg rubbing unpleasantly against the raw spot on his shin where that bloody beast Queen Anne had got him with her hoof, again. What a silly name for a cow. I’ve had it with that animal. He vowed to stop trying to make nice with her. It did no good; it never had. He wondered idly what supper would be as he reached the gate and unlatched it. As it swung open, he glanced into the yard, saw that Brian and Ian had got home, and realized that there was someone with them, hugging Fiona. Whoever it was had a bag of some sort over his shoulder, but his face was hidden from Jon’s view by Fiona. She seemed to be introducing Preston to the man.

Brian looked over and saw him, pointed, said something. The man took a step, and Jon saw his face.

It’s Chris—

It took his brain a moment to catch up from the shock that jolted him, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water full onto him. It can’t be , was his next thought, and he tried to think rationally around the dizzying rush: swing the gate closed, listen for the click of the latch, step forward…look again, see who it really is…

Chris was thinner, his hair longer, he had a stubble of beard, but there was no doubt now. Jon had given up the forlorn hope, had stopped going into Bath to check for messages at his flat or the telegraph office, had ceased scanning faces in the market-day crowds in Frome. He’d never even dreamed that his brother would someday walk right into the yard, alive and well.

Chris stood frozen for an instant, then started to move, pulling a bedroll off his shoulder and letting it drop, almost running toward Jon, who had not stopped moving, only slowed, staring, still taking forward steps in a kind of daze.

Chris didn’t have time to get the duffel off over his head. He’d nearly reached his brother, out of breath, and said, “Jon!” They both stopped and faced each other for perhaps three seconds before grabbing each other tight and holding on.

“I should have come sooner,” Chris was saying. “I thought you’d be dead. I’m sorry, I should have come…” in a voice that cracked. Jon could feel him shaking, or maybe it was himself.

“I thought you were dead,” was all Jon could come up with. “Oh my God. Chris. Chris, it’s you—” He had to pull away to wipe his eyes and look at his brother again. “I thought I’d never see you again.” He kept a grip on Chris’s sleeve.

“I thought you’d be dead,” Chris repeated.

A thousand things, a thousand questions, all rushed into Jon’s head, damming up there, catching in a logjam in his tight, tight throat. “Mum’s dead,” he said, watching Chris’s face.

Chris nodded, his eyes bright. “I know.”