Disclaimer:
I don't own "Fortysomething" or any of the mentioned characters.
Chapter 3
Stonehenge Rocks
"So, here we are."
Rory turns off the engine of the car and pulls the brake.
"Stonehenge."
"Finally," I groan, trying to stretch my stiff limbs. "I thought we would never arrive."
"Actually, neither did I," Rory admits. "We practically used up the last drop of petrol. Estelle never mentioned that this car was such a fuel-guzzler."
"There are a lot of things that your Mum never mentioned about this car before," I remark, sarcastically. "For example the limited leg space."
"Well, a VW Beetle is not exactly a limousine."
"Yes, I have noticed," I reply. "Can we get out now? I desperately need the loo."
Together we leave the car and slam the doors shut. There is metal clinging that both of us perceive, but choose to ignore.
"It's windy," I maintain instead. "I guess I need my scarf after all."
With that open my door again and crawl into the car. Unfortunately, we have packed so much stuff that it isn't easy to find anything on the small back seat, so it takes me quite a while and much of my contortion skill to finally get what I want. Panting, I struggle out of the car and shut the door again, more carefully this time.
"So where is the entrance?" Rory asks.
"Where are the loos?" I retort, wrapping the scarf around my neck.
We look around and find both the reception and the lavatories, but in opposite directions.
"I'll get the tickets," Rory offers. "You may go to the ladies'. I'll wait for you at the entrance."
I nod and make my way to the lavatories, which to my surprise are in pretty good shape, despite their poor outward appearance, but they also hopelessly overcrowded.
Only ten minutes later I meet Rory at the ticket office, rolling my eyes.
"So many tourists," I groan. "Where do they all come from?"
"The whole world," Rory presumes. "We should be lucky that we got a parking space."
"Yes, but you could have parked a bit nearer to the edge," I reply. "The car stands out almost three feet. I noticed as I walked by when I came for the loos."
"I imagine I did park near to the edge," Rory muses. "Curious."
"Oh, well, never mind!"
I make a dismissive gesture.
"No one will notice."
Rory nods and takes my hand.
"Do you have the tickets?" I ask.
Rory holds out two small pieces of paper.
"We are ready to go."
Smiling we make our way to the entrance and from there through a small tunnel underneath the road. It is windy and I am glad that I have fetched my scarf, which I pull tighter around my neck.
"Aren't you cold?" I ask Rory.
"I'm freezing," he replies. "I have never expected this place to be so chilly. I should have put on that wooly hat your mother gave me."
"Do you want my scarf?" I offer.
"No, you keep it," Rory refuses. "I'm fine."
But he isn't. I can tell as we emerge the tunnel on the other side. He is shaking and unfortunately it has even begun raining. Only a slight drizzle, but in addition to the wind it is very uncomfortable. Still, despite the bad weather we manage to walk around the stone circle, stopping here, taking a photograph there, while admiring the impressive stone formation.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Rory says in awe.
I only nod.
"It makes you feel humble," he adds, quietly. "Standing in front of such an ancient construct, built centuries ago …"
"You are sweet," I tell him with a smile, cuddling against him.
Rory wraps his arms around me and plants a kiss on my head.
"Thanks for coming here with me," he whispers against my hair.
"Thanks for taking me."
"I would have never gone without you."
I look up to him.
"I love you, Rory Slippery."
"I love you, Laura Proek."
We stand there for a while, just looking at each other, forgetting everything around us – the wind, the rain, the people, even the crows flying over our heads, cawing excitedly as if they wanted to defend the stones from the gazes of the tourists.
Finally, we move on again, accompanied by the baaing of the sheep that are grazing nearby. A lot of people come our way. We have to walk one behind the other to get through the tunnel and nearly loose each other in the crowd. But Rory is not someone, who can be overlooked easily. He is at least half a foot taller than everybody else, because most of the tourists, I recognize, are Asian and very small.
I take my time, following Rory through the crush of people, but I stop abruptly in my pace as I notice a man, a member of the Stonehenge staff judging from his clothes, who is holding up a sign. "RXL 92E" is written on it in neat letters and having a presentiment I quickly hurry after Rory and tug at his sleeve.
"What's the licence plate number of your mum's car?" I demand.
"RXL 92E," Rory replies. "Why?"
I feel a cold shiver running down my spine and it has nothing to do with the chilly wind.
"Then I guess we should talk to the guy over there," I suggest, pointing at the man with the sign.
"Which guy?"
"The guy holding up the sign, reading 'RXL 92E'," I explain.
I can literally watch Rory paling.
"That's not good," he mumbles as he slowly heads for the member of the Stonehenge staff and he looks a bit like a condemned man, walking to the gallows.
"Is that your car, sir?" the guy with the sign asks, as we approach. "RXL 92E?"
"Yes …"
"A blue VW Beetle?"
Rory nods.
"Yes."
His voice is almost a whisper.
"What happened?"
The man lowers the sign and clears his throat.
"Will you please come with me, sir?"
***
Numbly I stand next to Rory, who looks devastated at the ruins of Estelle's old car that are smashed against a large rock opposite our initial parking space. There is nothing much left of it. Half of the rear is missing, probably dented.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Phil, as the member of the Stonehenge staff had introduced himself, says, miserably. "But I think your car is not fit for driving anymore."
Rory doesn't say a thing. He only stares at the wreck.
"Luckily, no one else was hurt," Phil continues. "Not even another car got damaged. Only …"
"Estelle's," I finish the sentence, wrapping my arm soothingly around Rory, who is still stunned.
"She'll kill me," he says, flatly. "With pain, probably."
Phil clears his throat.
"If you'll excuse my saying, sir," he begins. "It's only an old car. The brakes were probably a little faulty and if you park hillside, things like these can easily happen."
Rory shakes his head.
"No, it is my fault," he contradicts. "I must have forgotten to pull the brake, when I parked the car."
"There you go, sir," Phil says, matter-of-factly. "Be grateful nothing more happened, then."
"How could I forget to pull the brake?" Rory groans, facepalming himself and it is then that it suddenly comes to my mind again.
He did pull the brake. I remember it quite distinctly. And it was probably me, who released the brake somehow, when I was looking for my scarf. So it was my fault – not Rory's. I know I should tell him, but cowardice gets the better of me and I hold my tongue.
"I took the liberty of informing the breakdown service," Phil intervenes. "They will tow the car and take it to a garage. You can decide what happens with the wreck then."
"We will have it repaired, of course," Rory says, desperately. "Surly there must be someone in this county, who can fix the car before we have to go home."
"All repair services are closed for Bank Holiday weekend," Phil says, regretfully. "Besides, sir, my brother-in-law owns an autoshop, so I know the ropes a little and if you don't mind my saying, this car is beyond repair."
"No!" Rory yells. "No, I won't accept that! There must be another option!"
"I'm afraid the only option for your car is the junk yard."
Groaning, Rory runs his hands through his hair, shaking his head in denial – and we are not even in Egypt.
"Look, sir," Phil tries to reason with him. "The engine of this vehicle is in the back of the car and, obviously, the back of the car is spread all over the rock. Face the facts, sir – this motor is done for."
"I am done for," Rory replies. "Estelle will never forgive me. She loves this car. The only chance I have is to run away as far as my feet will carry me, possibly even leave the country and hide somewhere at the ends of the earth. But I fear not even there I will be safe. Estelle will hunt me down with knives and when she finds me, she will skin me."
"Sounds terrifying," Phil says, scratching his head. "Who is this Estelle lady, anyway?"
"His mum," I answer, darkly. "And if you think he is exaggerating … think again!"
"His mum …"
Phil inhales deeply.
"Yeah, mums can be scary," he admits. "I remember when I totalled my first car a couple of decades ago. Mind you, it was my own car, but that didn't keep my mum from giving me a good telling-off."
"Yes, thank you," Rory says, flatly. "You are encouragingly helpful."
Phil touches his hat.
"Always at your service, sir."
"Maybe we should phone Estelle first to give her some sort of warning?" I suggest, hesitantly. "If we tell her now on the phone, she can't harm us, can she?"
"No, not immediately," Rory confirms. "But she will wait for us armed to the teeth with torches and pitchforks until we return and then she will rip my head off."
He chuckles, as if the thought amuses him.
"I never thought I would ever be so scared to get home."
Phil shakes his head, compassionately.
"I'm very sorry, sir," he repeats. "If there is anything else I can do to help …"
Rory sighs.
"You don't happen to have a time machine at hand?"
"That's a piece of fiction, sir," Phil replies, dryly. "No such thing as a time machine does exist and if it did, I would probably not be standing here with you right now."
"Good point," I admit. "So there is nothing left to do?"
"I could phone a taxi to get you home," Phil offers.
I nod, admitting that this is the only plan that makes sense.
"Alright, let's get our stuff from the boot and the back of the car, then," I decide with a sigh, but Rory doesn't move.
He is standing there like frozen to the spot even though the temperature is not even near below zero.
"Rory?" I ask, prompting.
I don't receive a reply and from his face I can tell that he is actually scared to death whereas the death part isn't the scariest thing. It's the impending killing process that obviously troubles him.