Only lazily had the damp coolness of the fog, with a few isolated rays of sunlight here and there, shifted away. This peaceful vulnerability foreshadowed a sense of unease. Or maybe it was just a memory of another journey with an unknown destination. Dark outlines made their way into the day, licking at the edges of their surroundings. The closer one looked, the closer one saw the shadows in hiding.
And there were many shadows.
Only as the sky broke further, the drab brown giving way to lush green, did the dawning warmth conjure up gentler thoughts. It made the landscape shine more lovely as it passed. The steady crunch of earth beneath the wheels, which had been trying to hum him to sleep since the early morning, was replaced by the whistling of the wind as they came to a hill. That sound made Sidney jump up. It reminded him painfully of another time of change.
A strong gust hit him in the face, as if he had suddenly been caught in a moderate storm on the high seas. The images of the rocky coastline bored into his memory. How the green hills fell down to the town, the grey cliffs towered high and dignified. The lashing spray of the sea. Rolling towards him as fast as the faces of Sanditon. How he had searched desperately in the cold waters of the ocean for something to hold him. In vain.
He was lost floating in the water.
Sidney had been helpless against the waves. Just like everything else. Furiously, he now tried to suppress these feelings of being powerless. There was no point in mourning the past. Or events that could not be changed in retrospect. He had learned that over the years and especially since the past year.
As suddenly as the memories had taken possession of him, they were gone again just as quick. Barely a quarter of a mile later, the soft wind stroked him gently across the cheeks. It felt like the distant embrace of a bored lover. Caressed by cold tenderness.
The wistful rustling of the damp grass over which they drove was soon only a background melody as the settlements drew nearer. The hammering noise of the forges they passed drowned out the murmur of his companions and reminded Sidney of a similar buzz in a very different town. There, where the shouting of the workers, the clattering of their tools had mingled with the screeching of the seagulls. Where the roar of the sea, despite its proximity, was too quiet to drown out the noise of Sanditon.
Back then, the pounding of iron on stone at the construction sites seemed to stir up the dry dust of the road further with each step. A sigh, which resembled the soft squall between the houses of that distant day, escaped Sidney as he remembered it. How he had jumped from his Tilbury full of verve and how, after long-term abstinence, the ground of his hometown had felt under his feet.
In front of his brother's house he had stopped and brushed the dust of the journey off his trousers with his glove. He had tapped his shoes on the bottom step of the small staircase. Unlike his brother, he always made sure to enter a house as clean as possible. A habit Sidney had picked up from their father, who used it to express his respect for the master of the house. Whether it was a stately home, a run-down dive or one of the numerous inns on the country road, it didn't matter at all.
His companions had teased Sidney about it more than once, cracking their jokes about the fine gentleman he had long ceased to be. He did not mind their mockery. Often they even elicited a cynical smile from him. Just like at this moment, when their rickety wagon bumped along the sandy path. Past the various buildings that announced a medium-sized village. Sidney raised his head and looked at the whitewashed house fronts, which shone all the brighter for being interrupted by dark oak beams.
Involuntarily, his memories drifted back to Sanditon. How he had put his head back and looked at his brother's house. How he had repeatedly wondered about Tom's extravagance and mourned the lavish family residence on top of the hill, from which there would have been a sweeping view over the picturesque bay and the ever-growing town. It was only a fifteen-minute stroll up the hill. A nice little walk. But Tom had always been on the go, always wanted to be there, everywhere and preferably right away. Tom had also always been in a hurry, finding fault with any kind of lateness, although he himself had never arrived on time. Unlike Sidney himself, Tom had by then made it something of an art form to be late, or, depending on the importance of his visit, just in time.
