Run Toward Ruin – Chapter 4
Duty calls, and it costs him. Darius just wants some time before he’s dragged back to mind his grandfather’s temper—but a truck in the wrong place in the yard and a servant with all the time in the world stand between him and the terrace lights. Rook won’t hurry, and he won’t stop talking, needling at the cracks in Darius’s carefully kept composure: his grandfather’s cruelty, his own uncertain place in the family, the truth he’s never said out loud.
4. In The Yard
For the first time that day the drive happened in peace. It was only the short bit from the front of the house round to the back. The gravel crunched under the tyres. Darius enjoyed the slow silence with just the rumble of the engine for a moment.
Passing by he caught the south terrace lighting up — servants moving low tables into place, someone unrolling a strip of white cloth that caught the last of the sun. They were setting up for dinner. This was for the children. He hoped he got there in time to enjoy some of it. But after he had parked the car in the old stableyard he would have to go get his grandfather ready and then settled at the adult dinner first. And he could not predict how long that might take.
By the time that was done the terrace would already be empty dishes and crumbs. He pulled round to the yard at the stables his hands stiff as they clutched sweatily onto the wheel. His mood was now much simpler, splendidly foul.
The entry to the stableyard was blocked by the truck. The driver had also brought it round the back and then left it in the way.
Why it had not left the property completely after unloading was a mystery. It was that Ferran Buhl and the way he just did things without consultation. Probably gave Hass the instruction who then of course messed it up. Now there was a bloody truck in the way.
“Oh, for—” He yanked up the handbrake, shoved the door open, and stalked round the truck. Heat radiated from the bonnet and he walked through a waft of hot metal and oil.
The stableyard was filled with all the vehicles the other families had arrived in. Half a dozen expensive cars including his own father’s modest saloon. Sabina always hated being seen in it. At least he was spared her whining about it—small mercy. Driving Oswin here, that was the harder one. But she would never know.
A driver was busy parking the estate car the Buhl family had arrived in. Ferran had driven that himself but he wouldn’t be here parking it now, would he?
The car’s engine idled steadily, drowning out any other noise. Darius walked round to see who the driver was.
It was Rook, the man who worked for the Buhl family as some kind of general assistant. He wasn’t exactly a family butler but he was certainly trusted more than other servants. Darius didn’t think that they had anybody they trusted as much. Oswin didn’t even trust his own son.
The estate car was half into its space, Rook getting it in with an unhurried little correction of the wheel, checking his mirror like there was all the time left in the world and he intended to use every second of it. Darius didn’t. He had to get back upstairs.
Rook noticed Darius and gave a small wave before he reversed further.
Darius called out. “Move the truck, can you? I need to get in here.”
It seemed Rook did not hear him the first time and Darius walked closer, slowly, to keep pace with the car. The same way he had to clip his stride to keep up with Oswin.
“You’ve blocked—” he said, too loud for even himself. “You left it… the truck back there is in the way. I need to park my car.”
Rook didn’t hurry the estate car in any faster. He finished the line he was on, cut the engine, and only then looked over, and up at Darius, taking his time about that too.
“I’ll get to it just now,” he said.
“I don’t have time to hang around and wait for you. I have… there are other things I must do.”
“That’s a heavy thing you’re carrying on your face,” Rook said, “for someone your age.”
“It’s nothing.” Darius waved a hand like he was clearing smoke.
“You seem to carry a lot more responsibility than you need to, young man. You arrived with that cloud already on your shoulders earlier.”
What was that, young man? A polite way of saying boy?
“What about?”
“Your grandfather, he is not an easy man, is he?”
Darius did not want to think about it. Every thought was coupled to a task he had to do. If somebody really knew what he had to put up with…
“He was just tired. The drive was long and he… when his foot gets sore then he… Puts him in a mood.”
Even as it left his mouth it sounded thin to him. And why was he explaining himself to a servant? And even more so to somebody who worked for Ferran Buhl.
Rook finished parking the estate car and got out. He did not walk straight to the truck but stopped by Darius.
“Age has a nasty way of hardening lines. I have seen many old men get to be a certain way about contracts and agreements. And I’ve been around long enough to have heard how your grandfather talks about the way things are. Funny thing about that—they don’t always add up the same for whoever’s on the other side.”
Darius could not look at Rook.
“That is not right,” he said. “My grandfather keeps a very clear picture of everything in his head.”
It’s a lie, because he’s heard exactly how his grandfather talks about the others.
His grandfather’s own line came to him — know what secrets there are, and which ones to keep, and which ones to spend — and it struck him, standing there, that he was talking to a man who by rights shouldn’t know anything worth knowing.
He tried again, more honestly.
“That’s… no. That’s got… Just move the truck.”
Rook shrugged like it made no difference to him either way, and ambled over to the truck. He got the door half open before he stopped and looked back.
“You sitting in on any of the negotiations yourself, this year? You are the same age as young Hass, are you not?”
Darius was older by about half a year. The children all knew their order. It was a game they played some years ago.
“No, no I won’t.”
“So how do you spend your time up here, then. Still off with the other young ones?”
Darius looked towards the south terrace as if he could look through the house. And there it was again, the terrace, the lamps, the chatter and laughter—he looked away.
“I look after my grandfather,” he said. “It takes up a lot of time.”
He glanced at the house again. Time was going, and his grandfather would want him ready soon.
“You like doing that?” asked Rook.
“Like…? Enough of this. Just move the truck.”
Rook started the truck and again, very slowly and carefully, manoeuvred it across the yard to park it next to the estate car. With the same unhurried crawl he eased it in beside the estate car. The smell of exhaust filled the yard. The bigger engine echoed back from the surrounding walls, filling the air.
Darius stood there fuming, and lost track, somewhere in the waiting, of exactly who he was fuming at. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, his mouth dry from the dust.
The truck settled. Rook cut the engine and sat a moment before climbing down, like the job wasn’t done until it was done right. He got out, took his bag from the bed, and walked over.
The yard was clear now but Darius just stood there.
Rook stopped beside him.
“Backed trucks and boats and worse into tighter spots than this one,” Rook said, almost to himself. “There’s a trick to it. Fellas who worry about looking clumsy — they end up stuck, scared to commit to the turn.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Have you ever thought about what is the one true thing about your family? You ought to work out, one of these days, what you actually think it is. And say it. Even if it costs you your seat at the table.”
“Maybe if you could say that out loud, even if it seems nobody wants to hear it?” Rook shouldered his bag. “Better to have parked it wrong and know exactly where the walls are, than spend time idling in the yard, hoping somebody waves you in.”
Rook didn’t wait for an answer. He walked off toward the house, and left Darius standing there with the car keys in his hand.
Darius kicked at the gravel, watching the dust settle on the tip of his shoe. Rook just talked to keep his mouth busy, nothing more than that.
Darius got back in the car and pulled across the yard, and when he put it in reverse to line up alongside the estate car, the clutch slipped and the engine stalled. Rook’s voice came back to him — scared to commit to the turn — and he shoved it out of his head, restarted the car, and slammed the gear lever into reverse with a metallic grind. The car moved with a hard jolt, gravel spraying up from under the wheels.
The car sped back alongside the estate car. Somewhere behind him glass gave way with a short, brittle crack.
“Curses—”
He hauled the car forward, straightened it, and gently eased it back in slow and careful, inch by inch, the way he should have the first time.
He climbed out and walked round to look. A dented corner on his own car, a broken light on the Buhls’ estate car, glass scattered on the gravel. He ran his hand over the fender, estimating the depth of the damage.
“Great job there, Dari,” he muttered.
He stood up stiffly and looked up at the house. There was no movement, the curtains hanging limp in the windows. He was alone back here.
Darius locked the car and walked back to the house. Someone would find the car later. Someone would ask. He’d say… Rook had been the last one back here, hadn’t he?
© Gerhi Janse van Vuuren