ch1 of The Geode (@sfth-improvised-fic !!), with @smiling-yucca and @the-mysterious-cube :D
The tiny box of a car rattled down the motorway. A motorway that expanded endlessly before them, always ongoing, never to end. At least in Chip’s eyes, which he had made incredibly clear over the last 2 hours.
“Can you see the hills from ’ere?”
“There’s your answer, then!” The man in the passenger seat turned, grinning, to look into the back.
“No, but I would be able to if you hadn’t gotten us lost four times! You’d think by the third you’d’ve figured out how to read a map!”
“Excusez moi, it was your dad’s idea to put the foreigner on directions.”
“Don’t drag me into this too,” Cliff took his eyes off the road to shoot them both a look of mock-sterness in the rearview. He raised his brows before continuing, “this doesn’t have to be a family trip, you know. I’m quite happy to drop you two off here and go to the Science Hub by myself.”
Gasps of horror. “But what about the cool rocks?!”
“And I’d have to go to the museum alone too. Cancel those other tickets and see the dinosaur models without you. What a shame.”
“Non, ’e doesn’t have the strength. Too big of a softie.”
“I’m very cold and heartless, thank you,” he retorted, failing to stifle a smile.
The Spirit Of Somerset was an apt name for a hotel this maximalist, Cliff decided. His surroundings could only be described as orderly chaos. It certainly did have a lot of spirit.
The entryway immediately opened out into a living room of sorts. Mismatched armchairs and stools sat in a vague circle in front of a treasure trove of a bookshelf, haphazardly stacked with newspapers, farming guides, kids books, the occasional Sherlock Holmes mystery.
Warm but dim lamps lit the room from a dozen different locations, the only other light coming from the stained glass windows, cascading down onto the wooden floors, turning them kaleidoscopic when the sun shone just right. The chandelier overhead looked like it hadn’t been used in years, bulbs broken and unreplaced.
Orange-brown walls were overflowing with frames, mirrors, trophies and medals, posters of films he’d loved as a kid and films he’d never seen -- a considerable number of which seemed to be about a little girl and her fishbowl.
A string of fairy lights drew his eye across and towards the hotel’s reception area, where a heavy oak credenza had been adopted into a desk, the top littered with paperwork and plant pots and figurines of those same film characters. The one of the squid man stood with a handful of dice atop the computer unit.
The person behind the front desk was just as kindly-looking as her surroundings, despite the formality of her red-trim black polo and long black skirt. Her hair fell in frizzy, dark brown waves down to her waist. Her smile was toothy and showed a dimple on her right side. She wore mismatched earrings, a silver star and … was that a beetroot? She waved them over.
“Uh, it should be under Bradley.”
Her eyes scanned the computer as she spun the scroll wheel. “Ah, Cliff! In town fer the tater stones, right?”
“Aye! I’m writing a…” He paused. “How’d you know?”
“‘Ere at The Spirit we know all yer deepest secrets.” She chuckled at the customers’ wide eyes, “Nah mate, I work o’er at the Science Hub too -- hotel’s just a family business. Isla Willoughby, nice to meet ya.”
Chip turned from where he had been gazing at the wall of photos and plaques.
“Justin,” he pointed at an ornate wooden panel in the middle, engraved with names and dates, “was he your father?”
“Grandfather. Blimey, I mus’ be agin’ awfully!” She stuck her tongue out as he grinned at her. “Yeah, ’e set up this place back in the 60s. Wanted someplace fer folks to call home after the fire, or somethin’. Was a pretty good bloke…”
She trailed off to duck behind the counter, reappearing with a set of keys.
“Room 16. Jus’ upstairs, on the right, furthes’ down the end. I trus’ you’ll find it between yers!”
“Merci, thank you!” Pierre accepted them before hurrying after Chip, who was marching toward the spiral staircase like a man on a mission.
“Thanks fer stayin’ with us,” she called after them. Cliff huffed out a quiet laugh. “Well, Mister Bradley, I’ll be seein’ you t’morrow! You’re bringin’ them along too, I ’ope?”
“Please, Cliff is fine!” He glanced down, exasperated but smiling, to where he’d been left with all three suitcases. “And, I mean, Pierre’s probably a better geologist than myself, and my kid is … enthusiastic. So I certainly can, as long as you’re prepared for mayhem.”
“Absolutely. The Hub ’as faced much worse than two troublemakers fueled by coffee an’ orange juice, respectively. You want ’elp with them there bags?”
“I’ll manage,” he laughed. “Lovely meeting you!”
“Ar, likewise. Enjoy yer stay!”
Cliff opened door 16 to find his son sitting cross-legged on the twin bed, flicking through channels on an ancient CRT TV, and flopped down to lie next to him.
Pierre had run back down to help him with the bags, but it was still a fight to get them through the winding corridors, decorated to oblivion, mirrors and windows galore. Their room, both unfortunately and thankfully, was much simpler -- a grey-green paint occupied the walls and ceiling, split by dark wooden beams and a lily-shaped lightshade. The floors were carpeted and the bedsheets a soft off-white. The main point of interest was a small balcony on the far wall, looking over the hills and levels, which Pierre stepped out onto.
The TV was quickly proven a bust, considering every network seemed to be broadcasting different recordings of the same show, in which a man was growing vegetables live, commentating in an accent so incomprehensible that the father and son were actively forgetting how to farm. So, Chip, dino-print pyjamas under one arm and toothbrush under the other, set off to the bathroom, while Cliff joined Pierre at the balcony door.
The sun was sinking lazily behind the landscape, a smattering of stars just visible as the day died. They watched it go, leaning on the railing, a comfortable silence between them.
Pierre took a step closer.
The faint outline of a crescent moon was beginning to show through the thinning clouds.
He laced his fingers through the other’s.
As the light fell lower the sky turned a delicate pink, looking perfectly at home above the sprawling green fields. A green he adored, would recognise anywhere.
Pierre turned Cliff to face him with perhaps too much force, each wrapping the other in their arms to save from toppling over, giggling as they found themselves almost bumping noses. He pressed their foreheads together as he gazed into those deep, tsavorite eyes, soft in the gentle glow of dusk, and beamed.
“This place is nice,” was all he could muster. Cliff let out an amused hum as his face, too, creased up in smile.
They turned back to look out over the hills.
“...Are you two quite finished? I need the toothpaste.”
