He forgave me immediately. Almost immediately.
At first he looked at the broken bottle on the pavement, then he looked at me. I was also staring down at the smashed glass and the beautiful purple liquid and saying "sorry" repeatedly. Maybe enough "sorrys" would reel everything back in.
"Sorry Patrick. Sorry. It slipped."
I knew he wouldn't hit me. He never had. But I also knew that I had just confirmed his view of me. I stood there saying nothing as he searched in his pockets and pulled out a handful of change. He counted out the money he had left and then said in a still voice; "We can afford another bottle. Not the best stuff this time, but we'll be able to get another bottle."
We walked back down the hill towards Harold's Hardware store. Not another word was said. I always loved the smell of the hardware store. It smelt of oil and grease, shiny metal, shammy, dust and the brilliantine that Harold used. But now all my efforts were concentrated on not crying.
"Hello again boys," said Harold, slightly quizzically.
"Hello," said Patrick, who was already taller than the shopkeeper, "I'd like another bottle of turpentine please."
"Well that was quick," Harold laughed.
Patrick only said: "The cheaper, clear stuff this time, please."
"Okeedoke." Harold wasn't someone to question a sale.
Patrick didn't let me carry the second bottle on the way home. He hugged it carefully himself. I'm not sure he ever let me carry anything for him again. He forgave me, but never changed his opinion of me.
I don't believe I ever really forgave myself though. It was my big chance to show my big brother that I could be trusted and that we could do things together; paint Airfix models, play football, chat, laugh, hug, that sort of thing.
Sometimes when you break the good stuff you can't buy it back.
Earlier on Huff/Post50: