Crossed arrows with hanging feathers

I found the pair of arrows in the drawer under the mangle, wrapped in your old Sunday shirt, the one Mam said you'd never grow out of. The shafts are still straight. Someone has glued fresh grey goose feathers onto the fletching, three to each, and they hang down like washing on a line. I suppose that was me, back in the spring when the colliery whistle stopped and I had nothing to do with my hands.

You'll remember the crossed arrows were the prize at the Shaftsbury butts every August, the year the Hardwick lads beat us by a single ring. Dad cut the ash from the top field and made them himself. You said the feathers were a waste of good wing, and we fought over it on the bridge until the rain came in.

I went down to the butts on Tuesday. Old Fenwick is still there with his flask and his gammy knee, and he asked after you. I told him you were in Leeds, which is true enough, and he said that was a long way to go for a bit of quiet. He poured me a cup of tea and handed me a shot. My arrow landed two inches from the gold, which would have made you laugh.

Come home for the August shoot. Bring your bow if you still have it, and I'll bring the crossed pair. We can see whose feathers hold the wind. Mam would want us both at the table, and I would rather lose to you than win on my own.

Your brother, Ned