The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (life changing books txt) 📕

long that the man with the bobble hat had turned away, taking a sip of tea from a flask. Then the slow brother replied.

“Yes,” he said simply, “I do it every year.”

“It’s my first time. Something to do really, keeping busy. I’ve been widowed … and have just lost my job. I was a sales adviser. Replaced by twelve-year-olds. So, I thought I’d get out and about. Fucking kids.”

The slow brother did not reply. Just turned his head away, towards the row of trees that they’d be cutting down.

He glanced over at his brother, who had his back to him and was talking to one of the other men about something or other.

He then went to say something, but, at the moment, his brother shouted, “Let’s go” and, as everyone rose to their feet, muttering and swearing and swallowing their final mouthfuls of food and drink, the words he said were lost.

The man with the red bobble hat picked up his axe and walked towards the row of trees.

As he did so, he turned back and smiled at the slow brother.

He got to his feet, lifted his axe, feeling the weight of it in his hands, and followed the man step by step.

* * *

The elderly, bird-like woman, stirring a saucepan full of soup on the ancient Aga oven, looked at the two brothers, her sons, sitting at the table in the kitchen of the farmhouse.

Hats and coats off, hanging by the door, boots left to the side, hands washed. They sat waiting, the smart brother tense and edgy, trying not to show it, the slow brother seemingly distracted, lost in thought.

Even now, at their busiest time of year, they still came in and sat down and ate at lunchtime. Had done, at one o’clock every day, for as long as any of them could remember. Since Father was, well, for many years now. Thirty or so.

She gestured the slow brother over, indicating he should lift the saucepan and pour the soup into the three bowls she had placed on the table, spoons to the side of each. She had put slices of white processed bread, spread thick with margarine and cut clumsily in half, on a plate in the middle of the table.

She eased herself down carefully, through aches and pains, onto her chair and watched as the slow brother fetched the saucepan.

He poured soup first into the mother’s bowl, then the smart brother’s and, finally, what was left, splashed into his own.

She bent her head forward, clasping her hands together, saying grace through cough and spittle. The two brothers echoed her final amen.

“This is the coldest day so far this year … my bones hurt,” said the elderly woman, her voice rasping. She rubbed her arms as best she could and then pulled her worn and faded cardigan across her chest. “And the cold, it gets to me. I hate these winter months. They’ll be the death of me, you wait and see. I’ll be gone by the spring.”

The two brothers exchanged looks as they sipped at their soup. The smart brother shook his head – say nothing – as he reached for a piece of bread and pushed it slowly, folding it over, into his mouth.

She went on, between measured, almost painful sips, addressing what she thought the slow brother was about to say. “I keep telling you … I’m not going into a home … I’m not going into that care home.”

“It was a nice home, Mother,” the smart brother said reasonably.

“They had cakes there,” the slow brother added. “You could have home-made cakes for tea every day.” He raised his hand, counting them off, finger by finger. “Fairy cakes and sponge cakes and …”

“What do you think I am, a child?” the elderly woman answered sharply. “What do I want with home-made cakes at my time of life. I’m eighty-four, not four.”

“I just thought, Mother …”

“Don’t. You don’t think. You do what you’re told … I’m not well. How many times have I told you? I ache all over all the time.” She lurched forward unexpectedly. “But there’s nothing wrong with my mind.” She tapped the side of her head. “I’m still sharp up here. And I’m watching. Both of you. I know what’s going on.”

The smart brother rested his spoon by his bowl. “Nothing’s going on, Mother; we’re just cutting the trees, same as we always do. We’ve got the men in from the villages to help and …”

“I’m not talking about the trees. I’m not stupid. I know what you’re doing. The two of you.” She paused and went on, her voice rising and cracking, “I know.”

The slow brother looked flustered, dropping his spoon into his bowl. He did not seem to notice the soup spattering up onto his hand. Head down, he looked up slowly. “We are not doing anything wrong, mother. We are your best boys.”

She spoke sharply between sips of soup. “You make sure you are … both of you … because I’m watching you … to make sure … You can’t fool me … I’m not green, you know.” She pulled at her eye. “See, no green there.”

The three of them fell silent, working their way through the soup and eating the bread.

The elderly woman looking at them one after the other, tutting to herself.

The slow brother looking up nervously at each tut and then, as if expecting him to do something, at the smart brother.

“What’s the matter with you, Sonky?” snapped the elderly woman suddenly, using an old-fashioned word for stupid. The name she often used for her slow son.

“I am not stupid, Mother, do not say that. Please. I am a good boy.”

“Don’t call him stupid, Mother,” echoed the smart brother. “He does his best.”

“Sonky and Chopsy. That’s what the two of you are, always were. A simpleton and Mr Clever Dick with the gift of the gab. Neither of you are worth that much.” She raised her bony hand slowly and rubbed her thumb and forefinger