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

“Do not say that, Mother, do not say that. It is not true.”

“Not true?” She stopped as she finished her soup and reached for the last remaining piece of bread. “You should be in a home, Sonky. With your Jack and Jill reading books. And your twitching and grunting and forever fiddling with yourself. We’ll put you away soon enough the way you’re going. Lock you up in the madhouse … and we’ll throw away the key.”

The slow brother reared up, knocking his chair over in his clumsiness. “Do not say that, Mother, do not say that.”

He turned to go. But then stopped, uncertain what to do, as he saw his smart brother sitting there, unmoving.

“Sit down, Sonky,” she hissed at him. “Sonky wonky, the old man’s donkey.” She made a braying noise and then laughed, spittle on her lips.

He sat back down, angry and resentful, head bowed.

The smart brother took a last mouthful of soup. Placed his spoon carefully in his bowl. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Went to get up.

The old woman turned towards him.

He hesitated and then paused, waiting for her final words.

“You two remember. This is my home. Mine. Not yours. I say what happens and when.” She coughed suddenly, struggling to clear her throat of phlegm. For a moment, it seemed as though she might choke. They waited patiently until she went on.

“And nothing happens here that I don’t know about. As God’s my witness. Nothing, do you hear? Nothing. I’m watching you … every minute, every day … now go on, get out of here.”

The two brothers rose, both taking their bowls and spoons to the kitchen sink.

Then walking back to kiss, one after the other, her proffered cheek.

And to the door to put on hats, coats and boots, one brother subdued, the other angry.

* * *

“I am not stupid, am I? Say I am not stupid.” The slow brother strode back towards the other men sitting waiting for them by the rows of Christmas trees.

The smart brother shook his head, saying words he’d said, one way or the other, many times before. “You’re not stupid. Mother’s not feeling well, that’s all. She loves you, really.”

“She loves us both.”

“Yes, both of us. And she looks after us and …”

“… we look after her.”

“That’s the way it always has been …”

“… and that is the way it always will be.”

The slow brother dropped back to walk alongside the smart brother and then, as they approached the waiting men, he whispered quietly, anxiously, “I will not have to go into a home, will I? Say you will not lock me away. Say it.”

The smart brother stopped and looked his brother in the eye.

“As long as I’m here, as long as I live, I promise that you won’t have to go into a home. I give you my solemn promise.”

The slow brother nodded and smiled back, shy and lop-sided.

“Cross your heart?”

“And hope to die.”

The slow brother smiled again and then thought of his next question.

“Can I choose the next row of trees?”

“The best row of trees?”

“The biggest and best trees for Christmas.”

The two brothers looked at each other and smiled.

They continued walking, but then, as they reached the men, the slow brother stopped smiling and a troubled look spread across his face. He was silent.

“Okay, listen up.” The smart brother stood by the men and raised his hands. “I want you … you … you … and you, yes you, big lad … to join me to finish this row of trees …”

“… and you, Where’s Wally …” He pointed at the man in the red bobble hat. “I want you to go with my brother up to the … my brother will show you where, to start preparing … he’ll choose the next batch of trees, and then you’ll clear the path and come back here and help us when you’re finished. Okay?”

The man with the bobble hat nodded, throwing his holdall over his shoulder, picking up his axe and walking towards the slow brother, smiling.

The slow brother turned to the smart brother, a look of something close to panic on his face.

The smart brother did not seem to notice as he turned, moving towards the remaining men, shepherding them to trees they’d been working on all morning.

After a moment, as the man in the bobble hat stood smiling and the slow brother stared at the ground, the smart brother clapped his hands towards them. “Come on, come on, lots to do before the sun sets.” His father’s old phrase.

The slow brother reached for his axe and turned and started walking.

The man with the bobble hat followed him. “Hold on, hold on … not so fast.”

The slow brother ignored him and just carried on walking alongside row upon row of trees. On and on he went.

Then he stopped suddenly at a row of trees, seemingly at random. Turned again and walked along them, looking up and looking down, touching a tree here and there with the head of his axe, almost half-heartedly as if lost in thought.

The man with the bobble hat followed him, bemused, trying to keep up, wanting to ask questions, what are you doing, why this row, what do we have to do? But the slow brother kept going and did not stop and did not turn round at all. It was as if he had forgotten that the man in the bobble hat was there.

At last, at the end of the row, they stopped, and the slow brother glanced at the man with the hat and then looked down as he spoke. “You do not like children.” Half-statement, half-question, or so it sounded.

The man with the hat laughed uncertainly. An odd question. “Me? Yes, I like children. I’ve got two of them, boy and girl, ten and eight. They look so alike, people think they’re twins.”

The slow brother looked up. “People always thought we were twins. My brother and me. We look alike.”

“Yes, yes, I noticed you looked