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

like the man with the hat and what he did with these children behind closed doors.

And he thought, maybe, that he loved these pretty children. That he would like to look after them and care for them. If only this horrible man, a nasty man just like Father, wasn’t around any more.

The slow brother felt the gun in his pocket.

Rallied himself, at what he knew he had to do. And be. A super-hero.

And he followed the four of them up into the trees.

* * *

They had a nice time among the trees, the children, running back and forth, excited.

Stopping to look at one tree. This one! And then another. No, this one – it’s bigger!

The man with the bobble hat smiling to himself and the two brothers standing there awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. Both of them so unfamiliar with children.

“It’s …” the man in the hat started to talk and then stopped, suddenly emotional. He gathered his thoughts. “It’s so nice to see them happy. They’ve had a tough old time since their mum died. It’s not been easy.”

The smart brother nodded his agreement, not sure how to answer.

The slow brother looked at the man in the hat, a still, almost resentful look.

The man did not notice, his eyes transfixed on his children.

At last, after a squabble and some shoving and some words muttered under their breath to each other, the two children had made their choice. Almost. This tree or that tree, they could not decide.

The two trees, next to each other. Almost identical to an inexperienced eye.

The smart brother moving in to suggest a choice. He ummed and aahed, looking them up and down, pretending to measure the height and spread of the branches with his hands.

This one, he said finally, look at the shape, it’s perfect, that’s the best one. Well picked, children. Well picked!

A sulky face from the girl, soon transformed as the man with the hat invited her to be the first to twist her ribbon around the branch closest to them. Then the boy’s, at the same height, not a centimetre higher, not a centimetre lower, on the branch next to hers.

“Shake hands, children,” the man in the hat said. They moved towards each other and hugged reluctantly.

“Stand by the tree, I’ll take a photo.”

And he did, the two brothers quietly at the side.

And then the man with the hat, standing there with the phone in his hand, smiling, gestured for the two brothers to join in. One to one side. One to the other. The children in between. They shook their heads, no not us, and the slow brother turned away, covering the damaged part of his face with his hand.

But the man with the hat, jolly, laughing now, persisted. No, no, you must. A memento. A souvenir of the first Christmas tree cut by my own hand. A pause. Then, with further encouragement, the two brothers moved slowly into the photo.

Come on, guys! One this side, one that! And so they moved into position and smiled as the man with the hat took his photo. The smart brother looking straight at the phone, a slight smile on his lips. The slow brother, instinctively, turned to the side to mask the burned part of his face.

And then the man checked his phone, zoomed in on the children’s faces, declared himself happy and that it was time to go.

They walked, the three men, back down through the trees, to the path and to the long driveway, the children hopping and skipping about in front of them.

Like baby rabbits, thought the slow brother to himself. He felt again the gun in his pocket. The sudden surge of anger towards the man in the hat. What he would like to do. What he was going to do. When he got the chance. He would save these children and love them himself.

“Well,” said the man in the hat as they got to the car. “Thank you.” He shook the smart brother’s hand. “Children, what do you say?”

“Thank you,” said the little girl.

“Thank you,” echoed the little boy.

The man in the hat opened the car door for the children to climb in. “I’m not sure why we drove here, we could have walked it, really. We’re only just over there.”

“You’re welcome,” the smart brother said, not sure what else to say. He was not good at small talk. The other man didn’t seem to be either.

The man in the hat went to say goodbye to the slow brother, but saw that he had already turned and walked away into the farmhouse, the door shutting quietly behind him.

“I … say thank you to your brother for me … for us.”

“He’s …” The smart brother stopped, not sure what to say.

“I know,” he paused and went on carefully. “When I was young, I had an aunt who had, they call it Down’s syndrome these days. She wasn’t quite … she was nice, lovely, really, but, well, I understand anyway. It must be hard for you.”

The smart brother nodded, not wanting to say any more. That it wasn’t that. Down’s syndrome. Nothing like it at all.

“I’ll see you Monday, first thing?”

The smart brother nodded again, offering a handshake.

Then smiled at the children and turned and made his way back into the farmhouse, where he stopped and gave one final wave as the man drove away.

“That was rude,” the smart brother said to the slow brother as he walked across the kitchen to pick up a kettle.

“He is a bad man, a very bad man. He hurts children.”

“Keep your voice down, you’ll wake Mother. Is she still napping?”

The slow brother nodded, watching as the smart brother filled the kettle and clicked a switch for it to boil.

They both stood, neither speaking, as the kettle heated the water.

The smart brother flicked the switch off as the kettle started to make its wailing noise. Reached for mugs, milk from the fridge, sugar from the side.

“He doesn’t seem like a bad man