Bruar's Rest

powerful as that of the most loving mother into those youngsters as if they were her own. They were known for miles around as her little orphans. The fisherfolk had said that with his wild temper, surely Rory would have met his match and would now be dead; that father of theirs, who took the eye from the Seer.
    No words were exchanged as she walked stiffly into the house; he followed at a safe distance, shutting the door at his back. Her inner fury reeled her round to face him, she met his eyes from a vortex of anger, her emotional state deepened with disgust and fear. He was subdued, exhausted and ashamed. After a long pause, she asked coldly and straight to the point, ‘You come for the boys, Rory?’
    ‘I do, sister,’ he muttered, as he laid a bag next to the bread-board on the kitchen table. ‘There is money—enough for the years of feeding you done. If you pack their clothes, we’ll be away.’
    A rage swelled in her beating breast, she gathered the money bag in her hand and threw the meagre offering off her table. ‘You saunter back into their lives, all this time not a word, nothing to say one way or other if you’re dead or alive, nothing!’ Her fury rose as she fumbled for a heavy iron pot that sat, half-filled with boiling water on the stove. Holding it level with his face she hissed through the cloud of steam, ‘Those boys are better off without knowing their drunkard father. Now get the hell out of here, and don’t bother coming back.’
    He showed no fear, leaned down to retrieve the bag and said, ‘Look, sister a lot of flowing water has passed below the bridge since those days when I’d spend hard-earned peat money on drink, but since my lassie died I’ve changed. I’ve been working every hour, how do you think I made this?’
    ‘For all I know, you battered some poor soul and stole it. But it’s not about money. It’s about Jimmy’s first wobbling steps, his little mouth never able to say the words mama or dada. His first words were “dog” and “cat” and “Bubs” for Bruar. And as for me—’ she put down the pot and rubbed away tears flowing over her thin face: ‘My name was “Hell”. Me with my Bible being called that—do you know how much laughter that brought to this house? Oh no, how could you. You were away some place wallowing in self pity. Always about you, wasn’t it, Rory? All about my big useless brother.’
    He made a futile attempt to hold and comfort her, but his hands were pushed aside as she went on, ‘and then the sickness that would worry me onto my knees and make me pray through the fever, nights and nights with my sweet little sons—they are not yours, they are mine! Now get out, get out!’
    It was then he saw the full pain his sister had endured; what he’d put her through. He slumped down on his knees on the stone floor, his arms clumsily circled her thin frame. ‘Forgive me, Helen, I never meant you hurt. Please see it in your heart to understand.’
    She quickly composed herself and took his hands away. She brushed back and then ran trembling fingers through the loose hair that had escaped from a cotton hair band. ‘Where did that scar on your face come from then?’ she asked, calmer yet still filled with hurt and anger.
    Before he could answer, Bruar, followed by his brother, came panting into the house. When he saw the stranger he ran across and held her hand. ‘Is this big man bothering you, auntie?’ he asked.
    ‘Och, not at all, son.’ She gathered him into her arms and squeezed the youngster tightly.
    In her quiet way she was never one to frill an explanation with unnecessary words, so rather than waste time, she brought the boys around her aproned knees. ‘Bruar, Jimmy,’ she fidgeted with their collars, running her hands over their shoulders, flicking dead grass from their tousled hair, took a long pause, then said quickly, ‘this is your father! He’s come back for you, and thinks nothing of taking you from me.’
    For a minute of uncomfortable silence the boys looked from Helen to Rory, children trying to make sense of the awkward situation.
    Rory sat down heavily in a tattered, cushioned armchair, taking warmth from the welcome fire. He studied Bruar’s face, searching it in the hope that he might remember him from that last night when his mother died. Such traumatic events—surely something had left its mark in his mind. ‘Son, I know you were only three, but do you have no memory of me?’
    Bruar said nothing and