Bruar's Rest

chill of winter winds. They regarded this as a godsend. But this was only while work was available. More often they made do with a bracken-stuffed mattress and rough tent for cover, little else. Life hardened the young men. Sometimes they’d seek out their father from some flea-ridden den and drag him home semi-conscious, simply to add body warmth to a midwinter bed. Otherwise they might have forgotten his existence, rolled up their bundles and headed north.
    If Helen could have foreseen the way her brother would drag the boys from place to place without so much as a thought to their wellbeing, she’d surely have murdered and buried him deep in bogs of peat.

     
    In the areas of thick forest around remote glens in Angus, by moorlands teeming with grouse overlooked by snow-capped mountains they found enough work to sustain them for several months. For many years past Rory had camped there; being sober at the time he lingered for a peaceful summer, but did not stay for winter. Now he had brought his family into its bosom, severe and harsh, at the coldest time of year. If it were not for the rows of dense conifer trees and a high stone dyke circling their campsite, nature’s ferocity would have taken no prisoners.
    Rory was curled up in the darkest corner of the tent, growling at the snowstorm ravaging through the glen. He’d found a drinking buddy by the name of O’Connor, a big Irish tinker wandering through the area, and had asked him to pitch his tent next to theirs. Both men had earlier drained a bottle of potcheen distilled by the Irishman out of devil knows what. They’d planned to visit Kirriemor, the nearest town. Down there was a drinking den where local men, ploughmen of the land, gathered, and some others—low women, the kind O’Connor desired. The local men were notorious both for their hard working and their drinking. The women, wild and without scruples, filled their beds; there were more than enough reasons for the nomadic men to linger.
    ‘Curse that blasted snow,’ bellowed Rory. ‘Is there no food? I’m at death’s door with the hunger!’
    Bruar answered, ‘I’ll skin a rabbit in the morning, but for now shut your mouth, father, and give us all peace.’
    From a boiling kettle Jimmy poured his father some tea, which was gratefully accepted. ‘Thanks, my boy, you’re a fine son, not like that bugger there who spits on his own father.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘You deserve all you get, craving drink; no wonder Bruar scolds you.’
    ‘You remind me of your mother—a gentle-spirited angel, never raised her voice, not once. But him,’ he stared at Bruar, ‘too much of me, that’s your problem.’
    ‘Heaven help me then, eh Jimmy?’ Both boys smiled at the comment as each strained their eyes, trying to play a card game around a flickering candle to while away the storm, ignoring Rory’s simmering disgust at the dreary, storm-filled night.

     
    As the hours ran by the storm intensified. Rory, wide awake and cold sober, called to O’Connor. ‘Hey, in the next tent, how do you fare?’
    His neighbour, obviously unable to sleep for fear of his tent taking off into the snow-heavy sky, called back, ‘Well now, I have never felt such a force of wind in all me life. May the Holy Mother keep a watch on any poor soul out in this, they’ll be stone dead if they’re not sheltered, to be sure. The ground will be well buried when that stops, and we’ll see a few lean days in its wake.’ The Irishman muttered on incoherently, and in time fell silent. Rory called out to ask him if he wanted to join them in their tent, in case the howling wind stole his.
    Silence followed. This bothered Rory, so he moved clumsily past Bruar’s feet to get closer to his neighbour’s canvas home; his son shoved him back. ‘God, man, can’t you go to sleep? Leave him where he is, there’s enough rank smells in here already. O’Connor’s fine.’
    ‘Mind your tongue, boy, I’m still your father and I’ll have a bit of respect. Are you alright, man?’
    There was something wrong, because if anything the Irishman was renowned for his runaway mouth. His voice was usually a match for the best of storms, but now not a murmur came from his abode. Rory raised his voice, but still nothing.
    ‘Maybe he’s swallowed his Irish tongue,’ Jimmy joked.
    Bruar laughed loudly and said, ‘With a bit of luck, eh, brother?’
    ‘I swear you two buggers have no shame. Now get out of my way, I’ll have to see if