Bruar's Rest Read Online Free PDF

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 turned his back. Apart from one or two fishermen handing in a basket of herring now and then, men seldom sat in that chair. His aunt had a rule about allowing them into her house; men were strictly doorstep visitors. Yet there he was, sitting in that chair as if he knew it was her knitting chair and not used unless she allowed it.
    Helen’s legs began to shake. Overcome by events she sat upon a wooden chair. The boys, like pint-sized soldiers, took up position like sentries at each side. Jimmy held her hand while Bruar draped an arm, sleeve rolled up like a real working man, around her shoulder to assure her that he was the man of the house. Oh yes, many times he had thought that if father should dare to show his face, he’d have plenty to say. Yet as he examined this stranger’s appearance, his watery blue eyes and square, broad shoulders, he felt drawn to him in a way he could not explain.
    As he looked from his aunt to the stranger he found a change on her face never before seen. Her jaw was firm, blue eyes staring and filled with fire. She was holding a handkerchief between her hands and tying it into knots. He’d heard her muttering many times under her breath, when he and Jimmy got too much for her: ‘God help me, I love the two o’ you, but I hate that big useless father of yours for leaving me this burden.’ Yes, there wasn’t another man who could cause that expression, so through clenched teeth he said, ‘He’s back then.’
    Rory smiled, and could not stop the lone tear that escaped and ran over his cheek. He pushed out a shabbily dressed arm and touched his eldest son on the shoulder. He so wanted to hold him; to kiss that young red cheek, so vibrant and fresh. But no words came forth, a lump of emotion blocked up his throat like a hard lump of solid oak. He turned to his younger son and whispered instead, ‘James is a good name, lad, that was our father’s name. I’m pleased you have it. It’s better than Abraham or Jeremiah.’
    The boys gazed at each other bewildered by the remark, but it brought a thin, wry smile to Helen’s stern face. She remembered how as a child she had named new lambs born to a neighbour’s ewes after biblical characters, and was for a moment touched by her brother’s memories of days when they were closer.
    For a moment silence in the low-roofed cottage thickened as no one uttered a word. Rory patted an old black collie dog lying curled in a ball at his feet.
    There was a power of explaining to do, convincing his children to accept him. It was not easy, he knew that; but first Helen deserved an explanation as to why he had come home out of the blue. He had positive plans and wanted them all to share in them; to be a family.
    ‘I’ve worked my back sore just to bring money here. I had to let you see I’d keep my promise. I’ve been feeing with farmers in Perthshire and Angus. Work comes by way of harvest and grouse-beating. Oh, I can turn my hand to many things. And I happen