To The Person Who Is Spreading Rumours About Me

When I was fifteen, for my birthday, my older brother gave me a jobbie* in a shoebox.

*Jobbie: Scottish slang for a torpedo of turd.

For all the wrongness of it, I laughed. Even when he was being degenerate and cruel, he’d suddenly do something stupid and I couldn’t help laughing.

I still smile when I think about it today. Then I gag when I recall the smell of it.

He always had that ability to make me laugh — no matter how painful it was to lend him approval. And I would crinkle my nose at many, many more of the odorous things he did.

He’d frustrate the life out of our mum.

He’d invite his friends in to play, then he’d disappear outside. Mum would hear a ruckus and there would be half a dozen kids wrecking the house, who she didn’t know.

He would do anything to get out of doing his chores. “Wait until your dad gets home,” she’d say, but he’d refuse and annoy her all the more. “I’ll take my slipper to you,” she’d say.

To make a point, she’d remove a slipper from her foot and brandish it at him. But he knew she wouldn’t hurt him. Mum didn’t have an ounce of malice in her body. He’d stick his bum out, inviting her to skelp his backside, giggling.

Mum couldn’t help herself. She stepped forward to make good on her promise, taking a half-hearted swipe at his buttocks. Telegraphed. My brother would pull his posterior out of the way and hoot like a fanatical goose.

I didn’t like him upsetting my mum, but I still found it funny.

He would run away cackling in delight, chased by our braw wee maw, slipper in hand. We read the subtle nuances, the twitch at the side of her mouth, the crease around her eyes. Soon she could not contain her own merriment, and laughter erupted from her mouth.

He fired an air gun pellet at me and it stung my leg. It made a hole in my school trousers. And raised a bloody welt. Tears welled in my eyes as I rubbed at the pain. I screamed at him.

He loaded another pellet into the air pistol. Cocked it and took aim at me again. Smiling his intent. I ran. Home. Showed my mum the two holes and my bruised bum and bloodied leg.

The next day, I challenged him. He laughed. An infectious cackle. I couldn’t help myself. For all my pent-up rage — I laughed, too.

“What a strange man,” his daughter said when I told her the jobbie in the shoebox story. I had a good reason to tell her —

We’d been to Ibiza for her wedding. During the meet and greet, I’d chatted with her husband’s father. An intelligent fella. We exchanged pleasantries, had a few drinks, shared jokes. Built a rapport.

Our conversation spun the arrow on the circle of topics and inevitably it landed on my older brother. I detected some reticent friction. I asked how he got on with him. “You can tell me.”

“He can be awkward, can’t he? I think he is on the spectrum,” he replied.

I found his comment funny. Not out of nastiness. It was just that for all my years, I’d never once thought of my older brother as being autistic.

Suddenly, it made sense. His tactlessness. His unembarrassability. His ungainly efforts to mimic Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk.

I made the mistake of repeating his comment to another guest. I even told my brother — it’s what brothers do.

When we returned home, my niece confronted me. “You’ve been spreading rumours about my dad,” she accused. She thought I was being disrespectful. More than that. She thought I didn’t like him.

Every family has a problem uncle.

I apologised, of course.

But I became persona non grata. №1 smeared exhibit in the Underpants Hall of Fame. The prodigal uncle.

Anger needs a fire in the belly to keep the steam whistling from the ears. I gave it a few days —

“Was your dad upset?” I asked.

“No, but I was.”

She was annoyed for him. But I know my brother. He wasn’t bothered. He wore the insult like a badge. He likes that kind of attention. Yeah, he’s on the spectrum.

“We are all on the spectrum,” I told my niece. “And it can vary depending on which way the wind is blowing or how our minds tumbled in our sleep.”

Photo by Jennifer Griffin on Unsplash

I’m proud of my brother’s achievements. His determination, his driven personality, and his work ethic have all made him as successful as he is. (Successful enough to pay for his daughter’s wedding in Ibiza.)

I told her the jobbie in the shoebox story. She hadn’t heard it before.

“That’s the thing about your dad and your uncle,” I said. “We have history. You can’t possibly know everything we know about each other. And you don’t know what has gone on between us.”

“He’s my older brother, and he once gave me a jobbie in a shoebox for my birthday. He’s definitely on the spectrum. But he’s still my brother and I’m still here.”

Malky McEwan