paint | scorbus

paint

Paint (6,304 Words)

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The air was thick and warm, tainted with the scent of the pastries passing over the counter of the yellow food truck. Despite their tantalising scent, Albus could focus on nothing other than the tiny hands pulling on his, causing him to stumble over his feet. It hardly helped that the backpack hanging from his shoulders weighed him down. The straps shifted on his shoulder with every yank. Though, he had long since stopped begging the young girls for gentleness – it was easier to abide by their every will and want, for his mental health, if not their happiness.

Around them, crowds rippled like the surface of the nearby pond, which had been decorated with pieces of stale bread and torn grass. Albus frequently glanced upward to ensure that he was not heading for someone's hip or shoulder – which he bumped more times than he cared to admit. His face flushed, steaming, as glares were sent his direction by anyone who spared their trio a second glance. They were no doubt judging his disciplinary skills, which always softened when his nieces were involved. If they so requested, he would tear down every star from the sky.

The local fair was always a thrilling event; one which drew crowds to Ottery St. Catchpole every summer. This year was no exception. The sun burned overhead, and heat radiated from the hundreds of other bodies occupying the park within the town square. Grass flattened under feet as children kicked, screamed or chased one another around the area – unaware of the presence of the many, many others around them. Those who were not whiling away hours in fried food lines were lazing across the daisy-covered grass, sipping on water bottles and hiding beneath caps. On the pathways, tornado potatoes and hot chips had been crushed into the grooves of the bitumen. Flies were trampled as they scrounged desperately at the waste, and – if they so managed to escape – were battered away from faces and plates.

Albus, however, remained preoccupied with his brother's children. At the best of times, it was a full-time job, as they seemed to slip away the moment he attempted to catch his breath. He stared in envy at the parents wielding backpack leashes, tempted to rob one from a father when he dropped his child's harness to chase serviettes down the street. Before he got the chance to consider robbery, the abandoned boy had powered off through the crowd – disappearing so instantaneously that Albus wondered if he'd even been there at all.

He tightened his hold of the hands in his own.

"Can we have ice cream, Uncle Al?" Madeline piped up, stomping her shiny sandals on the black tarmac. Her movements were exaggerated, as though she were on a stage and needed to ensure the audience members in the back saw her every movement. Frankie copied her elder sister; likely for no other reason than to be included.

"I thought we were getting our faces painted?" Albus mused.

"But it's the dotty one!" The younger girl piped up. She tugged on Albus' arm, heavy enough to yank him by the shoulder. The man had a sudden vision of blue and pink ice cream balls spread over the pavement, and the invisible weight of a weeping toddler in his arms. "Daddy never lets us have the dotty one."

Albus believed that was a wise move, on James' part. No food had more potential to fall and melt on clothes than Dippin' Dots; with dye so concentrated that the marks would likely never come out. But alas, they were not his clothes to clean. "If you show me where the ice cream is, we can get some."

"It's this way," instructed the eldest. Her grin was electric as she tugged Albus firmly across a path to a blue gazebo. A teardrop banner fluttered in the breeze, plastered with the phrase 'Taste the fun!' and an image of the treat. The man's stomach rumbled involuntarily. His heart sank as he realised that he would not be able to have one – wary that forgoing the privilege of two free hands would be the worst move he could make while babysitting.