The Bone People (4 page)

unchildlike precision and more quickly than she can. When he has finished, he pushes his plate to the middle

of the bench, folds his arms, rests his head on them, and stares at her. A pair of seagreen eyes watching one

from table-level is disconcerting, to say the least.

Kerewin sets her knife and fork down with a click! and ceremoniously lowers her head to table-level, and

stares back.

The child's eyes widen.

She keeps on peering beadily across the table at him.

And the boy starts to giggle. A breathy spurt of chuckling that bubbles eerily out of him. He sits up straight,

and pats the table, shaking his head.

"Good. I take it you've got the hint."

She calmly continues eating.

So he can giggle... I wonder what stops him from talking?

One of her family used to say,

"And the rain was fairly pissing down."

It conveyed exactly how the weather was,

"And ther rain" (shaking head slightly) "was fair-lee piss (grimace and smash fist through the air) "sing down" (eyes wide with surprise at the violence of the rain).

The gusto, the singsong level and fall of the speaker's voice made it real.

Anyway, she thinks, regretting again the gulf between her and her family, it is pissing down now. I better get

some lamps out. The room is all shadows. She looks at the chance-guest, sprawled in front of the fire.

Made yourself thoroughly at home, haven't you, guttersnipe? Well, you're about to get the boot.

"Give us a look at that, that pendant you wear please? I want to check the phone number." He sits up. Six

fingers, three fingers, three fingers again, and

a large airy Z. He waits, hands at the ready in case she hasn't understood.

"Thanks."

She's already at the radiophone.

It's her concession to the outside world, the radiophone. No one can ring her up unless they go through a toll-

operator, kept by the Post Office especially for subscribers like herself, but she can ring anyone she likes. An

expensive arrangement, but Kerewin has more money than she needs and likes privacy. Besides, while the

toll-operators are busybodies, they can supply local information, especially one whom she's cultivated, and

she values that.

"Hullo Miz Holmes."

"Morning," she says gravely. "A Whangaroa number please, 633Z. I assume it's a party line."

"It is," says the operator. After a minute he adds, "Dear me."

Click buzz whirp, and then a long series of monotonous burrs.

"Were they expecting you to ring?"

"Nope."

"O. Shall I keep the call in?"

"Just a minute." She winds the mike sound right down and asks the child, "That phone number is for your home?"

He nods, smiling a smug sage smile.

She brings the mike sound up again. "Keep it in please, and when someone answers, ask them to come out to

Paeroa to collect something of theirs."

The operator laughs.

"Good luck," he says strangely, and hangs up.

Kerewin stares at the mike. All the world is a little queer except.... You going to have your coffee?" She asks without turning round.

A click.

O you icthyphagal numbskull," she leans against the stone wall, and looks at him.

'I forgot," she says, weary rather than apologetic. "I take it that's for attention?"

He shakes his head. His hair falls over his face, and he sweeps « out automatically. He inches off the

sheepskins, and suddenly smiles.

An amerindian opening parley--

She hunkers down under the transceiver shelf and watches him. He shakes his head quickly, and snaps his

fingers once. It is a

sharp crisp sound. She remembers that until she was ten, the only fingersnap she could make sounded like a

boneless phup! no snap near it. The child nods and snaps his fingers twice.

Not a parley, a language lesson,

and she's tempted to snap her fingers three times and say Maybe.

"I get that. Out of sight communication with you is one for no and two for yes, am I right?" and snaps her fingers twice for emphasis.

He claps his hands together twice, deliberately, sarcastically.

Smartass, says Kerewin inside herself, grinning in an unfriendly way at him.

"Well, the coffee on the table will be cold by now. That's why I wanted to know whether you still wanted to

drink it."

Snap.

"Okay. You want something else to drink? I have," counting off the list on her fingers, "wine and mead and sundry ales, beer and liqueurs and spirits, none of which you're getting. Water and milk and applejuice;

limejuice, lemon and orange; cider of my own brewing, and teas, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, and herbal of

many kinds. So which?"

Coffee, he mouths, with exaggerated lip movements, Coff-feee, and the teeth-bare gap is there again.

Contrary little sod.

"You just said you didn't want any?"

He makes a series of corkscrew spirals near his ear.

"You're nuts or you change your mind? Don't answer, I agree with both interpretations... anyway, you've

missed your only chance to try Holmes' famous herbal tea, a soporific manuka brew, foolish child. Actually,"

she says, getting up, "it tastes disgusting, but it's very useful if you're an insomniac."

His face shows, What the hell are you talking about?

"If you're projecting what I think you're projecting, boy, the answer is, obfuscation is my trade. I didn't get to be thirty odd and horridly rich by being intelligible, hokay?"

She's grinding a handful of coffee beans by now. The mill had belonged to a great great grandmother, who

brought it all the way from the Hebrides a hundred years ago. When she parted, in violence and tears, from

her family, she had made a special expedition

Call it by its right name, o my soul to gain the coffee-mill.

By thievery and stealth in the dead of the night, I acquired thee....

She ran her hand lightly over the little machine, and talked loud nonsense to cover her pain. The child sits, his

eyes hooded, and doesn't make any response.

The rain hasn't eased.

The radiophone hasn't buzzed.

For a cat, when in doubt, wash: for a Holmes, ruffle a guitar.

She takes her oldest guitar down from the wall, and picks a series of delicate harmonics to check the tuning.

Then, the body of the guitar cuddled into her, she plays wandering chords and long pure notes and abrupt

plucked melodies. The music melds into the steady background white noise of the rain.

At the end of it, she sighs, and props the guitar against herself.

"Do you like guitar music,, ahh, boy?"

His eyes are shut and his mouth is open, and she is unsure whether he is ecstatic or gone to sleep.

He blinks rapidly and nods, Yes.

"Mmmm." She lays the guitar down. "What do they call you incidentally? Surely not Simon P. Gillayley all the time?"

He shakes his head, and presents his forefingers straight out, about two inches apart.

She rubs her eyes ostentatiously.

"Yeah?"

The boy looks at her with disgust. His lips are pinched as though he's tasted something bad, and his nostrils

are flared, eyes narrowed -- and suddenly all expression is wiped. His face is a blank, a mask showing

nothing, and his eyes are cold. I'm not talking to you. I don't like being played with. He turns his back on her.

Ratbag, smartass, and sulky with it. Kerewin shrugs, and picks up the guitar again.

Shall we be nasty and throw it out right now? Nah, our sense of hospitality won't stand for that... yet.

Once the guest has eaten and drunk at your table, the guest becomes tan. beggar or enemy, friend or chief, if

they knock on your door,

if open; if they seek your shelter, it will be given, and if they ask for hospitality, give them your bread and

wine... for who knows When you may need the help of a fellow human? Insure against the chance, and at

least endure every miserable sulky dumb brat mat you happen to find in your windows... thrum, golpe, golpe,

rasguedo, and she launches into an ersatz flamenco rhythm.

The rain responds by pissing down harder than ever.

She hangs the old guitar back on the wall, stroking its amber belly and wondering what to do next, and the

radiophone buzzes.

"Hello?"

"About that number in Whangaroa you want..."

"Yes, yes?"

"Have you got Simon Gillayley there?"

A long pause while she reassembles her proposed conversation, Sir/Madam, your son is loitering in my tower

and will you kindly remove the same--

"How the berloody hell did you know?"

He laughs drily.

"It happens often enough."

She throws a glance at the sullen little boy, still crouched back to her on the hearthskins.

"Ohhh."

"His father is out, y'know."

"I don't," says Kerewin shortly. "I never saw the brat until a couple of hours ago."

The operator giggles.

"You've missed a lot... anyway, I thought I'd better let you know in case there's trouble."

Pregnant pause.

And what bastard news comes forth?

"His father, Joe Gillayley, nice bloke incidentally, well, he won't be home till late. Guarantee it. If he gets home, that is."

She swallows. "I see."

"If I were you," the operator sounds happy he's not, "I'd ring Wherahiko Tainui and see if he or Piri'll come and pick up the boy."

"And what's this Wherahiko's number?"

"O, I've already tried it for you, and they're out at the moment too. Shall I give you a call when I raise them?"

Kerewin draws in her breath, "I--"

"Or would you like me to get them to ring you?"

"That would do, but...."

"Of course, it might be an idea to ring the police now. They know what to do...."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nooo, on second thoughts..." the man taps his mouth piece. "Tell you what, whether I can get hold of the Tainuis or not I'll ring you before I go off at seven thirty. How'll that be?"

"Fine," says Kerewin, "but...."

"Rightio." Click.

What the hell do I do now?

She walks slowly to the window, frowning. Round all the arc of glass, trickling rivulets of rain. Outside,

greyness, deep enough for twilight. At the horizon it is hard to see where the sea leaves off and the sky

begins.

The police will know what to do? What am I sheltering? A criminal, some kind of juvenile delinquent? Hell,

hardly... it doesn't look more than, than about, o five years old? It must be more than that, though. I'm ahem

(polishing mental nails) exceedingly bright, and I didn't write coherently until I was seven -- coherently

enough for the adults to always understand what I mean, that is. But then again, I could talk. Vociferously.

A sudden gust slashes against the windows. I can hardly send him out in that.

Outside, the wind would be howling and hard. There is a stand of alien pines half a mile along the beach, and

she can see them bending from here.

Something touches her thigh.

She spins round, viciously quick, her palms rigid and ready as knives.

The urchin has sprouted by her side, asking questions with all its fingers.

"Sweet apricocks and vilest excreta... boy, don't do that again."

It was like watching a snail, she thinks coldly. One moment, all its horns are out and it's positively sailing

along its silken slime path, and the next moment... ooops, retreat into the shell.

The urchin has snatched its hands behind its back and is standing fearful and still.

"Ahh hell," says Kerewin, her actor's voice full of friendship, "it is just that I get easily surprised by unexpected contacts eh. Besides, I couldn't follow what you were saying... if you make everything nice and

simple and slow, even snailbrains like myself might gather what you mean. See?"

It may have been the genuine amusement in her voice that fooled it, for the horns come out again. Only this

time he looks at her carefully while he gestures. Seven fingers spread briefly, and then one hand describes

fluid circles.

"Umm, meaning?"

The child sighs. His hands writhe together a moment, then he shakes his shoulders, and reluctantly takes out

his pad and pencil again.

We don't seem to like doing this.

He writes quickly, pad on foot-propped-up thigh: he stands remarkably steady on his uninjured foot.

In the darkened room, his eyes have lost their opal brilliance. They scan Kerewin's unmoving face as she

reads.

TAINUIS HOME AT SEVEN I AM MEANT TO BE THERE CAN I STAY HERE SP (Simon)

She grins at the underlining. She says, quite kindly,

"Thanks for the explanation. I've got a message out for your father to come and get you, so I dare say he'll be here shortly. And no, you can't stay. I'm not keen on anyone staying here, particularly children."

The boy sits down, right where he'd stood.

She gathers the dishes and stacks them in the sink. She goes and sits down under the portrait that dominates

the room. She lights a cigarillo, and starts talking to herself.

"Once I had to work at horrible jobs to earn enough money to buy food to eat in order to live to work at

horrible jobs to earn enough... I hated that life, I hated it to my bones. So I quit. I did what my heart told me

to do, and painted for my living. I didn't earn enough to live on, but I wasn't too unhappy, because I was

loved at home and I loved what I was doing. Money was the only problem... then it all changed. I won a

lottery. I invested it. I earned a fortune by fast talking. And while I was busy blessing the god of munificence,

the lightning came. It blasted my family, and it blasted my painting talent. I went straight out of one bind into

a worse one. Very strange. I never could understand why--"