The Bone People (7 page)

She retrieves her jerkin and drapes it over his shoulders.

"Come on. I think we'd better go inside again. There's nothing much to look at this time of the year anyway."

From the jarred look on his face, she gathers the fall hurt his dignity more than anything else.

"O, and a handkerchief," amused and revolted by him at the same time.

He wipes his nose cursorily with her handkerchief and pockets it.

From the bright chill outside to the chill gloom inside, and up the dank stairway.

The boy goes up each step cautiously, bringing both feet to a standstill before he ventures to the next step.

Bloody hell, brat, life might be a death march, but do you have to make it so obvious?

The clock on the wall shows just after eight. Late morning, the operator said, so there's hours to go yet--

"What'd you like to do? Play draughts or something?"

He frowns. He blows what looks like a silent raspberry.

Her turn to frown, "Ah, wait a minute, I have it. No, it's a game, not a wind... if you don't know it, we won't play it. I thought you might, and it's the only childish thing I have a board for. What do you know in the way

of games then?"

He shakes his head forlornly.

"Hell, you must know one or two. I mean, I've come a couple

of decades since childhood and I still remember dozens. You're still mired in the state, damn it."

He stares. Not rudely; apologetically.

"Well, would you like to learn chess? That's a game I like, and I think you will too."

After all, the Russians teach their babies to play--

The green in his eyes seems to be ebbing out of them, leaving them dark blue holes.

He raises both hands in the air, a strange gesture of surrender, and lets them fall.

Although close to the fire, he's shivering.

What in the names of all gods and little fishes is the matter?

She shakes chess from her mind and looks down at him.

A pair of dilapidated sandals, brown, left foot holed and losing its buckle strap; jeans, denim, once green,

now worn to a dun no-colour in most places. Frayed at the cuffs, and torn on the left inner leg;

elastic belt, dark green, missing buckle decoration. Ineptly put on leaving out two belt loops;

a t-shirt, originally cream or white presumably, although they might make them that off shade of grey (and

the rest of you could do with a wash too, boyo);

and then there's this flannel shirt, grey and thinnish, with no cuff buttons.

That outfit can't be overly warm, even with some ounces of hair to help.

He stares her scrutiny out, bleakly.

She picks up her jerkin, laid on the table by the child when they re-entered the room, and throws it at him.

"Put that on for a while, eh? And would you like a coffee before I start to teach you chess? It was a bit cold

out there, huh?"

She saw I am cold She saw I am cold

He is exultant with the attention. The defensive tautness of his face eases, and his smile is soft and incredibly

young.

Brilliant, touchingly grateful, and toothless, she thinks, grinning back to him, but blinking at the age the smile

seems to reveal him as.

I am in her jacket to warm, he croons inside himself,

She saw I am cold

and I am in her jacket to warm.

It runs through his mind like a refrain. Warmness begins to seep back into him, easing the terrible ache,

relaxing him like a drug.

"Hey!" calls Kerewin, and whistles, a piercing sound like a shepherd calling his dog.

The boy sits up suddenly, shaking his head.

"Oath, I do believe you were nearly asleep," and Simon grins sheepishly, clutching the mug of coffee to him.

She sets out the chessmen, naming them as she does, and demonstrating the move of each piece. She is

patient and gentle, intent on sharing the pleasure the game gives her. Over the chessboard she is completely

relaxed: the barriers of unequal intellect, and the child's dumbness, have ceased to exist. He is a person to

whom she is teaching chess, and the thing that matters is that he enjoys his initiation.

He picks up the moves of bishop and rook, king and queen, in what seems to her like a surprisingly short

time. But the way a pawn captures, and the eccentricity of the moving knight befuddle him.

"No, one ahead, and one to the side," showing the move for the fifth time. There is a scraping sound behind her. She swings round to it, and freezes.

The man standing in the doorway smiles benignly.

"Sorry to creep up on you like that, eh. I banged on your door the last five minutes till it swung open, but

nobody came. So I just came up, hearing the voice."

He is a thin little man, with large brown eyes. He stands at ease, watching over her shoulder as the boy gets to

his feet.

"James Piripi Tainui," he says, not looking quite at her. "Piri, they call me." He lifts his hands. "Come here you. You're for the high jump, I think."

Kerewin says slowly, not at all friendly,

"I was expecting his father. I was told the Tainuis were all over in Christchurch. And it's one helluva early."

The man smiles, a pink gummed grin, gentle and considering.

"Haimona, do some explaining eh."

The boy folds his arms and spits on the floor.

Piri Tainui groans.

"Here we go again," he says, "Look Himi, Joe's in bed and I just come home last night. There's this bloke on the phone at some horrible hour saying you're round at that queer place, excuse me, on the Paeora beach, and

someone's to pick you up. Well, Joe's out cold, it's got to be me. Don't make things difficult, Himi."

Kerewin frowns, Himi? O probably transliteration for Sim but where've I heard it?

Piri turns to her, hands beseeching aid.

"Lady, I don't know who you are, but thank you for keeping him the night Joe'll be round later to make things

right, eh, but he can't come now. I thought I had better get here first thing in case there was any trouble. Sorry

it's so early."

"There's been no trouble." Her frown vanishes. She stands up, holding out her hand.

"My name's Kerewin Holmes, Kerewin or Kere is what I get called. I'm glad you've come, early or not," and

Piri shakes her hand murmuring Howd'y'do? and still not looking right at her.

She turns to the child.

"Well, it looks like someone else is going to have to finish teaching you that game. You left anything

behind?"

The small face turns masklike. He shakes his head briefly, and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his

jeans, strolling across the floor to Piri Tainui with only the suggestion of a limp.

Faker.

But she shrugs.

"Been nice knowing you, Simon Gillayley," and belatedly offers Piri a coffee. He shakes his head, still

smiling, still avoiding her eyes. He says to Simon,

"Say thank you to the lady eh," and the boy flashes her a brash smirk.

"That's all?" asks the man, and the child turns fast and angrily on him, digging two fingers veed in an obscene gesture at his face.

Piri doesn't move. "E, it's not that bad," he says, very quiet, very gentle, then picks him up.

"Well thank you," he says, stroking the boy. Simon's face is unreadable, still as stone, as though it is frozen.

"That's okay. Sorry you haven't got time for a coffee," leading the way downstairs.

Across her bridge she can see a car.

"You got here all right, no bogging down?" making polite conversation as they walk over the frozen lawn. "I keep on meaning to get that track graded, but you know how it is."

"O yeah. It was a good trip though. No trouble at all." Okay, well we'll see you again some time, Mr Tainui.

Thanks for coming." The man grins elfinly. Goodbye Simon."

he boy gets woodenly into the car, making no gesture of farewell.

Berloody stuff yourself then, thinks Kerewin as the car drives on. Good riddance, you sullen little creep.

us when she's putting the chess pieces away that she notices the boy has left his sandal behind.

And taken the black queen.

2

Feelers

On the floor at her feet was an engraved double-spiral, one of the kind that wound your eyes round and round

into the centre where surprise you found the beginning of another spiral that led your eyes out again to the

nothingness of the outside. Or the somethingness: she had never quite made her mind up as to what a

nothingness was. Whatever way you defined it, it seemed to be something.

The spiral made a useful thought-focus, a mandala, anyway.

She brought her eyes back to it, and reread a letter in her mind. Written on pale pink paper, unfranked

envelope and no stamp, the whole therefore delivered by hand. Envelope and paper the same genteel pink:

the best matched stuff for refusing invitations and writing duty letters.

The writing was firm and flowing. Nicely sloped, easy to read, looked curiously delicate. Small' letters and

the pink paper maybe made for that impression. A prim hand.

Dear Ms Homes,

(a fair enough phonetic rendering of her name, presumably extracted from the urchin)

Thank you very much for looking after my son this weekend. His impromptu 'visits' seldom have such a

happy result. He enjoyed himself so much that he has indicated he'd like to return!

Hell hell. Hell.

But I would naturally obtain your opinion and permission first. And you'll get the opinion all right.

I'm deeply obliged to you, and I would welcome any opportunity to help you in any way. I should like to

convey my thanks in person. Would it be convenient for me to come and see you this evening? If not, would

you please ring Whangaroa 633Z? Otherwise, I look forward to meeting you.

Joseph N. Gillayley.

No flourishes in the signature. Joseph N. Gillayley, what sort of person, he?

Joseph Nothing Gillayley.

Literate. Tidyminded. Widower, said the operator. With a kooky child. A right stubborn illnatured mess of a

child.

Only,

"You're for the high jump," the little man had said. And,

"Joe is out cold," or words to that effect.

Put "tidyminded" with "drink" and you get the rigid dignity-on-a-high-horse that intensely dislikes anything or anyone getting out of the way. The dedicated drinker of this sort never gets messily drunk. Nastily, but not

messily.

Focus the picture again. Not a roaring Viking. A pale cold-eyed man who expects too much of his offspring

so the offspring goes defensively wild.

The long hair didn't fit, though. Nor did the scarecrow appearance. Nor the maternal sympathy, ease-up child,

the little man showed. Or the boy's readiness to get near a stranger.

A small dry hand, with fine sinews, long fingers, she remembered.

He liked it here? Hah! Though the man could hardly write, "My son loathed your cooking and was

contemptuous of your resentfully given hospitality so can I come and tell you so?" even supposing the boy

could indicate that.

To ring or not to ring?

Envision the breeder from the bred, and find if the reality corresponded with the vision?

Hmmm.

She stared at the spiral.

It was reckoned that the old people found inspiration for the double spirals they carved so skilfully, in

uncurling fern fronds: perhaps. But it was an old symbol of rebirth, and the outward-inward nature of things--

Half an hour of your time, my sweet soul. That would be all. You might even learn something new.

She doodled a finger in the centre of the spiral.

You might, says the inner voice, find out where guttersnipe Gillayley lost half his teeth. And get your queen

back into the bargain.

"True," says Kerewin, "I might at that."

"This evening" by Gillayley time, was half past six.

She hears the crunch of gravel through one slit window. It has been a dreary and tiring afternoon, pinching

clay, punching clay, trying to make a worthwhile shape. Nothing grows under her anxious hands. She feels

empty and sour.

To hell, why didn't I ring and say No? Perhaps I could hide and they'll go away?

But she goes down a level, and washes her hands; down another level, and stirs the fire along.

She squints out the livingroom window. Hard to see in the dark, but she can make out two figures, one half

the size of the other. The urchin back as well... let's hope there's not going to be a scene of any kind. Now

why should I think there's going to be a scene?

As she opens the door, Simon stumbles in.

He has apparently been leaning against it, knocking on the wood.

Remembering Piri Tainui's remarks, she had listened for knocking, but it hadn't been audible until she was

nearly into her entrance hall.

Hoowee, remind me to install a bell, an alarm, a photoelectric eye--

she steps to one side to avoid the child's entrance, but not fast enough. He is mysteriously happy to see her,

taking her free hand and kissing it, grinning widely, his eyes sparking green in the lanternlight.

"Uh yeah, and how are you?" embarrassed by this wholehearted greeting, lowering her eyes.

His foot is still bandaged, still lacking a sandal. She raises her gaze, and Simon's gesture leads it on to the

other person, waiting quietly on the threshold.

"Urhh," says Simon -- it is a sound: his fingers snatch at the air and swing abruptly to his throat. The person reaches down and takes hold of his shoulder gently.

"I'm Joseph Gillayley. I'm glad to meet you."

A deep voice. She is looking at the hand, and wondering at the way it has suddenly linked them all.

A dark hand, broad and strong-looking, with neat blunt nails.

Her eyes travel rapidly up the arm and flick to the man's face.

"Hello... o," she gestures with the lantern, and Simon swallows audibly, and draws her hand to his shoulder.