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.
"Kerewin Holmes," she says as their hands touch.
A hard warm hand, and her eyes go back to his face.
He smiles, an amiable grin.
Hell unholy! It's that joker from the pub-
and the pink paper plus the stream of fucks becomes a roaring ribald laugh in her mind. She grins hurriedly back. You and your berloody doorway Vikings Holmes, and uptight dignities… though it's a nice grin, merry as his fosterling's, it must be fostered, and her smile grows, rounding her cheeks and squinching her eyes narrow.
"And I'm very glad to meet you," she says, the laughter in her mind sneaking into her voice. "Both," she adds to the boy, and he
chuckles, strange little sound in the shadows.
Joseph Gillayley laughs quietly, bassing behind it.
"Well come!" says Kerewin. "Come on up. There's coffee at the top, and it'll be a helluva lot warmer."
Simon drops by the fire, spreadeagling himself.
Joseph stands in the doorway, his black eyebrows quirking.
"Well, I like it," she says defensively.
"O?" he asks. His big hands spread. "O, the room? It's magnificent… that window-"
He stands still a moment, then shakes himself. "No, I was watching my son. Sorry," again the odd shaking. "I can't get over the way he's made himself at home."
"O. O yeah," she shrugs and pours a cup of coffee. "You drink coffee, Mr Gillayley? I know your son does."
He turns from contemplating the boy's relaxed sprawl, biting his lower lip.
"Yes, I do, thank you." He looks down at the grass matting. "Urn, would you mind calling me Joe? This," pointing at his son, "refers to you as Kerewin." He glances up, checking for approval, disapproval.
"Good. It'd please me if you called me that too." She pours coffee into another mug. "I don't like getting mizzed or mistered either."
Joe smiles. His lips are full, and beautifully outlined.
"Joe," he says, pointing to himself. "Kerewin," he bows gracefully, "and Simon pake."
He straightens swiftly. "Did it surprise you, the contrast?"
His smile has deepened, not with derision or hurt or contempt, but as though it is a good joke.
"You bet!" She leans back against the bench. "You know what? I was expecting something big and blond, and for some unaccountable reason, dumb and boisterous to boot. And aside from the blond part, I couldn't reasonably justify… o God! I didn't mean dumb that way, I meant stupid-"
Joe says quickly,
"It doesn't worry either of us. Truly."
He looks back to his child.
"Simon, get up from there, and come and give," he hesitates, "give Kerewin a hand. And can I help you too?" he asks. "Yeah, grab your cup. Do you have sugar? Because the only stuff I've got is brown. I've got a few kinds of honey though."
"Brown sugar'll do nicely." He spoons two measures into his cup and Simon's.
"Listen you," he calls. "Come over here. At once."
The child rolls to his back and shakes his hands in the air. He gets to his feet in a hurry though.
"That bit of byplay meant Okay," says Joe, staring at the boy. He switches his gaze back to Kerewin, mellows it with a smile, "or shall we say, I'm coming or doing, so you needn't yell."