Heap coals of fire upon my head.
"We didn't have tea," he says. "We came straight here after I got home from work. I didn't even have a shower, or get this one dressed up… which reminds me," shaking Simon gently, "I thought I told you to have a bath, and get Piri or Marama to see to your foot?"
Simon raises his eyebrows, Did you?
"Arggh," and shakes him harder. To Kerewin, "That's settled then. Can I give you a hand with the spuds or anything?"
For seconds she has stood in a state of self-blankness, observant of what's happening but out of contact with her body: then the hands shift off the child's shoulders, and in a flood of sensation she is aware of the rustle of the man's felted wool coat, the breadth of his shoulders contrasted with the child's bone-thinness; the blackness of his long straight hair; the half-wonderment, half-weariness of his face.
And the fact that he is exactly as tall as herself. Deep brown eyes on the same level as her stone greyblue gaze.
"O yes," she says. "Not so much give me a hand, but if you want to go and have that shower, or wash Simon, you might as well do that now eh? There's plenty of hot water."
"That would be all right? It'd be no trouble?"
"Tchaa! What trouble? Your son can show you where the shower is. The first door inside the bathroom is a linen cupboard. Help yourself to towels and whatnot. There's first aid gear down here. Somewhere," she says, gesturing vaguely around.
Urchin Gillayley, catching her eye, points to knife-drawer and grog cupboard.
"Okay, so your memory's good," she mockbows to him.
His father laughs. "Only when it suits him… my thanks. I'll have that shower, and wash him too, then come down and give
you a hand with tea. Then we'll play a chess marathon, and you can have the pleasure of wiping me out piecemeal and tidy every game."
He grins. "I'm not a very good player."
Kerewin grins back. "I am," she says.
We came on the bike, he'd said. Him in front, because then I can be sure he's not going to fall off. He's good at falling off things-
The bike was parked on the other side of her bridge. He had a
what he called 'Morning after emergency kit' there-"You know
how it can get, you wake up feeling like yech, so I carry the basics with me. Washing gear and a spare shirt, and gear for Himi in case it's needed."
He went into the night to get it, carrying his son.
She was taking the skeletons out of the flounders, wielding knife and scissors with practised skill, when the man arrived back in the kitchen level, child leaning against one shoulder, a dufflebag over the other.
"Nice walk," he says gaily. "It's still drizzling though."
"Yeah, I can see it on the window there eh."
They look on with interest.
"You a cook or something?"
"Or something."
She is filling the flounders with neat little mounds of pale green celery and yellowish pineapple. "Really I'm just a brilliant amateur. In everything," she adds sourly.
"It looks very nice. Though I never seen that done to a flounder before," watching her sprinkle parsley on top of the fish.
"O, it's past caring what happens to it now."
She slides the flounders into an oven dish and the butter sizzles round them.
"Twenty minutes or so, and they'll be done."
"A hint, tama. Come and show us where this shower is. I never had a Tower shower before," giggling as they go out.
Overpowered, he cowered, glowering amidst the flowers,
and she sits by the fire spinning-over compositions for the sheer hell of it. That's an odd child. And an odd man.
The coal sinks down in its red bed, and the little violet flames run flickering over it.
She wanders across the room and lifts her golden guitar down from the wall. It is easy, leaning over the ambered belly, to put thought through a filter of slow-picked arpeggios.
An odd child, with its silence, and canny receptiveness.
Orange-red sparks climbing in skewed lines to die out in the glimmer dark pile of the soot.
An odd man, looking so bitter until he smiles. A harmonic bells out under her fingers.
Why the wariness and drawn-eyed look of the child?
Why the bitterness corrupting the man's face?
And why, above all, the peculiar frisson of wrongness I keep
getting from some of the conversation?
O it's riddles, and no thing of mine,
and she quickens her chording to a heavy downbeat strumming.
In the bathroom, Joe can hear the guitar, the rhythm of it rather than the chords: the walls are too thick for more.
"She can play… dry yourself," to the boy, as he begins putting on his own clothes.
His body is squat and heavily muscled, except for his legs, thin-calved and spindly.
A long pale scar runs over the brown skin, from his right shoulder blade down in a curve across his ribs.
"You've been lucky as hell this time," watching the boy dress, grimacing at the child's thin body. "Behave yourself, Haimona. Don't let's spoil it, eh."
He says meditatively, "It would be nice to have a friend again, somebody we could talk with who wasn't a relation."
The boy raises his eyebrows.
"Out, and be careful of your heel."
When the boy has gone, he looks round the bathroom. He gathers the used towels — she's dead keen on this dark green colour, everything's it — and as he picks them up, something falls ringing to the floor.
A broad gold circle with an inset stud of greenstone.
"O shit, o sweet Christ."
Simon had stood there, dressed himself there, and that had fallen from Simon's pocket.
"O you bloody little sod."
He thinks a minute, rubbing the back of his neck, We done already? Because bloody Himi can't keep his hands off anyone else's gear? and then he leaves the ring on the sill, next to the basin.
The boy slid in through the doorway, and went over to the fire. Kerewin, armed with knife and spatula, was maneuvering whole flounders on to plates. Joe came in, holding out the towels. "Chuck 'em on the floor there, I'll see to them later," and she
gets the last fish out without breaking off so much as a sidefin bone.
"That smells like good food. We timed it nicely, eh?"
"Perfectly."
"Would you mind if I put something on his foot first? I've got something to say to him too, but it'll only take a minute."
"Fine, go ahead," and handed him the first aid box.
He went to the boy and spoke in a low voice, so low it was almost covered by the rattle of the crockery and cutlery she was laying out.
But it was still loud enough to hear:
"E noho ki raro. Hupeke tou waewae," and the boy sat quickly, looking at his father wide-eyed. "E whakama ana au ki a koe."
Kerewin was wide-eyed too by now, shuffling the plates discreetly louder.
Really? You're ashamed of him? And more pertinent, why? And I don't think I'll disclose meantime that I can speak Maori.
"Kei whea te rini?"
She stole a surreptitious glance.
The boy flushed violently, reached for his back pocket, and then the colour drained out of his face.
Joe bandaged his foot, and didn't say anything more until he finished and the child stood. Then he hit him hard across the calf of his leg. The sound cracked around the room and Kerewin looked up sharply.
"Kaua e tahae ano," as the boy staggers straight, and then Joe turned to her saying,
"That was just…."
She says evenly,
"The ring was borrowed more likely. I have so many I wouldn't miss one or two. Still, thanks for caring. This dinner's getting cold while the beer gets warm."
He stands openmouthed.
Well, you've certainly got all your teeth.
"E korero Maori ana koe?"