because there is a rising flush on the Gillayley face and his tension is becoming almost unbearable.
Instead, she makes the circle of beads into three loops, and settles them round her neck.
'Okay, I thank you very much for your gift."
I can always sneak it back to Joe. Oddly, the rosary feels comfortable and familiar, clinking against
the Sufic maze. And more oddly, the small boy is delighted with himself for succeeding in giving it away. Relaxed as water now, positively hugging himself for joy of it all.
Nutty child.
"Umm, d'you mind telling me what this is for?"
He shuts his eyes and shakes his head.
"You don't mind me asking? Or you're not telling?"
The pad and pencil are slipped deliberately back into his pocket.
Which reminds me. No more initialling each note. I musta got into the familiar category, or some damn thing.
"Then what's it for?"
The boy goes on shaking his head, so his hair falls screening his face.
The way it flows out with each turn of his head reminds her of the skirts of dancing dervishes as they spin to ecstasy.
Exceedingly nutty child.
"Her. Well, we'll leave the matter there then." Gets to her feet, and puts the mutton-birds into the range oven, in an unlidded baking-dish.
"Come on," she says to the entranced child, "downstairs and help us collect some puha to go with them."
The muttonbirds turned golden in their own rich fat: the puha steamed quickly in water. Kerewin cut slices of brown wheaten bread and left them unbuttered. Then they feasted. Muttonbirds have a lot of bones, some dark, some pale as bones should be. They licked each one clean of flesh and fat, and wiped their fingers and faces on bread before eating it. Picked up puha in their fingers: its slightly bitter taste was astringently refreshing. A mouthful of bird, and one of bread, and a fingerful of puha, and then back to the bones.
He had muttonbird fat on his face, in his hair, all over his hands. And breadcrumbs… gone was the neat precise eating of the weekend. This was hog in and enjoy.
And I probably look as bad, feel as good.
At last she said, leaning back against her chair,
"Do you know what was in that note from Joe?"
Simon sighed happily.
He wiped his mouth on his hands, and his hands on his jeans. Grinned at her while he did.
Then took out his notebook and wrote, JOE PICKS ME UP TONIGHT.
"You know." He has left delicate fingerprints of grease on the paper. "Well, I'm sort of pleased that you like being here, but what precisely do you think you're going to do?"
The little boy shrugged…..
"Because I'm going upstairs to do some drawing in a minute. Simon licked his fingers, then held up the pencil and pointed to himself.
Nice economical way to say, I'll draw too, assuming that's what
he means.
She stood, looking at him. The fey swirling mood had ended.
But, a tendency to steal and damage… not all there, said the radiophone voice. Joe had written:
Many thanks for the best night I've had in years. I'll buy a book on chess today and see if I can't beat you some day at your own game. There's a bloke plays at work — I'll ask him for a few tips.
Muttonbirds for lunch, and
You know, you got a fan. He thinks you're marvellous (so do I). Want a kid? Going cheap… if he's any trouble, pack him home. That'll be a better inducement to good behaviour than any hiding I threaten. Bit of cheek, eh, this letting him go back to you without so much as a word of permit from you. (But it's just before 7, and I don't think you'll welcome a call this early.) Let us know if you're doing something and don't want him round — Piri'll pick him up. Otherwise I will, tonight. Natouhoa Joe G. XXX
Very different note from the formal Thank you of yesterday.
But where's the brat been since 7 this morning? And what's all this about? It doesn't feel right. Yet nobody's stomped on my heart except family, so why am I so mistrustful of people?
A meal, and a chess game or two, and he signs the letter with kisses like a lifetime friend. And this one, grinning like a gargoyle from his chair where he's kneeling, brings a ring for a ring untaken, and the making of a garden of prayers. I don't understand it….
She wasn't smiling back at the child.
Was it being a listening ear for the man?
Someone to tell troubles to? Suspicions?…
And what is the attraction for a disturbed and zany child here?
Me? Nah, he knows I don't much like him.
"What about school though?" undecided what to do. He frowns briefly. Picks the notebook off the table, and weighs it in his hand, then takes a slip of paper from an unsealed envelope in the back of it.
It is another note from Joe, this time excusing his son's absence from school on the grounds of sickness for the week to come.
Simon is writing while she reads it.
I AM SICK SOMETIMES
"Conveniently, like now?" She returns his excuse. "How often do you actually turn up at school? Monthly? Or just a couple of times a year?"
He's writing again. JOE SAYS I GO, I GO
"I'll bet." She thinks, Hell, imagine if they both think I'm going to put up with him all the times he misses. No way.
He is looking at her narrowly.
I KNOW WHAT THEY DO. He stops, searching for a word, his teeth clenching in exasperation.
She sits down at the table again.
"You know what who does?'
He grinds his teeth.
"Is it about school, and your absence therefrom?"
No.
Then he nods.
Shakes his head.
He is actually shaking all over with the effort of trying to find a way to show what he wants to say.
"Is it a word you need? Or a whole sentence?"
He hits the table with the pencil and it breaks. Point smashed.
He puts his face in his hands.
She picks up the pencil, takes out her knife and sharpens it carefully, whittling away little resinous curls of wood. There is a faint fresh smell of cedar: it must have been an old pencil. As she makes a new point on the lead, she says slowly,
"If you like, we could start again at the beginning of this conversation, and feel our way to the words you want."
He puts his hands down on the table and avoids her eyes. He's been snivelling but quietly.
"So. Here we are at the beginning. How often do you go to school?"
MOST DAYS
He looks at that, shakes his head, and with one hand guarding his eyes, amends,
SOME DAYS
"And that's of each week?" Yes, he nods. "For some days of each week, the days Joe says you're to go to school, you go to school. Right?"
He is grinning again. Weirdly, through the tears and the breadcrumbs and the muttonbird grease. MOST TIMES, writes Simon recalcitrant.
"Occasions Joe don't know about, you play hooky? Stay away from school?
"Goodoh," to his nod, privately thinking Ratbag.
The child hugs himself, and his face goes tight again. He points to her face.
"I show an expression of disapproval or something?"
He looks puzzled momentarily, and then shakes his hand, No. He screws up his mouth at the notebook and pencil, and writes reluctantly,
I WONT STAY HERE ALL THE TIME. I KNOW WHAT THEY
DO.
"I'm beat. If you mean you're not staying here all the times you're absent from school, you're dead right. I'll be doing other things often, and won't want you underfoot. But as to this other — you know what who does? To whom?"
Simon looks at the table.
"Hey listen, some things are easier if you're not concentrating on them. Come and do some drawing with me, and forget the lost words for the moment eh? If it's important, you'll find a way to tell me, and I'll find a way to understand."