I had already learned that any kind of thieving is totally forbidden. So is anything resembling lying it seems, and woe betide the brat if he doesn't do whatever he's told to, more or less on the instant. The matter is settled right then, thump, that's it. It always looks so ridiculous, Joe hefty and twice his child's size — but that's the way we do it in good old Godzone. Besides, the man is tolerant to a fault in other ways, and he's always lavish with praise, with cuddling and kisses… anyway, the hell with it, what business of mine is it how he chooses to bring up his son?
So. We take up an old cold trail — what clues do we have, Sherlock? (Hey, that's good! why haven't I thought of it before?)
A rosary and a ring. A dead boat in deep water, and two dead people. An inarticulate child, a tongue-locked mind.
So, again. Jewellers, libraries, police, hospital records, natter to Dansy, check out boat registration lists-
She thinks about the possibilities for a long time before dropping off to sleep.
The boy turns up every other day now, regular as clockwork with the morning mailvan (Grogan's back).
"Hello," he says, as Simon scrambles out with her letters. "Nearly hit a cow this morning down near Tainuis' bridge. You know it?"
"Bridge or cow?"
The driver guffaws. "Bloody good," he says. "Other than that, no news. O, except they've got a new barman at the Duke. Just hired today. Not a local." To Simon, "You have a nice day, and
thanks for the help."
Boy earns his ride, says Grogan. "Helps me no end, putting the stuff into all those bloody boxes miles off the bloody verge. Inconsiderate bastards." He winks at Simon. "Won't charge you this week, Sim."
One morning, Grogan leans conspiratorially out of the cab and asks in a loud whisper.
"Do you like having him around?"
"Um, yeah." (Simon relaxes.)
"The old lady and me think it's a bloody good job too. About time somebody did something bloody useful instead of just bloody talk." Slaps Kerewin on the shoulder. "Good on yer, girl."
Hot shit and apricots thinks Kerewin, bristling.
"Hooray," says the postie cheerfully.
"Hooray to you too."
Simon gives him the fingers as the van skids in a half-circle away.
"Watch it you." She shrugs. "Ah, hell, a year of being the eccentric avoidable, and all of a sudden I'm in with the locals."
Me image hath gone down the drain.
Writing,
Hello.
It is six and a half years since I last wrote. Well, six years and five months, and an uncertain number of days, 21 or 22, because I lost track of time then, for a weekend or so-
A lot has happened. I have a home, befitting the eccentricity of a Holmes. I am still myself, iron lady cool and virgin. Maybe not lady. But what to call that sport, the neuter human?
There has been little in the way of true joy.
I don't paint much any longer.
I can't, I can't, I can't.
I have taken to wandering a lot, gyrovague, te kaihau. There is a long desert beach here, my bush, and whispering stands of alien trees. An estuary. The sea all around, waves at night, and my retreat. Unsullied sky (except when I care to build a fire…) I am beginning to wonder why I started this parade of excised feelings again.
O yes.
Dear paper ghost, I know a little more about Simon P. P for pestiferous, prestidigitous, (and as his father has it) pake.
Simon P?
Simon the shadowed. Oddbod, spiderchild. A very unlikely but strangely likable brat. Me new toy is to discover whence Simon the Gillayley came from. Why there is a suggestion of the numinous in his shadow. Who else do I know who listens to the silence of God on lonely beaches? (Ah hah! That would be telling….)
Anyhow, I know more.
And I don't know what's worse: knowing as much nothing as I did before, or being cognisant with this futile misleading much I have now.
The saga:
Armed with the ring and the rosary, I went to the library. In Debretts, after hunting through a thousand dusty pages, found a saltaire with phoenix on flame-nest superimposed. Arms of a doddering Irish earl in his eighties. He had two sons. One died in World War II, and the other popped off in 1956. Remarried, with no issue, was the Irish earl. Fat lot of help.
I looked round the pile of peerages and lesser landed gentry, junk from the old dead world. Five hours of scurrying through those pages, and this is all we've got?
The librarian smiled.
Librarians' smiles look like bookends.
And there wasn't a Latin tag, Mater Compassionem de Virgo, or any such mixture.
Next, the jewellers.
My tame silversmith said the trinket was nice work, maybe fifty years old. Haven't seen any of that coral around for a while. Cabochon turquoises, v. similar to your ring. Very nice amber. Bloodstones — hmm, not really possible to say where these particular bloodstones originated. Can tell you one thing though. The turquoise isn't American, and the gold is very pure. Nowd'youwannasell?
Fat lot of help.
The fuzz really tried to be helpful.
I have a sneaking suspicion they have a sneaking fondness for the bandit child. They let me read all the reports on the dead boatcrew, and the follow-up after. All more or less as Joe told it.
"How's young Gillayley getting on these days?" asked a young constable, brown dewy eyes and a fresh fluff of moustache. "No more escapades?"
"Not recently," said another, "been very quiet out there these days."
They all grinned at one another like it was a conspiracy.
Fat lot of help.
So then, after the jeweller, the police, the library, the hospital records, even the local, it was a dead end. Think sideways. I had a child who was so old. Many tales of infamy. One tale (I incline to the suspicion) of emotionally biased fact.
A ring that led nowhere (you ever meet a ring that went somewhere?).
A rosary that served as an endowment and nothing much else.
An unreachable boat, no registration number known.
Corpses in a graveyard, decently interred after neat indecent dissections.
A strange wayward shut-and-bolted mind.
So what the hell, I wrote to the Irish earl.
Winter grew on — half a month more and it'll be the midyear school holidays, and the urchin won't need lies any more to cover the track of his days. He's grown a quarter of an inch, sideways. He looks that much less like a famine victim. The cheekbones don't sear through the skin so sharply. And he's not nearly as restless.
Behold, Holmes! Anchor and salvation of an erstwhile happy family. I hope. Joe is beamish — when he's not glowering. Joe? Don't let's digress any more, g. reader. But I better record this deathless bit:
Last month SP was an imp incarnate. We were shown a hectic quicksilver series of mood-reversals. For instance, one moment kneeling (it never sits) enjoying dinner, and the next, for some unknown reason, it slams the plate on the floor (the plate broke). No reason given: just a silent snarl as it tromped round my living circle, kicking at the window base Stop that Sim. Kick. You'll break the berloody window and I'm sour enough about the plate. Another boot. Stop it you little bastard, or I'll stop you. And what does Simon the self-possessed do? Breaks down snivelling. Not cries of desolation. An abject self-pitying whimpering. Which continued, despite threats and blasphemy until Joe arrived to take him home (about 40 minutes' worth). What are you crying for? asks the Kati Kahukunu (he's probably my 23rd cousin but we haven't swapped whakapapa yet). Nothing, whines our Simon shaking his hair, nothing. Right, says Joe, belting him smartly across the arse, there's something to cry for. Now stop it.