"If you want money, come here for it. I've got more than enough. If you want kisses, there's all your Tainui relations ready and willing, not to mention Joe. But don't go round to Binny Daniels' place again,
eh. Not for any reason whatever. The bloke has a nasty reputation, and he earned it."
He crosses his heart and cuts his throat, I promise, I promise, and he asks for two dollars, and thanks her profusely, and he smiles all the time.
"You been back to Binn Daniels?"
He is startled out of his retreat. No No he says, lifting his head from his arms.
"Where'd you get this from then? You pinch it?"
The boy shivers. No, barely moving his head. His eyes are fixed on Joe.
Kere, he mouths, and his shoulders slide up to hunch by his ears.
Possible, thinks Joe, but is it begged or stolen? and at that moment, Simon offers a note. He is shaking now, a hopeless seemingly uncontrollable shudder.
Joe goes over to pick it up from him. GAVE SHE GAVE IT, but the child won't look at him, and the knuckles of his clenched fists show through as though the skin is transparent.
Ahh, what can you do Ngakau?
Once on Monday night, because the suspense of waiting over
Kerewin's visit to the Tainuis' farm got too great, and the boy
woke up at the wrong time, and blundered into the kitchen
at the wrong time.
No school Tuesday.
Once on Wednesday: Binn Daniels.
School all right, sent home with a headache at lunchtime, God
knows he'd have an ache everywhere else, why not his head?
Thursday.
Sneaked off to Kerewin's Friday morning, but she sent him
home in the afternoon claiming she wanted to draw in peace.
He doesn't remember why he thrashed him last night. It had
been a forgotten, better forgotten night. Only when he'd
wakened the child for breakfast this morning — "Himi, it's
nearly nine o'clock, where the hell are you?" thinking, I'll bet
he's drifted off to Kerewin again — he'd been curled up in
a foetal ball on top of the bedclothes, arms wrapped round his
chest, knees drawn to his chin, and his face still wet from
weeping. He couldn't stand properly. Hunched over and
moaning, he clung to Joe.
"Whatsmatter?" His head was throbbing horribly. "Sweet
Jesus, did I do that?"
Which was silly of him to ask, even considering the nature
of the morning. Who else would?
Don't hit him any more, man. You'll break him again.
He's been kneeling here all of the morning. Keeping out of the way.
The shower wasn't much help. Nor were the aspros.
Ahh god, Ngakau, you and your bloody temper. He eases himself down beside the boy, and lights himself a smoke.
He passes it across to his child,
"You feeling any better?" his voice very gentle.
The boy coughs and hacks on the smoke like he's an old man of eighty, and the tears spin down his cheeks, while his fingers shake on the cigarette, but you can always win him by declaring peace. After a while, he even smiles.
"It's been a bad week, e tama."
The boy leans against him, sideways, gingerly. Joe slides an arm round him, touching and no more. "I think we'll go on that holiday very soon," and Simon grimaces.
He don't want to go? Don't ask for the moment-
"You know if Kerewin's coming?"
She don't say, says the child.
"O don't she?" Joe smiles at him, "o don't she?" he breathes out. He ruffles Simon's hair, smoothes it again. "Tama, you've never told Kerewin, have you?" in the same quiet-as-breathing voice.
His son shakes his head.
"Why?"
There's a long silence.
Because she'll know I'm bad, the boy mouths, and starts crying. Because she'll know I'm bad, he says it again and again, gulping miserably through the silent words, She'll know I'm bad.
"O Christ," says Joe, and cries with him.
He rings Kerewin at two, and gets her out of bed, it seems… she snarls into the mike, "Who the hell is it?" and takes a lot of sweet talking before she's at all conversational.
"Two in the afternoon," he joshes at last, "you'd better admit it's late in the morning for waking e hoa!"
"I had a very late night," she says briefly.
"Drawing?" he asks, and after her "Yes", "Have you finished?"
"Why?"
"Well, Himi really wants to come round, but not if you're busy like yesterday."
"He won't bother me today. I stomped most of yesterday's work to death anyway."
He's sympathetic. Then he adds, The boy is a bit under the weather with flu, does she mind? he truly wants to come?
"If you don't think he's going to keel over or anything."
"No way," Joe assures her, "he's just a bit achy with it." He
doesn't think it's a catching kind, well, he hasn't got it, and he has had every opportunity to… he won't send him for an hour or two yet, but expect a taxi before I go to the pub, eh. "I still got the washing to finish," mourns Joe. "You wouldn't, by any chance, want to try your hand at some interesting washing?"
"No bloody way, man. Okay, I'll expect Simon soon, and you when you arrive, doubtless." "Right," says Joe, crossing his fingers, it might be okay yet, I've patched up all the fights, tama's coming better, it'll be all right, "And thanks from the bottom of my heart, Kere. Ka pai, e hoa."
She breakfasts on coffee and the first of a new batch of yoghurt. After that, a desultory picking at things to do. She makes the bed for the first time that week, picks up her golden guitar, but puts it down without playing anything. She goes upstairs and touches the shelved rows of charcoals and inks, chalks and felt-tips, tubes of oils and watercolours and acrylics; touches them all, no more.
It's the bad mood I woke up in. It makes for an oppressive quality to the day.
She wonders briefly if anything is wrong with any member of her family.
We used to have links… but now?
She opens another bottle of dandelion wine, but only drinks a glassful.
Not even in the mood for drinking? Hell my soul, you must be in a bad way-
Looking down at the sunlit sea through the great sweeping curve of window, Fishing? Nope?
By the sill, in a heap and scatter of shining stones, is the rosary Simon gave her.
Been playing with it, brat? Or you're an indian giver? Where'd I leave it? Ah yes, up a floor in the box with my rings… you been secreting away a few of those too, fella? I better check, later-
She picks the beads up, runs them through her fingers. Amber and gold, turquoise and gold, bloodstone and coral and still more gold. Redolent with luxury: not the sort of thing she could envisage swaying next to a sackcloth habit.
Who owned you? Prayed with you? Played with you?
What prayers said, in what moods? Joy, or grief? Love, or anger, Or tears?
The beads slide by her fingers.
It's a long time since I prayed this way, she thinks. Why not today? Give deity some prayer-flowers. Say hello to the most gracious lady of them all, sister to tuakana sister, blessed among women,
Hello Mary.
She folds the beads in a triple coil round her neck, and walks downstairs, and outside, and away along the beach.
The door is open.
He sidles inside.
He whistles as shrilly as he can.
No answer. No-one home?
The entrance hall is cool and quiet, full of shadowy green light. The crucifix on the rounded back wall is in a pool of light, like it stood under shallow water.
He looks at the brittle metal man, stripped to his pants and nailed to the wood. His face is turned to one side. Right, he wouldn't want anyone to see what was in his eyes.