Joe moves to the sink, and opens a cupboard. She hears the susurration of a brush across the floor, then the clink of china pieces being swept up.
The boy's defiant scowl stays in place most of the time, but he can't bear it towards the end. Kerewin just stares, her gaze revealing nothing. He lowers his eyes, and starts to snivel.
"He normally get a hiding for breaking plates?"
Pause in the sweeping.
"Yes," says Joe.
She hears him put the brush down.
"But… last time it was breakfast he threw, and I got wild. I was already late for work and him having a tantrum was the last straw."
"O yes. I came round here that night, I remember. Before going pubbing. There was porridge and plate all over the floor. That was the time," she says reflectively, "yeah, that was the time he arrived at Taiaroa with his face punched. Or was it slapped?"
"Slapped." A low voice, but the sound has the flat echo of the action.
Simon is still crying.
"And with a few sundry kicks, I recall."
"Yes."
She hears the broom picked up, the sweeping resumed. He says,
"It was a bit of a fight. He said he wasn't going to school, and like I said, I was late. So when he persisted, I slapped him a couple of times, and slapped him more when he swore at me. Then he hefted the plate at me, and it hit. It hurt too. So I kicked him."
The budgie twitters.
Clatter as the broken bits of plate are dropped in the rubbish tin.
The boy sniffs, tears dripping off his chin.
"Well, to me he got a gross overdose of punishment that time. This time he goes scotfree, eh?"
The boy stares up at her, his mouth opening in surprise. "I wasn't going to hit him," and the boy's stare switches to him. I said I wouldn't, without you agreeing, and I meant that."
"I've said."
"Yes."
"Goodoh." She kneels on the floor beside the table, close to the
boy. "Now you, what's so terrible about a haircut?" Scotfree? That means get off? Nothing happens?
He starts to grin.
She has seen him smile through tears a few times now, and it always gets to her. It probably shows how emotionally wobbly he is, but it looks like old hearts and flowers getting on top of his woes, come what hell may. Joe notes the smile too.
Hell, he's going to be murder to handle from now on. Though I have a suspicion, if he starts behaving badly with our stony lady here, he'll get the biggest comeuppance he's ever had. "Nothing's terrible about a haircut?" asks Kerewin, and the smiling stops. He raises one hand, eyes narrowing with concentration, and then his fingers curl together and his eyes close. He drops the hand,
defeated.
"The sound of scissors cutting through your hair?" she suggests. "Metal by your head? Somebody touching your head? What happens
to your hair afterward?"
Simon shakes his head to them all, eyes still closed.
She sits back on her haunches.
"How about a cuppa?" Joe asks quietly.
"Good idea, man… would you bring us your scissors over?" and Simon's eyes open immediately. "S'okay sunchild. I'm not going to I start cutting against your will."
She leans over and takes a handful of his hair, and he flinches.
"Look at it. Look at the ends."
The hair is thick, dead straight, wheat gold with a silver sheen. "See how that's split? And the tangle it's gotten into there? Guarantee you'd find it hard to brush through there."
"You mean I'd find it hard to brush," says Joe. "I wash and brush him still… that's the point, e tama. When you look after your hair, you can wear it how you like, and decide when you want it cut. But not now, right?" The boy pouts.
"Yik," Kerewin's voice is full of distaste. "I like that about as much as your thumb-sucking routine." She stands, groaning until her stretched ankle and thigh tendons recover. "Oath, I'm unfit… e thanks, Joe," as he sets a cup of tea by her. He lays the scissors unobtrusively beside the saucer. "Simon, you going to stay stuck on the wall like a fly, or do you
want a tea too?"
T says the boy, two fingers making one, and he sits beside Kerewin at the table. He spies the scissors a second later. He looks quickly at her, and reaches for them.
She doesn't try to stop him.
You fling them at me though chief, and I'll knock you off your seat,
but she doesn't let the thought show on her face.
To her surprise, the child takes hold of one of the long strands that are always falling in front of his eyes and gingerly cuts it through. He winces, as though it hurt him, and stops, eyes closed tightly again, scissors in one hand, hank of hair in the other.
Well I never: cliche number two, whatever next?
Nothing, it seems.
The boy stays in the same position. Joe comes with two cups of tea, glances at his son, glances at Kerewin, sits down and begins supping from his cup.
The gas heater hisses. The kitchen is warm, but the air is thick; smells of burnt fat, and underlying stink of coal gas. Yet, with people in it, the kitchen is a friendly and comfortable room, she decides, and remembers her first impression of it. Spartan it may be, but at the moment, the very bareness emphasises the companionship between her and the man, and the boy.
The budgie chirrups again, and cracks its seeds. Her swallow sounds loud in her ears. At last, Simon shifts.
He puts down the cut hair and the scissors, and opens his eyes, sighing.
"Your tea, tama?" and pushes a saucerless cup to him. The boy ignores it, holding his hand out to Joe, palm up.
It's a gesture she hasn't seen before, apparently one of apology, because Joe lays his hand on top of his son's, and says,
"That's okay. Don't throw things any more, eh?"
Simon nods. He looks very tired all of a sudden.
But when the tea has been drunk, and Joe asks, "Will you mind if I cut your hair now?" he doesn't make any demur. He hunches his shoulders and sits rigidly still, until Kerewin offers to hold him.
Why should he be so palpably afraid?
He relaxes, once on her knees. Joe keeps up a cheerful running commentary as he cuts six inches or so off, trimming it to shoulder length. He collects the hair as he goes, piling it on the table.
"You haven't got a plait yet for that pendant of yours, Tahoro Ruku?"
"No."
"Would you like one? It could be for any pendant."
"You mean, made of Sim's hair?"
"Why not?" He grins. "Same colour as flax… be all right with you, Himi?"
The boy says Yes with a fingerfalclass="underline" he is still tense.
"Why not indeed?"
"Okay Kere, I'll make you one… hold still, tama, just this end bit of your fringe now."
Joe is deft, and when he asks, "How's it look?" she can say "Berloody neat," and mean it. "You ever a professional?"
"No. I had a friend who was though, and he showed me a few tricks of the trade." He holds a mirror up for the child. "Like it, Haimona?"
The boy scans his reflection, grimacing, but the grimace turns to a reluctant and shamefaced grin.
"Lotta fuss over nothing," says Joe, and he ruffles the neatness into disarray fondly.
The fire in the livingroom circle is out. After the warmth and company of the Gillayleys, the Tower seems as cold and ascetical as a tombstone. Me silent dank grave. And mere months ago, they were the ones who lived in a chilly institutional hutch… what's happened? she asks herself, grieving. Even my home is turning against me-
"Mind you," Joe had said to Kerewin, "that's the first time he's ever sat still long enough for me to do a decent job. Piri tried to hold him once, and got bitten for his trouble. The other times after Hana died," he sighed, "sheesh, all those other times… there's only been me here eh, which means I've had to give him a belting so he'll do as he's told… you ever try shearing sheep? Unwilling sheep?"