They toast each other, wishing health and long life, Kia ora, Kia ora-
"Look," she says suddenly. "Look, they match exactly," holding her little finger up with the glass of port by it, so all can see the hump of garnet next to the wine. She is bemused by the coincidence. They offer disinterested agreement.
"Ultimate eh, matching your grog to your jewellery. Remind me to get some neat brown bracelets with cream stripes eh?" Pi belches and giggles. "Kelk. Sorry, that beer is getting to me."
"No wonder, you been inviting it in since this morning… why do you have so many rings?" Polly's head is cocked on one side and her eyes are partly crossed.
Flicker of sober amusement… how many do you see, lady?
"O I like the colour and feel of semi-precious stones… so I load 'em on, eh-"
Each ring feeds my fingers with its particular virtue. A garnet gives courage, a turquoise soothes. Greenstone ennobles. Opal enlivens. Coral is shy, but full of ancient memory. And aquamarine quickens thought, lively as a dolphin in the open sea.
And some stones I avoid like the plague… diamonds are obnoxious and leave, somehow, a sick taste in the mouth. Emeralds are cold as death, idol eyes, and rubies are too luxuriantly, unctuously velvet-
"Uhh?"
"Sweet Lord, you're dreamy tonight. I said, Pi and co are away… and Lynn's taking Piri home." In a whisper, "He's flaked."
The little woman has Piri propped against her, one limp arm still round her neck. Piri sleepwalks and doesn't say goodbye. Lynn says awkwardly,
"Nice meeting you, Kerewin. Please come round and visit. I hope you and Joe get on in spite of, you know, Simon and all that…" she smiles entreatingly. "It was nice meeting you and having that talk," lurching away under Piri's weight, her own drink-riddled feet finding it hard to keep the floor in its proper place.
O God no, Himi's in the way.
It is like a punch in his stomach.
Kerewin is half-rising, bowing a little to the others. "Nice meeting you all again," she is saying, lips curling in a smile, "Pi, Polly, Missus-"
"Good to see you again too," says Pi. "Get a move on, woman," belligerently to Polly who is clattering round, gathering cards and cans of beer. She heads for the door, and her bag catches on the corner of a table and she trips. "Hoops!" grabbing a man conveniently close, staggering closer against him, "All right, honey?" and the man chuckles, his arms moving up her. Pi, upset, roars, "Quit arsing around there and get cracking," and a dozen heads turn their way Polly yells back, "What? Farts?" and slopes off through the door Pi shakes his head sorrowfully to Kerewin, and follows.
The old lady, chkchkking them both, turns and says, "She is a good woman," and Kerewin thinks Polly isn't bad, but she's no«
necessarily good. But Missus turns back and calls loudly after Pi, "I think she's Maori for all that white skin. She'll make Joe a good wife, nei?" nodding her head firmly, headscarf aflap, and she exits. "Jesus holy, I'm gonna have to kill that idea fast… first Lynn, now her eh?" Kerewin grins broadly to Joe.
Aiiee, I should have guessed… who would want to take him
on? But I was sure she liked him. Cared for my child. My only
son.
("Did she like you?"
NO.)
But if that's what it is, why didn't she say so the other night?
Instead of all that business about not being ordinary, and not
liking sex?
He says, ignoring her smile, his voice shaking, "We'll go and drink by the bar eh? Have a song or two before we go?"
Singing is the last thing I want to do.
Aue, cry and cry and cry… why didn't I see it before?
And what am I going to do now? What now, God?
He stares into his empty beerglass. The broken latticework of foam there begins to blur. "Okay man," she is saying. "Singing might stop the swirl in my head, eh?" Picks up the two thirds full bottle of port and forces her way through the crowd to the bar. She bores past anyone blocking her, not hearing protests. She stiff arms a space for Joe to come beside her.
The guitarist is playing, "It's A Long Way To Tipperary," thunka thunka thunk, and the people round are bellowing out the words. She joins in, her strong voice roughening as she tries to outshout everyone.
Farewell Piccadilly! and a germane part of her drink-unsteady mind begins a strange battle paean,
Ho! the godly scarlet crump of newborn bomb craters resounds above the gleeful whistling bullets wheel and the gurgling of cheery throttlings going on and on-
Goodbye Leicester Square!
… a tuneful chrrkchrrkkk of thumb-blocked throats serving as a discreet melodic line below the sshpluck! of impact and the Ur! of pained surprise… ahh, rustling crumpling figures, blending folding fugueing (hands spreadfingered clutching Why?? delicate belly entrails flopping softly o he he he!) a resonant yet subtle percussion…
It's a long long way to Piccadilly
…o splurge life! Encorporate cheerful death! Enjoin dismemberment! O! blissful! ahh! happy war!
but my heart's right there!
But then General Joy had never been considered quite sane, quite healthy, even by his nearest and dearest on skin….
"Sheeit," she hears herself say to Joe, "Why do they want to go on singing those sorta songs all the time? War songs?" her voice booming out.
The oompa-oompa march strains fade away.
There's a big blond man standing next to her, and a greasy little fellow with buck teeth and hair styled like it was still the rocking fifties, beside him.
Blondie turns and sneers at her,
"What's wrong with war songs, tit? What do you ignorant young grab-arses know that's better? Yahhh," turning to his companion, "they get round with bloody Mahries and behave worse than they do."
She feels Joe tense beside her.
The alcohol fog leaves: she notes and hates the nasal accent, the RSL stickpin in the blazer lapel. She says icily,
"Pig ignorant old Australian bastards should get back where they belong. To their dead-hearted, deadbeat offal-catering country. Not parasitise here, littering up Godzone."
The guitar group is gone quiet, collectively grinning. The guitarist plays little riffs, as though thinking about a song.
"What'd you say?"
"You heard, poof."
"I won't take that from…."
"You'll have to," there's no slur in Joe's voice now either, "because between us, we'll have your guts for garters."
"And goodness knows what we'll do with your balls," says Kerewin.
Mild guffaws from the group. No one makes a move to help or hinder, though several are edging away from the bar. A ring of space miraculously occurs.
The Aussie stands, going tunk! tunk! tunk! on the bartop with a 20 cent piece, a nasty little tocsin of imminent violence.
"Stow it, c'mon stow it," says the fifties-greasy. "They'll do you. Turn it off yer fuckin idiot."
The other man stands uncertainly now, looking at Joe's very broad shoulders, at Kerewin's long tensed hands. He can see curious callouses all down the edges of the palms. His eyebrows stand out silver against the growing flush of his face.
"Arr," inarticulate with indecision.
Kerewin giggles.
His meaty lips twitch.
"Arr yourself. Push off. Get lost." Joe turns deliberately round to the bar. "Fill 'em again Bill. Nother bottle for Kere too, eh."
The Aussie mutters something foul under his breath and rounds on his companion.
"Let's move. Outa this fucking dump."
He stalks away, his heavy paunch taut before him, fists ladling air at either side. The fifties-greasy grins apologetically, downs his beer, and scuttles off after.
"Ahh, fresh air," calls Kerewin loudly.