Keri Hulme - The Bone People

He's looking steadily at her.

"Okay?"

The gaze drops. He takes out a small pad and pencil from his jeans pocket and writes.

He offers the page to her.

In neat and competent capitals… how old are you, urchin? I KNOW I GET TOLD SP

"And you keep on doing it? You're a bit of a bloody hard case, boy."

He is staring straight ahead now, eyes on the level of her belt buckle.

He gets told, meaning he must do it frequently… unholy, he's a bit young to be a burglar, maybe he's just compulsively curious?

"Well, there's a couple of cliches that fit in neatly here. One, curiosity killed the cat. Two, it takes all sorts to make a world. You want some lunch before you go? It might stop raining in the meantime-"

He looks up abruptly, and she is startled to see his eyes fill with tears.

What in the name of hell have I said that would make it cry?

He cripples over to the sheepskin rugs near the fire at her invitation. He sits down carefully, cradling his foot. She has a suspicion he is exaggerating his hurt.

"You like raw fry?"

Uhh? What?

Is his face really that easy to read, or am I just looking harder because he can't talk? Probably years of practice at non-verbal communication.

She wonders how many years. He looks as though he might be, ummm? She has no idea how old the brat looks. She hasn't ever had anything to do with children.

"Raw fry is vegetables and stuff, like bacon or eggs or fish, all cooked together. It tastes okay."

There's no obvious answer.

"Well," she says after a moment, aware now there is an appraisal of herself taking place, "that's all that's going. Like it or lump it."

I wonder if I still look peeculeear?

Heavy shouldered, heavy-hammed, heavy-haired.

No evidence of a brain behind those short brows.

Yellowed eyes, and eczema scarred skin.

Large hands and large feet, crooked only if you look closely.

Everything beautified by me knuckle-duster collection.

Today, greenstone water middlefinger; kingfisher glitter of opal

ringfinger; winedark garnet one little finger, turquoise stud

the other; and that barred charred looking silver hulking hunk

of thumbring.

Encased in jeans, leather jerkin, silk shirt, denim jacket, knife

at side, bare footed. (Which reminds me, they're cold.)

A right piratical-looking eschewball I suppose I look, but what

the hell.

Out with chopping board and cooking paraphernalia. She guts green peppers, slices hapless onions into tears. She is immune to the eyesting of onion juice

The click and squich of the knife cutting food.

Her breathing.

The steady downbeat of the rain.

The fire crackle.

It is unnaturally silent.

The gutter snipe still watches her, twisted and still like a small evil buddha.

"Urn, you expected back soon?"

He shakes his hair.

Your people know where you are, even?"

All the answer is a well-screened stare that sinks slowly down to his foot level. Mentally she balls fist and projects thumb. Figs to you, boyo.

There isn't a proper table in this level. The room is for eating in, sure, but also for listening to music, playing guitars, or quietly dreaming by the fire. Seawatching. Meditating. So, all the table is a dropleaf bench, attached to the wall. Sometimes she uses it for eating off: more often, she puts her plate on the floor by the fire. Now, she sets a knife and fork and plate of steaming hash at either end of the bench, and two mugs of coffee like a line of truce in the middle.

"If you want something to eat, it's here."

He arrives at the table with a stilted gait, eyes the food, eyes her, eyes the stool, and elects to kneel on the latter, head on one hand, eating from a fork in the other, ignoring his knife and herself. He eats neatly, with unchildlike precision and more quickly than she can. When he has finished, he pushes his plate to the middle of the bench, folds his arms, rests his head on them, and stares at her. A pair of seagreen eyes watching one from table-level is disconcerting, to say the least.

Kerewin sets her knife and fork down with a click! and ceremoniously lowers her head to table-level, and stares back.

The child's eyes widen.

She keeps on peering beadily across the table at him.

And the boy starts to giggle. A breathy spurt of chuckling that bubbles eerily out of him. He sits up straight, and pats the table, shaking his head.

"Good. I take it you've got the hint."

She calmly continues eating.

So he can giggle… I wonder what stops him from talking?

One of her family used to say,

"And the rain was fairly pissing down."

It conveyed exactly how the weather was,

"And ther rain" (shaking head slightly) "was fair-lee piss (grimace and smash fist through the air) "sing down" (eyes wide with surprise at the violence of the rain).

The gusto, the singsong level and fall of the speaker's voice made it real.

Anyway, she thinks, regretting again the gulf between her and her family, it is pissing down now. I better get some lamps out. The room is all shadows. She looks at the chance-guest, sprawled in front of the fire.

Made yourself thoroughly at home, haven't you, guttersnipe? Well, you're about to get the boot.

"Give us a look at that, that pendant you wear please? I want to check the phone number." He sits up. Six fingers, three fingers, three fingers again, and

a large airy Z. He waits, hands at the ready in case she hasn't understood.

"Thanks."

She's already at the radiophone.

It's her concession to the outside world, the radiophone. No one can ring her up unless they go through a toll-operator, kept by the Post Office especially for subscribers like herself, but she can ring anyone she likes. An expensive arrangement, but Kerewin has more money than she needs and likes privacy. Besides, while the toll-operators are busybodies, they can supply local information, especially one whom she's cultivated, and she values that.

"Hullo Miz Holmes."

"Morning," she says gravely. "A Whangaroa number please, 633Z. I assume it's a party line."

"It is," says the operator. After a minute he adds, "Dear me."

Click buzz whirp, and then a long series of monotonous burrs.

"Were they expecting you to ring?"

"Nope."

"O. Shall I keep the call in?"

"Just a minute." She winds the mike sound right down and asks the child, "That phone number is for your home?"

He nods, smiling a smug sage smile.

She brings the mike sound up again. "Keep it in please, and when someone answers, ask them to come out to Paeroa to collect something of theirs."

The operator laughs.

"Good luck," he says strangely, and hangs up.

Kerewin stares at the mike. All the world is a little queer except…. You going to have your coffee?" She asks without turning round.

A click.

O you icthyphagal numbskull," she leans against the stone wall, and looks at him.

'I forgot," she says, weary rather than apologetic. "I take it that's for attention?"

He shakes his head. His hair falls over his face, and he sweeps «out automatically. He inches off the sheepskins, and suddenly smiles.

An amerindian opening parley-

She hunkers down under the transceiver shelf and watches him. He shakes his head quickly, and snaps his fingers once. It is a

sharp crisp sound. She remembers that until she was ten, the only fingersnap she could make sounded like a boneless phup! no snap near it. The child nods and snaps his fingers twice.

Not a parley, a language lesson,

and she's tempted to snap her fingers three times and say Maybe.

"I get that. Out of sight communication with you is one for no and two for yes, am I right?" and snaps her fingers twice for emphasis.