Keri Hulme - The Bone People

He claps his hands together twice, deliberately, sarcastically.

Smartass, says Kerewin inside herself, grinning in an unfriendly way at him.

"Well, the coffee on the table will be cold by now. That's why I wanted to know whether you still wanted to drink it."

Snap.

"Okay. You want something else to drink? I have," counting off the list on her fingers, "wine and mead and sundry ales, beer and liqueurs and spirits, none of which you're getting. Water and milk and applejuice; limejuice, lemon and orange; cider of my own brewing, and teas, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, and herbal of many kinds. So which?"

Coffee, he mouths, with exaggerated lip movements, Coff-feee, and the teeth-bare gap is there again.

Contrary little sod.

"You just said you didn't want any?"

He makes a series of corkscrew spirals near his ear.

"You're nuts or you change your mind? Don't answer, I agree with both interpretations… anyway, you've missed your only chance to try Holmes' famous herbal tea, a soporific manuka brew, foolish child. Actually," she says, getting up, "it tastes disgusting, but it's very useful if you're an insomniac."

His face shows, What the hell are you talking about?

"If you're projecting what I think you're projecting, boy, the answer is, obfuscation is my trade. I didn't get to be thirty odd and horridly rich by being intelligible, hokay?"

She's grinding a handful of coffee beans by now. The mill had belonged to a great great grandmother, who brought it all the way from the Hebrides a hundred years ago. When she parted, in violence and tears, from her family, she had made a special expedition

Call it by its right name, o my soul to gain the coffee-mill.

By thievery and stealth in the dead of the night, I acquired thee….

She ran her hand lightly over the little machine, and talked loud nonsense to cover her pain. The child sits, his eyes hooded, and doesn't make any response.

The rain hasn't eased.

The radiophone hasn't buzzed.

For a cat, when in doubt, wash: for a Holmes, ruffle a guitar.

She takes her oldest guitar down from the wall, and picks a series of delicate harmonics to check the tuning. Then, the body of the guitar cuddled into her, she plays wandering chords and long pure notes and abrupt plucked melodies. The music melds into the steady background white noise of the rain.

At the end of it, she sighs, and props the guitar against herself.

"Do you like guitar music, ahh, boy?"

His eyes are shut and his mouth is open, and she is unsure whether he is ecstatic or gone to sleep.

He blinks rapidly and nods, Yes.

"Mmmm." She lays the guitar down. "What do they call you incidentally? Surely not Simon P. Gillayley all the time?"

He shakes his head, and presents his forefingers straight out, about two inches apart.

She rubs her eyes ostentatiously.

"Yeah?"

The boy looks at her with disgust. His lips are pinched as though he's tasted something bad, and his nostrils are flared, eyes narrowed — and suddenly all expression is wiped. His face is a blank, a mask showing nothing, and his eyes are cold. I'm not talking to you. I don't like being played with. He turns his back on her.

Ratbag, smartass, and sulky with it. Kerewin shrugs, and picks up the guitar again.

Shall we be nasty and throw it out right now? Nah, our sense of hospitality won't stand for that… yet.

Once the guest has eaten and drunk at your table, the guest becomes tan. beggar or enemy, friend or chief, if they knock on your door,

if open; if they seek your shelter, it will be given, and if they ask for hospitality, give them your bread and wine… for who knows When you may need the help of a fellow human? Insure against the chance, and at least endure every miserable sulky dumb brat mat you happen to find in your windows… thrum, golpe, golpe, rasguedo, and she launches into an ersatz flamenco rhythm.

The rain responds by pissing down harder than ever.

She hangs the old guitar back on the wall, stroking its amber belly and wondering what to do next, and the radiophone buzzes.

"Hello?"

"About that number in Whangaroa you want…"

"Yes, yes?"

"Have you got Simon Gillayley there?"

A long pause while she reassembles her proposed conversation, Sir/Madam, your son is loitering in my tower and will you kindly remove the same-

"How the berloody hell did you know?"

He laughs drily.

"It happens often enough."

She throws a glance at the sullen little boy, still crouched back to her on the hearthskins.

"Ohhh."

"His father is out, y'know."

"I don't," says Kerewin shortly. "I never saw the brat until a couple of hours ago."

The operator giggles.

"You've missed a lot… anyway, I thought I'd better let you know in case there's trouble."

Pregnant pause.

And what bastard news comes forth?

"His father, Joe Gillayley, nice bloke incidentally, well, he won't be home till late. Guarantee it. If he gets home, that is."

She swallows. "I see."

"If I were you," the operator sounds happy he's not, "I'd ring Wherahiko Tainui and see if he or Piri'll come and pick up the boy."

"And what's this Wherahiko's number?"

"O, I've already tried it for you, and they're out at the moment too. Shall I give you a call when I raise them?"

Kerewin draws in her breath, "I-"

"Or would you like me to get them to ring you?"

"That would do, but…."

"Of course, it might be an idea to ring the police now. They know what to do…."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nooo, on second thoughts…" the man taps his mouth piece. "Tell you what, whether I can get hold of the Tainuis or not I'll ring you before I go off at seven thirty. How'll that be?"

"Fine," says Kerewin, "but…."

"Rightio." Click.

What the hell do I do now?

She walks slowly to the window, frowning. Round all the arc of glass, trickling rivulets of rain. Outside, greyness, deep enough for twilight. At the horizon it is hard to see where the sea leaves off and the sky begins.

The police will know what to do? What am I sheltering? A criminal, some kind of juvenile delinquent? Hell, hardly… it doesn't look more than, than about, o five years old? It must be more than that, though. I'm ahem (polishing mental nails) exceedingly bright, and I didn't write coherently until I was seven — coherently enough for the adults to always understand what I mean, that is. But then again, I could talk. Vociferously.

A sudden gust slashes against the windows. I can hardly send him out in that.

Outside, the wind would be howling and hard. There is a stand of alien pines half a mile along the beach, and she can see them bending from here.

Something touches her thigh.

She spins round, viciously quick, her palms rigid and ready as knives.

The urchin has sprouted by her side, asking questions with all its fingers.

"Sweet apricocks and vilest excreta… boy, don't do that again."

It was like watching a snail, she thinks coldly. One moment, all its horns are out and it's positively sailing along its silken slime path, and the next moment… ooops, retreat into the shell.

The urchin has snatched its hands behind its back and is standing fearful and still.

"Ahh hell," says Kerewin, her actor's voice full of friendship, "it is just that I get easily surprised by unexpected contacts eh. Besides, I couldn't follow what you were saying… if you make everything nice and simple and slow, even snailbrains like myself might gather what you mean. See?"

It may have been the genuine amusement in her voice that fooled it, for the horns come out again. Only this time he looks at her carefully while he gestures. Seven fingers spread briefly, and then one hand describes fluid circles.