Keri Hulme - The Bone People

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.

"Easy, e hoa. Be gentle now. They're gone."

"I," she says sweetly, "am as full of fight as seaweed, and hardened as the unshelled snail… lend us that guitar, would you mind?"

"Nah, sure, glad of a break," says the guitarist, bringing the strap over his head, and passing the instrument to her. "Here you go."

She checks the tuning swiftly, harmonics lingering in the air until she cuts them short with the flat of her hand.

On the open strings she picks a quick tune, says to Joe laughing, "I call this Simon's Mead Reel, though you don't know about that," chords A minor, while he shakes his head in bewilderment, and then she sings,

E wine,

puts a fog upon the mind,

drowns down those hard old memories

to a thin blear line,

e wine-

Fingers dancing over the strings, changing the tune an octave lower:

E wine,

through the cloud I see

him walk away from me,

but I'm gone beyond the caring time,

zing, and up again,

E wine, e wine…

a reeling tune, lightfooted, lightheaded, only just catching its balance as it slips and dances:

E wine,

just a shade that's left behind

caressing this hard bottle as I please,

drinking my shadow blind,

E wine… e wine… e wine…

voice trailing away, the quick picked tune going lighter and lighter and lighter it's gone- Clapping and hoots and "E bloody neat!'"s.

She grins round at them, belly of the guitar close to her, strong hands spreadfingered over the strings.

What did she mean, Simon's mead reel? Mead's a drink, reel's a dance, but what does Haimona have to do with them?

"Come on, give us another! More!" they start to drone, "More!"

"You really want another?" her grin sharp, and into the chorus of Yes, Geddonwithit, she strums a series of major chords. The crowd quietens fast, and she says, eyes glinting and very blue,

"This is a song for a friend of mine, same one I mentioned before as a matter of fact. You might know him,"

a note jangles, seemingly mispicked, but it comes again and again, until all ears are hearing it more than the surrounding chord.

"He's the son of Joe Gillayley here," twang, "a little kid, but very sharpwitted," a higher note has started to ring against the first jangle, "Hell, mimin' Simon caint talk, but hell he, got hands aint he?" zang/ping, zaang/piing, they duel back and forth, and the steady throb of the chords goes on underneath.

"Other words, he uses his hands to talk with, this small friend of mine, and this song'll let you do that too, if you want. But not at me, okay?"

Rustle and murmur all round: here and there heads swivel to look surreptitiously at Joe, and see how he's taking this introduction.

His heart is beating painfully hard, the thud going against the rhythm of the guitar, faster and louder in his ears.

Ah God, sweet Jesus, look at her… leanwristed, leanankled, but strong thickhipped body, ripe for bearing children no matter what she says… Lord, I could have more children by her… narrow waist I could put my hands around. Swaybacked she says, a draught mare, she says, paunched before I'm forty, beerbellied and wellbellied, she says, laughing her head off… laughing at me now, and having a go at Sim, that's not fair, he'd be hurt, but why? Why God? I love her, and she won't let me close. Either of us close. Any of us close-

The song has been going on but his ears have been deaf to it. The chorus has been caught up by the people round him, and is boisterously chanted complete with the gesture.

O spirals are spirals and sweetly curled, but two straight fingers can vee the world,

'Vee ther world!" bawls a voice in his ear, and the man, full of tipsy good humour, punches him lightly on the shoulder. It's all he can do, heart quaking, fists clenched, to smile tightly at him.