The Bone People (33 page)

More silence, filled with the slow breathing of the sea.

"You know something?" He shakes his head. "That's the first time I've seen him do anything like play."

"Yeah, well..." Staring into his glass. "He doesn't play much, I dunno why. We tried, Hana and I, gave Mm all kinds of toys at first. Blocks and dolls and trucks, but Timote knew more than he did when it came to

playing with them. He didn't exactly ignore them, but it was like he didn't know why he should bother with

them. We used to play with the darn things more than he did, showing him how and that, and he used to look

at us rather kindly, but with distinct superiority... and then all the gear started getting lost. He gave some of it away quite openly to Piri's kids."

"Kids? I understood he only had one?"

"No, he's got four. Lynn, his wife, took three with her, and he looks after Timote. It's a bit daft," he says, swirling the whisky round in his glass. "Timote's the one who could have most used his mother's care, and the

oldest, Liz, dotes on Piri and wanted to stay with him... but you can't order other people's lives, eh?"

"You can't... so Piri and Mrs Piri are separated?"

"In the process of getting as far separated as possible, but Piri doesn't want-it...

anyway, him and his toy phobia, well not a toy phobia, a disinterest. You know about the music things?"

"Yes."

"There's two music boxes. A little pile of junk, mainly clock innards, and I think they all get fed into his

crazy constructions. He used to have that black case with his beads in it... he played with those for a while,

when he thought no-one was around to grab them. And that's about it."

"What about the stuff he ah, borrows?"

He frowns.

"That's not so much to play with as gloat over, I think. A mad magpie instinct, you know?"

"I can imagine... does he keep all the gear at home? You fall across say, hordes of old chess queens and

things from time to time?"

He grins despite himself.

"Nope. Some of the things he thieves stay in his pockets. I think he's got a hideaway round the house for

other stuff though."

"I know this is a sore subject with you and all that, but um, since I'm going to be shouldering that soupcon of responsibility, does he shoplift? Or is all the loot whizzed away from friends and relations?"

"I wouldn't know, e hoa, I truly wouldn't know." He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at his whisky again.

"He swipes gear from everyone, you included, at some stage or other, and he's been accused of thieving at

school. But nobody proved that one," thinking momentarily of what Binny Daniels said. He shakes his head,

trying to shake the old man's words away physically, He adds heavily, "No-one's caught him shoplifting.

Yet." He swallows the whisky in a hurry. "Aie, I don't know, Kerewin... he's been told and hit a lot for

stealing, but he still does it."

"That only shows that hitting him isn't a particularly good way to teach Sim."

She fills his glass, pours another dram for herself. She starts filling her pipe, her face thoughtful.

"What else can I do though?"

"Talk to him maybe. Try and find out why he does it."

"Last year," says Joe, cupping his chin in his hands, "I took him to a children's psychologist after a lot of hints from Bill Drew at school. The fella asked a lot of questions, but... he was a nice enough bloke, I

suppose, but his voice never got raised above a confessional whisper and his breath smelt of, I think, garlic

and peppermint, and he kept on saying, "Not to worry ah Mr ah Gillayley, we'll soon know a little more."

Kerewin chuckles. "Sounds a cretinous git."

He looks at her, and the lines on his face lighten a little. "Yeah... I'll guarantee he never got to know that little bit more anyway, because Himi sits there and stares the whole time. The bloke puts out all kinds of puzzles

and asks questions every minute in this low tell-it-to-me voice, and Haimona doesn't make a move. Sits there

with his mouth open, looking like an idiot. Not a twitch or a squeak out of him, nothing eh, nothing at all.

The child psych says after about half an hour, 'Ah Mr ur Gillayley, is he always this um non-responsive?'

And that bloody Sim sort of slides me a look sideways, and I can see he's nearly killing himself keeping a

straight face. And I have to say in all seriousness, 'Ah no, Doctor, he's normally um very lively. I think it's

just the strange surrounding eh.' And that was that. The fella made another appointment for us to come

back, but by mutual consent, we decided it wasn't worth the trip into Taiwhenuawera.

"I think your son's got a rather wicked sense of humour."

Joe sighs, back to being serious again. "He's got a different sense of humour. Different sense of everything."

"Mmmm." She lights her pipe, and watches the match twist and blacken and go out. "You ever go to anyone else in the psych field?"

"We'd have to go to Christchurch, eh."

"Mmmm." After a minute, "It doesn't make sense. Neglected and unhappy kids steal to get attention. Sim's not neglected, but he's probably been unhappy because of the way he's been treated, and,"

Joe winces,

"disregarding his background, his handicap, he's had reason to go round pinching stuff to show people, 'Hey,

here I am, I want you to help me.' But that doesn't tie in with not playing, and not owning stuff. I don't think

so, anyway."

She takes the pipe out of her mouth, and swallows the glassful of whisky. "Ahh... does he play with other

kids at all?"

"No, not at school. Not according to the teachers. He generally stays on the fringes of anything going on,

looking... and he's never brought anyone home to play or gone to play with anyone as far as I know. He sticks

round adults most of the time, or goes away by himself. He did used to play with Whai and Liz and Maurie --

that's Piri's lot, and they're all nice kids -- but there was a hell of a lot of fights."

"What over?"

"O anything and nothing. One moment they're all happy hide and go seeking or whatever, and the next

boomf! Sim's in, boots and all."

"But there must have been some kind of provocation or misunderstanding each time?"

"It's pretty hard to find out what started things when you've got a yard full of kids all yowling and hammering one another." He adds, "Liz always used to take Himi's side--"

"Good for her... you could have asked them after though, Joe."

He shrugs. "Well, what with one thing and another, we never did."

"O." She lights her pipe again, and puffs away in silence.

He doesn't seem to have thought about the boy in any deep fashion. Why Sim does strange or wild or bad

things... he either kicks or kisses the brat, and hopes things'll work out. Like if he hits him enough, Sim'll stop

stealing, without finding out what started him stealing in the first place. Or maybe the spiderchild has always

been lightfingered?

and she's just about to ask him that, when the door opens, and the boy stumbles inside.

Joe takes one look, "Ah Jesus, nightmares," and kneels down, gathering his son into his arms. Another time, she thinks.

Tide Out

Very early morning, fine and mild.

("You reckon we ought to go? After last night?"

"Yeah, he's all right. Box of birds.")

The sea is mid-tide, on its way out, but flat and quiet. The water curls sleepily onto the beach, stays awhile in

a flat silver sheet, and then seeps back into itself. There isn't a wave anywhere to speak of.

"Urn, has he been out in a boat since being shipwrecked?"

"No." He whispers it, reluctant to break the silence of the dawning.

"Ye gods and little fishes...."

What will we get? Pandemonium? Or he'll just be scared shitless?

She picks up a lifejacket.

"Give him that, it's smallest... this can be yours. O, and tell him he better go to the toilet now, because it's okay for pissing out there, but anything else is bloody awkward."

Joe glances at her and his eyes twinkle. He says in an ordinary voice, "Don't worry, he's already been. So've

I."

"Okay...."

"Can I carry anything for you?"

"No. I'll take the rods and the bait, and you can bring him. Led, carried, or whatever."

He goes back to the bach, and Kerewin heads for the boat.

Her craft back at Whangaroa is a 36 foot converted fishing trawler, with a 100 h.p. inboard. It has a galley,

bunks, and lockers, and is equipped with everything she thought useful or decorative. Radar, depth sounder,

electronic compass, marine radio, chart library. She could live on board, for everything necessary is there,

from the small fridge and cooker to the extraordinary shower and WE arrangement. To date, she's taken the

vessel out on three fishing trips. The Aihe II is, as yet, a plaything among playthings in plenty.

The craft waiting for her at the water's edge is a 12 foot clinker-built dinghy, and it's powered by a

temperamental 5 h.p. outboard. There is a splashboard at the bow, and three seats, and no gadgetry at all. As

Kerewin's brothers were apt to say, there was precious little comfort either.

But the boat is as old as she is. She practically grew up in it, learned to swim from it, row in it, handle it in

seas and weather of most kinds. She knows and loves every inch of the nameless little ship, from the screw

gouges the motor has made on the sternboard,

to the set of grooves at the bow where she's hauled up the anchor times out of mind.

You've been taken care of, she thinks. Someone has repainted the boat during the past six years -- the blue is

darker than the last coat she'd given her -- and one of the curved pieces of wood holding the port rowlock

shaft has been neatly replaced. There's new canvas covering the lattice in her bottom, and the anchor rope is

nylon now, not sisal.

But if only I could have taken you when I pinched the coffee-grinder--

She'd swap the Aihe for it, right now.

She stows the two rods under the seats, the thermos flasks in the bowlocker together with fruit and smokes

and sandwiches and first aid kit. She can hear the crunch of footsteps on sand behind her, and Joe talking

steadily, quietly.

"All well?" as she clambers out of the boat.

"More or less. Do you want a hand to shove off?"

"Help us get her right afloat, and then you and Sim get aboard. I'll do the rest."

The dinghy is heavy and hard to shift on land, but in the sea it's a different story. She stands, sea near the top

of her boots, holding the boat steady as Joe wades to the stern carrying his son, lifts him aboard.

"Sit in the middle," says Kerewin to the child, who has squatted in the bottom as soon as he could.

"I'll sit with him." Joe climbs awkwardly over the side. The dinghy rocks and sidles, and the boy hunches his shoulders as though he's been struck.

Hell, we should leave him behind,

but she keeps her face impassive.

She pushes out hard, and in the same movement, swings herself nimbly up on the sternboard, kneeling by the

motor a second before stepping onto the seat.

"You've done that a few times..." Joe has settled himself on the middle seat, holding Simon.

"Yeah, but you should have seen some of the other performances. Distinctly inelegant, to say the least... I've

brought her in broadside, and nearly turned her over. Gone out on a wrong wave and ended up bum in the air,

boots waving goodness knows where. Lost oars, dented her bow, bent the propeller blade on a rock I

somehow didn't see. One of the neatest though," she's winding the starter cord round the motor-head, "was a time when I was half-drunk. I should never have gone out, but I wanted to check some pots," she pulls the

cord and the motor sputters, but doesn't keep going, "damn." She squeezes the bulb on the petrol feedline

again. "Anyway, I do this

act, get her launched, push her out -- it's a sea like this, calm as a duck pond -- and swing myself on board. I

ended up under water. I remember thinking, 'Shoot, were'd the boat go?' as I sank." She pulls the cord again,

and this time the motor spins into life. She keeps it in neutral a moment, the noise crackling round the bay as

she revs it. Before she puts it in gear she adds, "They were killing themselves on shore. They could see it was all going to happen. I apparently hopped up on the stern all right, and then kind of forgot she was still

moving. She cruised out from underneath me while I was still plotting where to put my feet next."

In gear, and the boat heads out past the reef for the open sea. Joe says something to Simon, and maybe to her,

but she can't hear what it is above the outboard's racket, so she smiles and shrugs to him.

The dinghy is riding badly, and normally she handles well in any kind of sea. It's the weight of the Gillayleys,

parked midcentre so the bow lifts high.

"Hey! Go forward!"

"What?"

Kerewin idles the motor. "The boat's out of trim. Too much weight this end. If you go forward, we'll ride that

much easier eh?"

Joe glances down.

"Ah hell," she says, and switches off the motor.

She has been avoiding looking at Simon on the principle that if you ignore something unpleasant, it often

goes away. If the brat's going to throw a wobbly, she doesn't want to know about it. It is awkward not to see

someone a yard away, however, once your attention has been drawn to them.

The boy is huddled into himself, even though his father's arms surround him. His face is white, and his eyes

are tightly closed. Presumably he thinks that if he stops looking at the sea, it might go away too.

Is he sick with the motion, with fear, or with memory? At least he's not making a fuss.