The Bone People (65 page)

have to behave outrageously for people to notice him. We don't think we can give him that. That's why we

are looking for a suitable foster home."

The other man nods.

"You know a lot of our children are disturbed. You've looked after some of them yourself," another nod, "so you can appreciate that disturbed behaviour takes all kinds of forms. This child insists on carrying as much of

his past around with him as he can lay hold of, at all times. In a self-destructive fashion, he invites our

criticism, our disapproval. It reassures him that we notice him, even if only in a punitive way."

He leans the chair back again.

"When he came to us from the Masterton Hohepa home, we knew he would be a difficult child to look after,

and to place."

He reaches into a drawer, and takes out a file.

"He was sent to Masterton from Christchurch hospital in October. He ran away the second day after he

arrived. He didn't get very far on that occasion -- he has difficulty in walking distances -- but one week

afterwards, he was picked up twenty miles out of town. He'd apparently hitched a ride. During the next three

weeks, he set fire to a garden shed, provoked several fights with other members of the Hohepa household,

destroyed quite an amount of their play equipment, and absconded a total of seven times. On the last

occasion, he was picked up on the Picton ferry, and nobody knows how he got that far, or how he got on it.

He's an uncommonly resourceful child -- in what he thinks are his interests. But the Hohepa people,

understandably, can't appreciate that kind of resourcefulness. They have the rest of their people to consider,

so they gave up. The Social Welfare sent him to us."

"Sounds a charming sort of a boy."

Brother Keenan looks at him. "Curiously, he is. Or can be, on occasion. However, he is totally

uncontrollable."

("An uncontrollable seven year old? Aw, come on Brother!"

"This is a seven year old who is very different to any other seven year old I have ever encountered. And I

have been involved with children in church organisations for nearly thirty years. I have seen a great many

seven year olds."

"But there must be dozens of ways you could put a bit of pressure on him, to make him toe the line. For his

own good, he needs to nave a bit of...."

"May I tell you what has happened since he's arrived here? So you will be completely in the picture, and can

make a wise decision?"

"Oh sure, Brother. Fire ahead."

"He's been here a month, yes, arrived November the fifth. He was wearing the shirt and jeans and jacket and

gear you've seen him in. As always, we removed those and gave him one of our uniforms. He didn't protest at

first. But the following day, he simply took off all the new clothes, and refused to wear them. We explained,

we cajoled, we even threatened -- to no avail. We thought, he needs a little time to settle in, and after that

he'll accept the uniform quite happily when he sees he is differently dressed from everyone else. He is quite

happy to be differently dressed from everyone else, however. He still refuses to wear any clothes other than

the ones he arrived in. When they're being washed, he wears nothing. And if they look a little scruffy,"

peering at the man opposite him, "it's because they're apparently the clothes he was admitted to hospital in, or was given there, and he's been wearing them ever since. We attempted to trim his hair. He tried and nearly

succeeded, in stabbing Brother Antony with the scissors, and when held, screamed himself rapidly into

hysteria. We haven't tried to cut his hair again."

"Aw, but good heavens, what's a bit of an uproar when --"

Brother Keenan interrupts,

"You haven't seen or heard him scream." He adds drily, "It's quite a performance."

He scans the file pages. "Now, what's next? O yes. November 11th: disappeared. Brought back by the police

from Christchurch railway station. November 12th: disappeared. Picked up by the local policeman at Otira

from the Coast railcar. November 25th: disappeared. Returned from Whangaroa railway station, once again

by the police. We were reduced to threatening him with corporal punishment the second time. The third time,

he was strapped. He laughed. It upset Brother Antony, rather."

"A bit harder, and he wouldn't have laughed."

Brother Keenan presses his fingers together again. Sacred Heart of Jesus, teach me compassion for all Thy

people. He says after a moment,

"It is very difficult to have to hit a child at all. To hit a child who is literally covered in scars from previous whippings is distasteful in the extreme. That kind of punishment doesn't seem to bother him, however. As far

as we know, no punishment bothers him. There isn't very much you can threaten or entice a child with, who

is impervious to peer group pressure, who simply refuses to write lines, who regards being detained in a

solitary bedroom as pleasant relaxation, and who thinks any of the special treats we have to offer, very

boring. Therefore, their curtailment is quite, quite immaterial."

"Mmmm, yeah--"

"We could, I suppose, if we merely wanted to make him conform to our standards, be brutal to him. Take

away all his small treasures,

insist he does as he's told, and order things in such a manner that he's obliged to. Starve him, or beat him, or

something disgusting like that," says Brother Keenan wearily. "But we are here to help him. He simply

doesn't want to be helped by us. He ignores the psychologist. I understand he actually goes to sleep during

school classes. He will not participate in any game or recreation. He has cold-shouldered all attempts by boys

and staff to make friends with him. He has no interest in church activities. He has no interest in anything

whatsoever, except returning to his home."

"I don't want to seem rude, Brother, but if he's as uncooperative as all that, why not let him?"

"For one thing, he is now a ward of the State. For another, there is no home for him to return to. His former

foster parent has vanished, and has sold the house where he and the child used to live. I have told him this,

several times. He does not believe me, and like everything else, you can not make him do anything, even

believe the truth."

"Why not show him it?"

"Pardon?"

"Let him go all the way home to... where is it? Whangaroa? and find out for himself. That'd probably bring

him back to his senses."

Brother Keenan, saying it quite gently, admonishes, "It would probably drive him out of them entirely."

The big man opposite coughs.

"Oh. Well. Ah, I see it's a bit more complicated than I thought."

"Yes," says Brother Keenan, and thinks that maybe this time hasn't been wasted after all.

"Well, d'you want me to take him home, and show him a bit of real family life?"

"Brother Antony says you have an enviable record in dealing with children from this home, and a particular

understanding when it comes to disturbed children." He thinks, I still have my doubts, but who else is there,

Lord?

''Yeah, well," Pat O'Donaghue is saying, "there was Felix, and Julian, Mata, I suppose you could call them all a bit round the twist. Bedwetters, destructive, rowdy, liars, that sort of thing. But they're all great kids now.

Me and Ann can handle that sort of thing. We're used to kids, disturbed ones and all, and we love them."

"Well, Mr O'Donaghue, this child is certainly in dire need of genuine love and care. You know I am a

newcomer to this parish and this home. I think in this instance, I will rely on Brother Antony's Judgement,

and ask you formally whether you are willing to look after the boy for a trial period, with a view to placing

him with you permanently as a foster-son."

'Yeah Brother, that'll be great... there's always room for someone who needs it at us O'Donaghues, and this

kid, like you say, sounds 'like he needs it. We'll take good care and I'll bet in a few months,

you won't recognise him, he'll be so much changed for the better." "I hope so," says Brother Keenan.

Indeed, I pray so... dear Father, I commend the child especially to Your care,

pressing the button on his desk,

it is time he was looked after as he deserves.

"O, Brother Michael, would you find Simon Gillayley and ask him to come to my office? On second

thoughts, would you bring him yourself?"

"Of course, Brother."

They wait for quite a long time.

Hi

One step, two step, three step, four, walking down the sandy track,

transistor turned up full bore and pressed against his ear.

Keep on goin Clare, you nearly home.

It has been a long two days, and a very long walk, and he is so tired he can't see or walk straight any more.

But I'm nearly there. So what if no-one came for me, I have come home by myself. Shrugging off the pain

again, no-one came.

He had a vague feeling you got ill-treated in some fashion in jail. He's thought that Joe might've gone to

Moerangi afterward, to get over it. That Kerewin might've gone with him, and they'd had to stay for a while.

Which is why they never came.

It had been a considerable shock to find other people in his home at Pacific Street. Warily wise now, he had

checked the station platform before getting off the train. No police standing ready. This time.

He had slipped off the train and gone home the back way, by the wharves. It was early evening, fine and

mild, which was just as well. His shirt was cotton, and the denim jacket Sinclair had given him wasn't all that

warm.

There was nobody in the street except some children, stranger children, playing outside his gate. He walked

up the path, his tiredness dropping from him with each step.

Shall I go straight in? Or knock and wait?

Knock and wait would be the better surprise... e, imagine his face!

The door opened.

"Yeah? Waddya want?"

The woman stood looking down at him angrily. "You been playin with my kids?" he's backing off the front

door step, eyes staring, his heart almost stopped, "You tell 'em their father's coming home any minute now

and they'd better get inside and quick about it."

He's back down the path, faltering. He said, he said--

The brother's soft voice, and his worried eyes, and his tightened lips above the choke of his collar.

What do I do? What do I do now?

The night was growing darker, colder. He watched the house from the other side of the road, and the man

who went in the door wasn't Joe.

What the hell can I do now? Where is he, why'd he leave me behind?

And suddenly he had enough anger to walk away, not knowing where to go, but needing to leave the house

with its children and baleful woman and sad-looking man behind.

He said he'd gone away, he said... but he can't have, he wouldn't go and not take me, he wouldn't,

and it comes as sudden and fiery as lightning, Of course! He's gone to live with Kerewin! Hugging himself

and weak with the relief of it all,

Jesus you stupid Clare, I knew it was lies all the time... why didn't you think before? You could've been home

now, instead of stuck in the dark. I can't get there tonight.

His legs are shaking, and his head has begun to hurt again. He makes it as far as the park, just past the

wharves. It is quiet and peopleless, only a weka scrabbling near the garden-shed. He used the shed as a

hideout once before: the brass padlock on the door looks impressive, but nobody seems to realise the side

window is always open, and big enough for him to get in by.

He climbs through the windows with difficulty, the hinges grating, and the weka squawks and scuttles into

the night.

His last conscious thought, curled up on papersacks watching two moons loom glowing outside the window,

was, Talk about me saying where I'm going, you gonna hear about this, e pa, for bloody weeks--He wakes

very early, stiff and aching and as thirsty as he's ever been in his life. Looking blearily round the shed for

something to ease him... nothing much here... there's a dufflebag hanging on the wall, and he climbs the

bench to get it. And when he reaches it, sweating and unsteady, wonder of wonders it holds two oranges, a

Parka, and a small transistor radio.

Hey loot galore Gillayley! slinging it over his shoulder, and clambering back down.

It takes him three goes to get out the window, but there's no one around outside.

He walks away as quickly as he can.

There's a mist about, sea fetch, breath of the sea, says Kerewin. It makes him feel safe, all the houses cloudy,

the sky-height hidden, the lamp-posts obscure, a car going past with dim yellow headlights, as he goes

walking through the town. He sees two people but neither take any notice of him.

It's still early morning when he arrives at the side road going past the Tainui farm.

Shall I visit? No way, I'll never make the Tower.

Another mile, plod, plod, and he reaches the turnoff. He knows it's a mile from Tainuis to the track, and three

miles to the Tower to go.

The sun has wheeled round to be halfway up the sky and the covering mist has gone.

It's growing hot, he feels slack and faint, and his tongue is so dry he can't spit even.

Take a break, Claro. A fast break. A breakfast,

mentally groaning at that, but delighted by his wit. Words mean a lot more, these days. He wilts to the grass

on the side of the track, spreading out the parka with shaking hands and lying down on it. He holds the

oranges up in front of him to peel them. Any juice that dribbled could then be drunk. That was the theory.