beads keep track of the prayers you say, tell you what kind of prayer to say
next. You ever want to know them, I can teach you."
He makes no move to take the rosary.
She hands it to him again, so close that he can't avoid taking it. He frowns, and writes on his pad. Then he
kneels up and puts the rosary over her head, passes her his note, face tight, mouth tight, all of him condensed
and taut as though ready to spring or explode.
IT IS YOURS I GIVE IT TO YOU
Ah hell, what do we do now? Give it back and precipitate a scene?
because there is a rising flush on the Gillayley face and his tension is becoming almost unbearable.
Instead, she makes the circle of beads into three loops, and settles them round her neck.
'Okay, I thank you very much for your gift."
I can always sneak it back to Joe. Oddly, the rosary feels comfortable and familiar, clinking against
the Sufic maze. And more oddly, the small boy is delighted with himself for succeeding in giving it away.
Relaxed as water now, positively hugging himself for joy of it all.
Nutty child.
"Umm, d'you mind telling me what this is for?"
He shuts his eyes and shakes his head.
"You don't mind me asking? Or you're not telling?"
The pad and pencil are slipped deliberately back into his pocket.
Which reminds me. No more initialling each note. I musta got into the familiar category, or some damn thing.
"Then what's it for?"
The boy goes on shaking his head, so his hair falls screening his face.
The way it flows out with each turn of his head reminds her of the skirts of dancing dervishes as they spin to
ecstasy.
Exceedingly nutty child.
"Her. Well, we'll leave the matter there then." Gets to her feet, and puts the mutton-birds into the range oven, in an unlidded baking-dish.
"Come on," she says to the entranced child, "downstairs and help us collect some puha to go with them."
The muttonbirds turned golden in their own rich fat: the puha steamed quickly in water. Kerewin cut slices of
brown wheaten bread and left them unbuttered. Then they feasted. Muttonbirds have a lot of bones, some
dark, some pale as bones should be. They licked each one clean of flesh and fat, and wiped their fingers and
faces on bread before eating it. Picked up puha in their fingers: its slightly bitter taste was astringently
refreshing. A mouthful of bird, and one of bread, and a fingerful of puha, and then back to the bones.
He had muttonbird fat on his face, in his hair, all over his hands. And breadcrumbs... gone was the neat
precise eating of the weekend. This was hog in and enjoy.
And I probably look as bad, feel as good.
At last she said, leaning back against her chair,
"Do you know what was in that note from Joe?"
Simon sighed happily.
He wiped his mouth on his hands, and his hands on his jeans. Grinned at her while he did.
Then took out his notebook and wrote, JOE PICKS ME UP TONIGHT.
"You know." He has left delicate fingerprints of grease on the paper. "Well, I'm sort of pleased that you like being here, but what precisely do you think you're going to do?"
The little boy shrugged. .....
"Because I'm going upstairs to do some drawing in a minute. Simon licked his fingers, then held up the pencil
and pointed to himself.
Nice economical way to say, I'll draw too, assuming that's what
he means.
She stood, looking at him. The fey swirling mood had ended.
But, a tendency to steal and damage... not all there, said the radiophone voice. Joe had written:
Many thanks for the best night I've had in years. I'll buy a book on chess today and see if I can't beat you
some day at your own game. There's a bloke plays at work -- I'll ask him for a few tips.
Muttonbirds for lunch, and
You know, you got a fan. He thinks you're marvellous (so do I). Want a kid? Going cheap... if he's any
trouble, pack him home. That'll be a better inducement to good behaviour than any hiding I threaten. Bit of
cheek, eh, this letting him go back to you without so much as a word of permit
next. You ever want to know them, I can teach you."
He makes no move to take the rosary.
She hands it to him again, so close that he can't avoid taking it. He frowns, and writes on his pad. Then he
kneels up and puts the rosary over her head, passes her his note, face tight, mouth tight, all of him condensed
and taut as though ready to spring or explode.
IT IS YOURS I GIVE IT TO YOU
Ah hell, what do we do now? Give it back and precipitate a scene?
because there is a rising flush on the Gillayley face and his tension is becoming almost unbearable.
Instead, she makes the circle of beads into three loops, and settles them round her neck.
'Okay, I thank you very much for your gift."
I can always sneak it back to Joe. Oddly, the rosary feels comfortable and familiar, clinking against
the Sufic maze. And more oddly, the small boy is delighted with himself for succeeding in giving it away.
Relaxed as water now, positively hugging himself for joy of it all.
Nutty child.
"Umm, d'you mind telling me what this is for?"
He shuts his eyes and shakes his head.
"You don't mind me asking? Or you're not telling?"
The pad and pencil are slipped deliberately back into his pocket.
Which reminds me. No more initialling each note. I musta got into the familiar category, or some damn thing.
"Then what's it for?"
The boy goes on shaking his head, so his hair falls screening his face.
The way it flows out with each turn of his head reminds her of the skirts of dancing dervishes as they spin to
ecstasy.
Exceedingly nutty child.
"Her. Well, we'll leave the matter there then." Gets to her feet, and puts the mutton-birds into the range oven, in an unlidded baking-dish.
"Come on," she says to the entranced child, "downstairs and help us collect some puha to go with them."
The muttonbirds turned golden in their own rich fat: the puha steamed quickly in water. Kerewin cut slices of
brown wheaten bread and left them unbuttered. Then they feasted. Muttonbirds have a lot of bones, some
dark, some pale as bones should be. They licked each one clean of flesh and fat, and wiped their fingers and
faces on bread before eating it. Picked up puha in their fingers: its slightly bitter taste was astringently
refreshing. A mouthful of bird, and one of bread, and a fingerful of puha, and then back to the bones.
He had muttonbird fat on his face, in his hair, all over his hands. And breadcrumbs... gone was the neat
precise eating of the weekend. This was hog in and enjoy.
And I probably look as bad, feel as good.
At last she said, leaning back against her chair,
"Do you know what was in that note from Joe?"
Simon sighed happily.
He wiped his mouth on his hands, and his hands on his jeans. Grinned at her while he did.
Then took out his notebook and wrote, JOE PICKS ME UP TONIGHT.
"You know." He has left delicate fingerprints of grease on the paper. "Well, I'm sort of pleased that you like being here, but what precisely do you think you're going to do?"
The little boy shrugged. .....
"Because I'm going upstairs to do some drawing in a minute. Simon licked his fingers, then held up the pencil
and pointed to himself.
Nice economical way to say, I'll draw too, assuming that's what
he means.
She stood, looking at him. The fey swirling mood had ended.
But, a tendency to steal and damage... not all there, said the radiophone voice. Joe had written:
Many thanks for the best night I've had in years. I'll buy a book on chess today and see if I can't beat you
some day at your own game. There's a bloke plays at work -- I'll ask him for a few tips.
Muttonbirds for lunch, and
You know, you got a fan. He thinks you're marvellous (so do I). Want a kid? Going cheap... if he's any
trouble, pack him home. That'll be a better inducement to good behaviour than any hiding I threaten. Bit of
cheek, eh, this letting him go back to you without so much as a word of permit
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