from you. (But it's just before
7, and I don't think you'll welcome a call this early.) Let us know if you're doing something and don't want
him round -- Piri'll pick him up. Otherwise I will, tonight. Natouhoa Joe G. XXX
Very different note from the formal Thank you of yesterday.
But where's the brat been since 7 this morning? And what's all this about? It doesn't feel right. Yet nobody's
stomped on my heart except family, so why am I so mistrustful of people?
A meal, and a chess game or two, and he signs the letter with kisses like a lifetime friend. And this one,
grinning like a gargoyle from his chair where he's kneeling, brings a ring for a ring untaken, and the making
of a garden of prayers. I don't understand it....
She wasn't smiling back at the child.
Was it being a listening ear for the man?
Someone to tell troubles to? Suspicions?...
And what is the attraction for a disturbed and zany child here?
Me? Nah, he knows I don't much like him.
"What about school though?" undecided what to do. . He frowns briefly. Picks the notebook off the table, and weighs it in his hand, then takes a slip of paper from an unsealed envelope in the back of it.
It is another note from Joe, this time excusing his son's absence from school on the grounds of sickness for
the week to come.
Simon is writing while she reads it.
I AM SICK SOMETIMES
"Conveniently, like now?" She returns his excuse. "How often do you actually turn up at school? Monthly?
Or just a couple of times a year?"
He's writing again. JOE SAYS I GO, I GO
"I'll bet." She thinks, Hell, imagine if they both think I'm going to put up with him all the times he misses. No way.
He is looking at her narrowly.
I KNOW WHAT THEY DO. He stops, searching for a word, his teeth clenching in exasperation.
She sits down at the table again.
"You know what who does?'
He grinds his teeth.
"Is it about school, and your absence therefrom?"
No.
Then he nods.
Shakes his head.
He is actually shaking all over with the effort of trying to find a way to show what he wants to say.
"Is it a word you need? Or a whole sentence?"
He hits the table with the pencil and it breaks. Point smashed.
He puts his face in his hands.
She picks up the pencil, takes out her knife and sharpens it carefully, whittling away little resinous curls of
wood. There is a faint fresh smell of cedar: it must have been an old pencil. As she makes a new point on the
lead, she says slowly,
"If you like, we could start again at the beginning of this conversation, and feel our way to the words you
want."
He puts his hands down on the table and avoids her eyes. He's been snivelling but quietly.
"So. Here we are at the beginning. How often do you go to school?"
MOST DAYS
He looks at that, shakes his head, and with one hand guarding his eyes, amends,
SOME DAYS
"And that's of each week?" Yes, he nods. "For some days of each week, the days Joe says you're to go to school, you go to school. Right?"
He is grinning again. Weirdly, through the tears and the breadcrumbs and the muttonbird grease. MOST
TIMES, writes Simon recalcitrant.
"Occasions Joe don't know about, you play hooky? Stay away from school?
"Goodoh," to his nod, privately thinking Ratbag.
The child hugs himself, and his face goes tight again. He points to her face.
"I show an expression of disapproval or something?"
He looks puzzled momentarily, and then shakes his hand, No. He screws up his mouth at the notebook and
pencil, and writes reluctantly,
I WONT STAY HERE ALL THE TIME. I KNOW WHAT THEY
DO.
"I'm beat. If you mean you're not staying here all the times you're absent from school, you're dead right. I'll be doing other things often, and won't want you underfoot. But as to this other -- you know what who does?
To whom?"
Simon looks at the table.
"Hey listen, some things are easier if you're not concentrating on them. Come and do some drawing with me,
and forget the lost words for the moment eh? If it's important,
7, and I don't think you'll welcome a call this early.) Let us know if you're doing something and don't want
him round -- Piri'll pick him up. Otherwise I will, tonight. Natouhoa Joe G. XXX
Very different note from the formal Thank you of yesterday.
But where's the brat been since 7 this morning? And what's all this about? It doesn't feel right. Yet nobody's
stomped on my heart except family, so why am I so mistrustful of people?
A meal, and a chess game or two, and he signs the letter with kisses like a lifetime friend. And this one,
grinning like a gargoyle from his chair where he's kneeling, brings a ring for a ring untaken, and the making
of a garden of prayers. I don't understand it....
She wasn't smiling back at the child.
Was it being a listening ear for the man?
Someone to tell troubles to? Suspicions?...
And what is the attraction for a disturbed and zany child here?
Me? Nah, he knows I don't much like him.
"What about school though?" undecided what to do. . He frowns briefly. Picks the notebook off the table, and weighs it in his hand, then takes a slip of paper from an unsealed envelope in the back of it.
It is another note from Joe, this time excusing his son's absence from school on the grounds of sickness for
the week to come.
Simon is writing while she reads it.
I AM SICK SOMETIMES
"Conveniently, like now?" She returns his excuse. "How often do you actually turn up at school? Monthly?
Or just a couple of times a year?"
He's writing again. JOE SAYS I GO, I GO
"I'll bet." She thinks, Hell, imagine if they both think I'm going to put up with him all the times he misses. No way.
He is looking at her narrowly.
I KNOW WHAT THEY DO. He stops, searching for a word, his teeth clenching in exasperation.
She sits down at the table again.
"You know what who does?'
He grinds his teeth.
"Is it about school, and your absence therefrom?"
No.
Then he nods.
Shakes his head.
He is actually shaking all over with the effort of trying to find a way to show what he wants to say.
"Is it a word you need? Or a whole sentence?"
He hits the table with the pencil and it breaks. Point smashed.
He puts his face in his hands.
She picks up the pencil, takes out her knife and sharpens it carefully, whittling away little resinous curls of
wood. There is a faint fresh smell of cedar: it must have been an old pencil. As she makes a new point on the
lead, she says slowly,
"If you like, we could start again at the beginning of this conversation, and feel our way to the words you
want."
He puts his hands down on the table and avoids her eyes. He's been snivelling but quietly.
"So. Here we are at the beginning. How often do you go to school?"
MOST DAYS
He looks at that, shakes his head, and with one hand guarding his eyes, amends,
SOME DAYS
"And that's of each week?" Yes, he nods. "For some days of each week, the days Joe says you're to go to school, you go to school. Right?"
He is grinning again. Weirdly, through the tears and the breadcrumbs and the muttonbird grease. MOST
TIMES, writes Simon recalcitrant.
"Occasions Joe don't know about, you play hooky? Stay away from school?
"Goodoh," to his nod, privately thinking Ratbag.
The child hugs himself, and his face goes tight again. He points to her face.
"I show an expression of disapproval or something?"
He looks puzzled momentarily, and then shakes his hand, No. He screws up his mouth at the notebook and
pencil, and writes reluctantly,
I WONT STAY HERE ALL THE TIME. I KNOW WHAT THEY
DO.
"I'm beat. If you mean you're not staying here all the times you're absent from school, you're dead right. I'll be doing other things often, and won't want you underfoot. But as to this other -- you know what who does?
To whom?"
Simon looks at the table.
"Hey listen, some things are easier if you're not concentrating on them. Come and do some drawing with me,
and forget the lost words for the moment eh? If it's important,
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