The Bone People by Keri Hulme Read Free Book Online Page B

this morning, and what do you want for breakfast?"
    From hearsay, children wallow in milk. She considers her normal breakfast, black coffee and yoghurt, while
    watching something like
    guilt slide across his face and vanish, and composes a list of alternatives.
    "You like, say, porridge? Coffee? Milk? Fruit? Blackpuddingeggsanonions?"
    He nods to the lot, sitting up now and holding his hands with the fingers spread out.
    God knows what it's trying to say, but she answers,
    "Hokay, so you'll be eating for a month of Sundays."
    He leans back on his elbows and yawns a yawn that is partly sighed.
    "I'll leave you to get up then. You know where the bathroom is. I'll be down on the next floor, doing exciting
    things like lighting the fire and burning the breakfast."
    He looks at her uneasily. As she goes out the door, he clicks his fingers.
    "A yes? Or what?"
    He pantomimes while she ponders aloud, "Sleep? Definitely sleep... okay, did I sleep? Nope? Where did I
    sleep? Nope? O, did I have a good sleep?"
    Impatient fingers, Yes, Yes, Yes.
    "I did, o politeness-impersonated. Aside from the penitential part," and leaves him to consider that.
    The only time she regretted having a range was now, early on a cold morning facing a grate full of ash. So
    much easier to flick switches... she loathes all the cold iron frame of it until the fire is lit and it begins to live again.
    Upstairs, Simon is thinking. What does she talk like that for? To fool me? and shakes his head in
    exasperation. Kerewin's multisyllables were, for the main part, going straight in one ear and out the other,
    leaving behind an increasing residue of strange sounds and bewilderment.
    What does that mean, penitential?
    "That's the penitentiary, you. So watch it."
    Joe to Luce: "Tell him you mean jail. And it's not for you,
    tama."
    But he couldn't place or connect that either. He kneels for some minutes on the end of the bed, trying to
    dredge up more past conversation that contained the word, but that's the only bit that sounds similar. So he
    gives up, and limps down the stairs, more mindful of his heel than when he had first slid out of bed and kept
    going straight on down with the shock of impact.
    She made a thick oatmeal porridge that bubbled and klopped like a waking mudpool; fried half a loop of
    black pudding and two onions and several eggs in butter; made coffee and toast with quick and
    careless efficiency; then loaded the lot in assorted hot plates and bowls and mugs onto the dropleaf bench.
    "Eat."
    She is a slow and methodical eater, not from convictions regarding health but because she enjoys food of all
    kinds immensely. Save for offal: humble pie ain't for her eating. Brain, tripe, liver and guts
    --nuts to 'em. But o for the black blood pudding and the merry
    kidney stew!
    The boy finishes before she does again, ducks his head and eyes her over his arms again, but this time he
    grins as he does it.
    And maybe it is because it is a new day with the sun just coming up, but the annoying nature of his presence
    has faded. Despite herself, she becomes involved in a conspiracy of smiles.
    Which is bloody stupid. But then again, a smile doesn't cost that much, and he's not a bad looking goblin.
    She starts washing dishes, slinging him a teatowel. "Here, payment for board," fervently hoping his minor
    speciality won't manifest itself. But he does dishes very well, spending long careful moments doing clusters
    of soap bubbles to death, and not dropping a single cup.
    Kerewin sits smoking, crosslegged by the fire, watching her smokerings dissolve over the still spread form of
    the boy,
    who is thinking, not half so much asleep as he seems, It looks like someone tried to cut her throat.
    What the hell have you done to your hair? Kerewin thinks. Nothing, I'll bet. Snarled, entangled, a ravelment.
    Slept in, obviously.
    Almost telepathically, he lifts a hand, becomes absorbed in combing a knot out with his fingers.
    "You want to wear it like sailors used to," says