Cloudstreet

by Tim Winton

  One’s a slowbo, dja see?

  Is not, said Rose.

  Betcha.

  If yer yer father’s son yull bet on anythin.

  They listened to the thump and scrape of things moving in the other half of the house until their father came in.

  Who are they? Rose said.

  They’re called the Lambs.

  Ted fell on the bed laughing. Gawd, we’re living with sheep!

  The old man smiled. That’s their half now. They pay rent, so keep away.

  Why dja do it? Rose said.

  We’ve got no money, dick, Ted said.

  The old man was by the window looking down at the truck. People across the road were peering from between curtains. He ran his puffy knuckles over the sill.

  Time for youse to be in bed. You got school.

  I hate the new school, Chub said.

  It’s not new.

  I hate it.

  Get to bed.

  Chub followed Ted out the door and they banged it shut.

  You shouldna done this, Rose said.

  I’m your father.

  That night Rose Pickles lay and listened. A little kid cried, and one of the girls as well. Trains rolled thumping by. Lightning flared now and then, but there was no thunder.

  A long time after the house went quiet, she heard a door open across the hall. She got out of bed and pulled the door the tiniest bit to see a boy in pyjamas at the landing window looking out at the starless sky. In a moment of light she saw his face turn her way. His eyes were black. He was beautiful.

  Across the Corridor

  That autumn the street seemed full. There were always Pickles kids and Lamb kids up one end of the street throwing boondies or chasing someone’s dog. Sometimes they squared off at one another like opposing platoons. Most times they acted as though the other group didn’t exist. Everywhere they went they made a crowd, albeit a quiet one considering neither tribe spoke to the other. People stared at them from passing trains. Neighbours winced in anticipation of gang fights.

  The war got bogged down in Europe.

  Oriel Lamb supervised the digging up of their half of the backyard and it was a sight to see all the Lambs down there on their knees in the black dirt planting seedlings of onion and cabbage and the withered, shoothairy fists of old potatoes. Lester Lamb tied rags and bottle caps in the almond tree to keep the birds away. Wire was unrolled to fence off a back corner and Quick Lamb built a fowlhouse from broken teachests and an old forty-four gallon drum he found under the house.

  Fish Lamb stood beneath the almond tree and watched the rags fluttering on the frame.

  Down the street Oriel Lamb met a neighbour who had some pullets for sale. They talked friendly for a while and Oriel Lamb came home with four hens and a rooster for the price of a smile.

  Fish Lamb put his fingers in the wire, hooked them in as though it was all that held him up, and watched the white hens fatten and flutter in the warm sand.

  In the park at the end of the street the flame trees and the Moreton Bay figs covered the grass with their broad, brittle leaves that Dolly Pickles kicked up in drifts as she walked alone when the children were at school and she was waiting for the copper to boil in the laundry or she just couldn’t stand to be in that big old place anymore, avoiding the plain gaze of that little Lamb woman as she went stiffbooted about her neverending business. Just the sound of those boots coming her way was enough to get Dolly looking for an exit. That woman was plain. Plain and plain bossy, and under Dolly’s roof.

  During the day, with the children at school, the house on Cloud Street became relatively quiet except for Lon Lamb playing on the stairs and the occasional hissed quarrel from either side of the corridor.

  The evenings were the most difficult because there was only one bathroom in the house and twelve people to be washed. Then there were children shouting and complaining and the halls were full of dark looks.

  There, was an uneasiness about the whole place. The Lambs sat around their table on fruit crates and stools eating the food that Oriel cooked on the gas ring by the bucket they had for a sink. Sometimes in the quiet before a meal, when Lester Lamb stumbled quickly and uncomfortably through Grace, the house went quiet enough so they could plainly hear the crack of wood in the stove across the corridor. No one looked up. They’d just go on with their eyes grimly shut until the old man got through his halfhearted thanks so they could eat and talk and fill up the space that seemed to loom at them from all about. Across the way the Pickles family ate their chops and mashed spud quietly and it often looked as though they cowered at the cattle noises from across the hall. It was like an invasion had taken place. Sam Pickles shook Worcestershire sauce about and tried to be jolly, but the others brooded, sculpted their potato, raised an eyebrow.

  It went on for weeks.

  The Knife Never Lies

  It’s a circle of silver blur on the table, almost solid with motion so that you’d swear you could see their laughing faces reflected in it as it spins. They drum their hands on the tabletop, the girls screaming and elbowing each other, Lon bouncing up and down on his chair, Fish clapping with a roar of glee as Quick closes his eyes and moans in dramatic apprehension. At the head of the table, Lester Lamb holds up his finger.

  Remember, this is for who washes up tonight.

  And this week! Red says, getting her pink elbows up in the air. All this week.

  The knife never lies, you know, Lester says. It always knows best.

  You shouldn’t teach em such heathen stuff, Oriel Lamb murmurs with a smile. The room smells of gas, lamb stew, mildew in the wallpaper. A fire of rotten pickets snaps and quavers behind them, beginning to warm this back bedroom that’s become their kitchen. Jars and bottles stand on shelves made from packing cases, and dented pots and baking dishes stand about in order.

  It’s slowing down! Lon cries.

  Now you can see the round ended old butterknife blade and the browning bone handle—hear it whirr.

  Slowing.

  It’s you, Hat.

  Nah, it’s got plenty in it, yet.

  Gaw.

  Quick knows it’ll be him; he can almost feel the metal against his skin.

  It’s you, Dad.

  Nope. It’s gunna be Quick, Lester said. Lookit im. He’s gettin out the teatowel already, aren’t you, mate? Here it comes again.

  Elaine!

  Wait. Waaiit!

  Oh, Gawd! Quick thumps the table.

  Quick! Arrr, Quick gets the dishes!

  The knife never tells a fib, but it can make a bib for a squib. Here’s one. Who’s got a pimple up their dimple?

  Lester! Oriel turns to the stew.

  They rollick and niggle and shriek and giggle and the knife goes round in the centre of the table. The fire has a hold on the room now and there is warm light between bodies and noise.

  It’s … aaagh … it’s Eee-laine! Arr, pimple up ya dimple, Ee!

  Is not.

  Carn, Ee, fair cop, says Hat.

  Yeah, says Quick, the knife doesn’t lie.

  And the knife spins again and again, for Who is the Smartest, for The Ugliest Feet, for The Next Prime Minister, and when the knife predicts that little Lon will be the first to marry, they rock back in their chairs until the room is ready to burst with the racket.

  Orright, Lester Lamb says. One more while Mum’s dishin up. Who’s gunna win the war for us?

  Plates come steaming with stew, and cutlery chinks and chairs are all a-scrape, so no one but Fish sees the blade pointing at his chest in the moment before the old man snatches it away into his lap.

  Say Grace, Lest, Oriel says as she finds her place.

  The old man looks away from Fish and his face goes tough.

  Good food good meat gettin late let’s eat.

  Hat guffaws.

  Lester. Oriel looks sideways at him.

  I’m grateful. To you, love. It’s good food.

  Oriel looks about to give him a lecture, but her hear
t isn’t in it.

  I suppose the Lord understands, she says, picking up a fork.

  Hope He does. Cause I don’t. I’m damned if I do. And neither do you, so let’s not be hypocrites and thank God.

  No one is shocked. It’s been coming, this talk. Everyone just eats on until Lon regurgitates a long string of fat onto the tablecloth setting up a groan of disgust around the table.

  Swallow a snake, mate? Lester says.

  It’s the pimple from me dimple, Lon announces soberly.

  When the kids were asleep, or at least bucketing around in their rooms, Lester and Oriel had only each other across the table and the quiet was unnerving. Here they were again, a little square box of a woman and her plank-lanky husband. They looked each other up and down.

  Well, he said. We’re makin somethin here, I can feel it.

  We need things, Oriel said.

  Plenty.

  Don’t smile me down, Lest.

  There’s money left, love. We’re not hungry.

  You need work.

  I’ve been thinkin.

  She sighed and folded her arms. I thought I smelt burnin rubber.

  Thinkin about this place.

  We need our own bathroom, we need a stove, the kids need clothes—they go to school like they haven’t got a mother. This place is temporary.

  Yeah, I know.

  Lester dropped a hunk of antgutted fencepost onto the fire. From above came the thumping of feet as the children got in and out of bed.

  But I’ve cottoned onto somethin, he said. There’s no corner shop this side of the railway line.

  I know, I’ve carried the groceries back from Subi—I should know. She held the needle to the light. It was a wonder how something sharp came down to nothing like that. She looked through the needle’s eye. So that’s the Kingdom of Heaven, she thought. So that’s all there was.

  I’ve brained it out. We could do it.

  What’re you talking about?

  A shop. Our shop.

  Oh, don’t be a fool, Lest. We can’t pay rent on a shop.

  We already are. Right now.

  Oriel put down her darning and raised herself in her chair. What’ve you done?

  I’ve used me noggin.

  She sighed and squinched her eyes shut. Explain.

  The front room, we’ll use the front room out there for a shop. Gawd knows, there’s enough room. It won’t hurt us to use some of it for enterprise.

  That’s a good word that sounds weak on your lips, Lester Lamb. Across the corridor, they’ll chuck all whatser—name about it.

  They’re broke, darl. They’re poor as us. And lazy—look at em, waiting for the boat to come in. They need the money.

  Oriel Lamb pursed her lips. It wasn’t such a bad idea, though she knew well enough who’d have to see it through.

  We’ll pray about it, he said automatically. We’ll take it to the Lord. No, wait on … the knife never lies. Lester picked up the smeary butterknife and sent it spinning in the centre of the table.

  If it points to me it’s a yes. To you and it’s a no.

  She wondered if it wasn’t really the way things were, everything just happening by chance in this sorry world. That knife spinning. She thought about her poor dead brother and the ashes and bones of her mother and sister, of Fish, the farm and every other bad turn that led to this night in a strange street and a makeshift kitchen. The knife turned over slower, flashing like her thoughts and it was no surprise to see the bone handle toward her and the blade aiming at him.

  How do you know it never lies? she asked, taking up the darning again. But he was off in the next room rummaging. The needlepoint broke her skin but she didn’t flinch. He’ll be off the idea by bedtime, she thought. He’ll be back onto the old vaudeville idea again, launching the Lamb Lyric Co., and the Lamb Family Octet onto the stages of the world. And out came Lester with a cap on the side of his head and the maw of the squeezebox hanging at his belly. She felt a great jam of confusion in her as he stood there smiling like an oaf.

  What’ll it be?

  Something I don’t know. Play me something I don’t know.

  Enterprise

  Dolly Pickles left it till the last seconds of closing hour before she scratched on a bit of lipstick and went downstairs to see for herself. People had been sidling past all day. They’d worn a track across the weeds since dawn, and the cratchety tinkle of that little bell had driven her spare, but she wasn’t going to go down there early and give her tenants the satisfaction of gloating. She didn’t know why she should loathe the Lambs so much; they’d been polite and friendly, but they were pushy and beelike, the lot of them, and that little woman spoke to you with her blunt fingers nearly pecking at your tits. She couldn’t help telling you how you should be doing things, what was a better way, a quicker way, the right this, the proper that. Not that she ever got personal, she was always talking general things, but Dolly felt it all get specific somewhere between the lines, as though that little magpie was letting you know what you could do to fix your life up. Oriel Lamb mouthed off a lot about work and stickability until you felt like sticking a bloody bility right up her drawers. That woman didn’t believe in bad luck the way Dolly did.

  The house was dark as she went down the stairs and along the corridor to the front. The door was open. Kids were pushing billycarts in the street. Dolly Pickles strode out onto the verandah and looked back at the Lamb side of the house and laughed. The huge livingroom window was gone and a shutter stood propped open in its place opening up on a view of that grand old room full of pineboard shelves bowing with jars and jugs, the fireplace bristling with humbugs and bullroarers and toothbusters. Crates stood on the stained floral carpet loaded with second grade fruit and vegetables and the air was thick with midges and fruit fleas. A big Avery scale stood like a lighthouse in the middle of this fog and behind it Oriel and Lester Lamb. The sign along the counter said:

  LAMB SMALLGOODS

  quality nice - best price

  They watched her laugh. She straightened her hair and lit a smoke to calm herself, leaned against the verandah post.

  Well, how’s it doing, ducks?

  Lester Lamb began covering the fruit with damp hessian bags and doing other closing down kind of things while the little box woman lit on her with that steely stare.

  A shillin and ha’p’nny, Oriel Lamb said.

  You’ll get rich if you keep it up. Dolly had meant it to be more friendly, more comradely, but she heard ridicule in her tone and watched Mrs Lamb brace up. Geez, I’m makin a friend here, she thought.

  And you’ll have an income, Mrs Pickles.

  Lester Lamb smiled weakly as though he was neutral in this, and he put the shutter down apologetically in her face.

  WE’RE LOCAL.

  it said:

  WE’RE HONEST,

  it went on,

  WE’RE HERE.

  And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it, that was for sure.

  Stickability

  It wasn’t long before everyone on Cloud Street and anyone who lived near it knew about the Lambs’ new shop, and not long before they started to spend as much as they gawked. At dawn you’d see the little woman out there sending Lester and Quick off to the markets across the rails, and the whole still street would be full of the coughing of the truck and the reverberation of Oriel’s instructions. Nobody was ever left in doubt as to how many stones of spuds she thought necessary for a day’s trading, or how to feel the ripest watermelon or what to tell that man Boswell when he started trying to fence bad tomatoes onto them again. Even if you couldn’t see those meaty little arms and the sexless ashen bob and the sensible boots on her through your bedroom window and your morning blear, there wasn’t a chance you’d escape the sound of her sending the family about its business. People started to call her the sergeant-major and they observed the way the shop came to life at the sound of her drill yell.

  Soon the place was a regular feature of the street,
a pedestrian intersection, a map point. It was where you came to buy a West Australian and talk about the progress of the war with your neighbours. It was where you could smell that daft beanpole husband of hers baking his cakes, though, fair dinkum, you had to hand it to the coot, he could bake his way to Parliament if he set his mind to it. Though he thought gettin a rise was only what happened inside an oven. Kids mobbed in on Saturday mornings before the footy to buy up the pasties he made. All the Lamb girls would be there, rattling the till, climbing on ladders, shaking out tuppenny measures of jubes. They’d blush and scowl when their father came to the counter singing a loopy tune.

  Whacka diddle di-do

  How the heck could I know

  She wanted my heart

  for a billy cart

  He accompanied himself with a jar of humbugs or a feather duster, and said whatever came into his head and changed the tune from verse to verse. Nothing seemed to suppress his good spirits in those weeks. Nothing could stop him singing except the sound of Oriel’s boots coming through the house behind the shop.

  The house on Cloud Street took on a wonky aspect. It was still a big, old, rundown eyesore, but it seemed to have taken on an unbalanced life with all that activity and foment on the Lamb side, as though the place was an old stroke survivor paralysed down one side. The Pickleses didn’t seem to go out much, and if they did they got swallowed up and lost in the picture. They were weak in numbers and all the activity seemed to cause them to fade from vision.

  Oh, you’re from next door the shop, love? people’d say to Dolly. You’n yer hubby rentin offa them, are yez?

  Neighbours somehow got it into their heads that the Pickleses had come after the Lambs, and that stuck in Dolly’s guts. Locals took pity on the crippled hubby and all, but they couldn’t help but feel that the Pickleses weren’t made of the same stuff as their tenants. They didn’t have stickability. Now that was a word that moved camp along Cloud Street quickly that autumn. After a month or two no one could remember its introduction. But then neither was it easy to remember Cloud Street without the shop. After a time the shop was Cloud Street, and people said it, Cloudstreet, in one word. Bought the cauli at Cloudstreet. Slip over to Cloudstreet, willya love, and buy us a tin of Bushells and a few slices of ham. Cloudstreet.