by Tim Winton
This Side
I can feel it even this side of the mirror, that’s how intense it is, so strong I can sense it this far away, as far as light from a lamp, as time from a clock. Quick’s calling out like a wounded bird, seeing, seeing.
And Fish hears it from his bed in Cloudstreet where everyone’s asleep except Oriel whose lamp suddenly flickers. Lester is snoring with his teeth on the table and his arms across the boy and beneath his arm Fish stirs, hearing, beginning to hurt.
Fish begins to cry, to cry the best he knows how, and Lester starts awake.
Fish?
The boy goes on and on, teeth clenched, limbs hard as plaster, sending out his note until Lester fears he might smother him with a pillow to keep himself sane.
That cry goes on and on, through walls and walls. Shadows shake and quail openmouthed on the ceiling, the unhappy dead caught like wallpaper and groaning silently at the sound of knowing. It wakes the living and shakes even the happy dead. Even now it makes me shiver.
Load of Pigs
When Earl and May found him next day, Quick was lit up like a sixty watt globe and he wouldn’t stop crying. They brought him inside, bathed him and made him drink iced water, hoping the fluorescence would ease off. But by evening Quick’s long, bony body was giving off a light all the more clear in the dusk and he wouldn’t say a word. A doctor was out of the question with Earl and May—hell, doctors could get you in a lot of trouble, and besides if word got out about him glowing, then people’d know he was a Lamb and they’d never hear the end of it. Earl was all for letting him sleep it off, but by midnight when the boy was burning white hot, May put her foot down. Quick Lamb needed his own. Warm up a truck, she said. We’re goin to Perth.
Earl had a load of pigs in the knocker out the front that he’d been hosing down all day while they tried to decide what to do with Quick. He thought of taking just the prime mover, but he couldn’t bear to waste a trip. He’d take the pigs and cut his losses.
When they loaded the boy into the cab he lit up the dash and sent the swine into a shitting frenzy. May held him and Earl drove. Night deepened. Passing cars flashed their lights in alarm.
And a black angel, said Quick, a couple of hours north. It was all he said that night.
That woman’ll be angry at us, Earl said.
Doesn’t matter, love, said Mary.
She’ll be all over us like an angry wart.
What can we do?
She’ll think it’s a way of gettin an invite to the weddin.
She’s a mother, Earl.
Now doan start cryin.
At least she’s a mother.
They looked at each other in the glow of their relative and tried to stay calm. The old diesel hammered them in their seats. Quick saw everything in the headlights—every-damn-thing.
VII
Madhouse
SEVEN o’clock and the place is like a madhouse! Since five, when he woke up, Fish has been laughing like a bird, and now Lester’s trying to dress him while the women fight it out in the next room. Oriel turns her lamp out and comes inside to supervise the dressing. She’s weary and can’t make herself any excitement for the day. Dew drips from the flaccid gutters, catching the first hints of sun now and then as it falls to the grass. Dogs and roosters stir and territorialize on the westerly. This morning Cloudstreet looks like a scabby old steamer resting at her moorings in the quiet time before the seas quicken and unsettle her.
Out in the garden, the pig is muttering in tongues: Gwalia logoreemi muluth dooloomoos speptie …
Rose Pickles, freshly showered and peering at the steamy mirror, pens on the Dawn Heat lipstick with plenty of speed and nerve as Sam fries bacon and eggs for himself down the corridor, and over the sound of spitting fat comes Dolly’s straighteight snoring.
The floors rumble across the way. It’s a non-opening Saturday today. The Lambs are killing the pig, that’s for sure. Well, not literally. The pig is as safe as parliament, but they’re bunging it on for young and old because today Hat Lamb’s marrying that handsome dill from Pemberton, the one who always wears tweed and whose brogues could house a family. Today they’re giving one away, and Rose Pickles could spit, she’s so cheesed. It’s something she wouldn’t miss for quids, but there’s a morning at the switch to be got through, there’s Mrs Tisborn to be borne, there’s more than she can stand to think of, and she’s gonna miss it.
If you hook me again, Elaine Lamb, someone yells next door, I’m gonna knock your block into ya frock, ya hear me?
Someone begins to sob.
Rose pauses, strains to hear.
Settle down!
Rose stifles a laugh to keep listening. It’s like they’re all in the same room.
You be careful, and you show some patience or the whole cricket match’ll be cancelled!
You can’t—
We’re payin for it if we’re stayin for it, so you button your lip and let your sisters dress you. You’re not playin doogs now. This a weddin for grownups. Anymore gripin and you’re not invited.
But it’s my wedding!
Bumslash! It’s your marriage. The weddin belongs to us. Behave yourself.
Oh, maarm!
You look beautiful, now shut up.
The sergeant major’s at it again, thinks Rose.
Rose! Brekky’s ready.
Coming.
Rose snaps her makeup case back together and straightens herself. She catches a whiff of something terrible.
In Lester’s bedroom, Fish stops laughing and Lester thanks God or whoever for ending it before it killed the boy. Fish is all got up in a serge suit, dark as a bagman, and now his father can straighten him up and comb his hair, glad that he shaved him last night.
It’s Hat’s big day, Fishcake. She’s gonna be married.
Quick.
What?
Quick, Lestah.
No, it’s Geoffrey Birch, from Pemberton. He’s a timber man.
There’s the snort of airbrakes outside and a sweet gummy pong.
Whew.
Quick.
Oh, Gawd, there’s someone at the door. Stay here boy.
Lester goes through the shop and meets Oriel at the front door. Sam Pickles is halfway down the stairs.
Let’s hope it’s not the groom, Sam says with a chuckle. Oriel levels her martial look at him until he goes up again.
Open it, Lest.
Morning light pours in on them and for a while they can’t see who it is backlit in their doorway.
Lester. Oriel. We’ve brought him home. Hello? It’s Earl and May. From Margaret.
Oriel barges past like a half back and sends them whirling out onto the verandah. There is fierce morning light in the cab as she climbs up to the door of the pigstinking cattle truck with house windows and doors cracking open behind her. She hauls on the handle, swings the door out past her hip, sees Quick Lamb in there, wedged between the seats asleep and glowing.
Lawd, he’s glowin like a lamp, says Lester behind her. Hala-bloody-lujah!
Oriel turns on him: Get your mouth outta gear and help me get him inside. You’re a pimple of a man, sometimes, Lester Lamb.
Oh, but you love me.
She snarls and he gets helpful.
He’s thin.
He’s home.
He looks terrible, and don’t smarm up like this.
They carry him in, long and bony, before the gathered crowd. Up in the house the piano jangles but Fish is out on a second storey windowsill leaping and kicking like a squaredancer.
Rose Pickles snaps her handbag closed and passes on the verandah.
Good morning, she says brightly.
Damn right, Lester replies.
Hold him up, Lest, for pity’s sake!
Upstairs, Hat is bawling: That’s it, then, that stabs that in the guts.
Oriel rears: Leave off with that racket and make up your bed for him. Where’s Beryl?
Asleep still, like a Cathlick!
Get her up. Get
dressed. Get ready and get married—we need the space.
Tell me you’re happy, Lester says halfway up the stairs. Tell me you’re happy to have him back.
He could have timed it better, don’t you think?
I couldn’t give a damn, you know.
I’m happy, I’m happy, just lift your end. We’ve got a weddin on.
The Do
At a quarter to ten that Saturday morning, with the sun streaming across in a dockside farewell that lit up every peeling, rusted surface, each brushed jacket and bleached blouse, the Lamb family climbed into the truck to follow father and bride who led billowing on the Harley and sidecar.
They proceeded at a stately pace to an Anglican church in Shenton Park, a venue of committee compromise, and were met by a fidgeting group of inlaws-to-be whose jaws dropped like eggs from tall chooks.
Oriel marshalled her children inside and left Lester and Hat scuffing their toes on the pavement outside. Black swans came low across the sky, searching out the lake. Children rattled by on larrikin billycarts. Earl and May pulled up and parked the seven tonner in front of the church, pigs squealing and stinking.
I’11 miss yer, love, Lester said, looking at his tall eldest daughter. You’re a fine girl an I never saw a better marbles player in me life.
Oh, Gawd, Dad, let’s go in and sign on the line.
You can always come home.
Think we shoulda done it in a real church? You know, without the stained glass and the chessmen?
Lester shrugged. Well. Your bloke’s from that kinda family.
Yer a dag, Dad.
Let’s go in. Looks like an overpainted gin palace.
Hat went in with the giggles, and, without the dignified snooting of the pipe organ, the whole business would have turned into a footy match.
Oriel sat up front with her rank and file, peering discreetly at the statues and the lantern slides the stained glass made, trying to muster up some silent thanksgiving for this day. Fish began to hum a beefy descant across the anthem as Hat came down the aisle sending everyone up out of their pews, reverent and neckcraning. I have a son at home who is glowing, thought Oriel, as Hat came past looking tall and proud. Oriel felt the centripetal pull of the old things and she felt lonely the way she never had in her life. The words rolled out, the prayers proceeded like rote school poems, she upped and downed with the rest of them and kept her eyes off the Christ pictures, the ones that really set her teeth. It was like fighting off a toothache—you had to concentrate and will, overcome, pretend, become another thing.
Before she was ready for it, Oriel saw Hat and Geoffery Birch from Pemberton going back up the aisle with the organ snuffling in their wake.
Mum, yer crying, Hat said out in the sunshine.
No, it’s just sweat.
Oriel hugged her daughter till the whole lampshade and gauze construction went askew.
I’m losin children.
And yerv gained a son, said Geoffery Birch from Pemberton.
Yairs, Oriel said, without feeling.
They drove off in a pale blue Humber festooned with toilet paper and lipstick and Oriel thought glumly of the feast ahead. Should have cooked for it myself, she mused; it’s a lot of money.
Lambs!
They gathered round her. Fish looked into the sun, his tie the shape of a pig’s tail already. Lon scratched at the bumfluff on his chin. Elaine squinted, a sulk coming on.
I want some behaviour at the do, alright?
Orright, said Lester.
Lester.
Yes. Yes.
I want an example set. There’ll be alcohol there. I want Lamb behaviour. Remember, we’re Lambs, not sheep.
There was a stenchy gust of airbrakes as Earl and May’s truck pulled out. Fish waved to the shitpaddling pigs who steamed in the sun and lurched into the turn.
They’re not a bad pair for relatives, said Lester.
They’ll see us in Heaven, dear, said Oriel. A smile slipped in under her nose and the whole mob went silent with happiness.
Country
Seven days they nurse Quick Lamb who says nothing but goes on glowing quietly, taking a little water but no food at all. The colour of his skin is strange; like mother of pearl it changes at every angle, pale but somehow riddled with rainbows that catch at the edge of vision. He’s cool to touch, and sweet smelling the way a man rarely is. Morning and afternoon they take shifts sitting with him, while Beryl Lee and Elaine run the shop. Fish stays all day, sitting on the bed, humming, watching. At night they let him climb in beside Quick. Fish holds onto his brother as if he expects him to float away at any moment, and the room is lit by Quick’s candlepower. The walls crawl with shadows.
On the fourth day, Lester and Oriel sit out on the back step alone the way they haven’t for years now. The night air is cool and heavy with dew. A train always seems to be coming down the tracks. A wireless murmurs from an upstairs window.
How sick is he, you think? Lester asks. It’s times like these he wishes he’d never given up smoking and drinking.
Oriel sighs. He’s not sick.
He doesn’t look that good to me.
I just don’t think he’s sick.
I wondered if … if he hadn’t lost his marbles. He looks like he’s gone someplace else, you know?
You’re not as silly as you look.
I’m sillier and you know it. I’m an old fool and I don’t care at all. I just wish I knew what to believe in. Life throws a million things, good and bad, at me, but all I really care about …
What?
I just wish I knew what to believe in.
You believe in what you like, Lester Lamb. That’s one thing I can’t show you.
You’ve got mean, Oriel.
She sniffs.
Is it the war that’s done it to you?
It’s all war, she said.
What is?
I don’t know. Everythin. Raisin a family, keepin yer head above water. Life. War is our natural state.
Well, struggle maybe, said Lester.
No, no, it’s war.
Ah, things come along. You take the good with the bad.
Oriel rears with sudden passion: No you don’t. You know about boats. You can’t steer if you’re not goin faster than the current. If you’re not under your own steam then yer just debris, stuff floatin. We’re not frightened animals, Lester, just waitin with some dumb thoughtless patience for the tide to turn. I’m not spendin my livin breathin life quietly takin the good with the bad. I’m not standin for the bad; bad people, bad luck, bad ways, not even bad breath. We make good, Lester. We make war on the bad and don’t surrender.
Some things can’t be helped.
Everything can be helped.
You’re a hard woman to please, Oriel.
That’s what I tell myself, she says with a sudden drop of tone. She sounds almost lighthearted.
Aren’t you happy?
Oriel sighs. Do I look like a winner?
We have a big place to live in. We’re three years ahead with the rent, the kids have food and clothes, they go to school and have jobs, and now one has a husband—she’s a credit to us, that girl—and there’s the shop. People say: There goes Mrs Lamb who lives in a tent, she runs the best shop this side of the river. Gawd, the trams even stop for you. People come to you for advice like you’re Daisy-flamin-Bates. You’re famous! Course yer a winner.
A winner wins them all, Lester, not just the worldly things.
You’ve won me, love.
You’re a fool, Lester Lamb.
That’s what I tell myself.
They’re quiet for a time. That train is still promising to come. Lester puts his hand on her leg.
Do you still love me?
I married you before God.
The mention of that character puts them back into quiet.
Oriel?
Hmm?
Why are you in the tent?
Oriel cracks her knuckles. Why’s Quick lit up like a beacon?
Why is Fish the way he is? Why does this house … behave?
Strange, says Lester.
Oh, nothin’s really strange. Strangeness is ordinary if you let yourself think about it. There’s been queerness all your life. I’ve seen stranger things than Quick glowin, haven’t you?
Lester looks out across the crumpled tin fence: I used to ride farm to farm down there at Margaret, and I’d look out across the hills, the karris, the farms and dead crops, and you know the whole flamin country looked sad. All the plants with their heads bowed looking really browned off. And you know, I used to hear it moan. Not the wind; the ground, the land. I told meself it was the horse, but inside I knew it was the country. Moanin.
Like this house.
Come to think of it, yeah. I thought it was just me hearin it.
It’s just a house.
You think maybe we don’t belong here, like we’re out of our depth, out of our country?
We don’t belong anywhere. When I was a girl I had this strong feeling that I didn’t belong anywhere, not in my body, not on the land. It was in my head, what I thought and dreamt, what I believed, Lester, that’s where I belonged, that was my country. That was the final line of defence in the war.
Lester shifts his butt and rubs his knees in consternation.
What’re you sayin, love?
Since Fish … I’ve been losin the war. I’ve lost me bearins.
Lester makes his teeth meet at all points round his jaw. Talk like this makes him nervous. Something’s going to happen, to be taken from him, to be shone in his face. It’s like walking down a rocky path at night, not knowing where it’ll lead, when it’ll drop from beneath your feet, what it’ll cost to come back.
You believe in the Nation, though. You’re the flamin backbone of the Anzac Club.
