Cloudstreet

by Tim Winton

  Quick came calling. The dark girl shrank away.

  VIII

  Voices

  ROSE crossed the night wet lawn and sat at the edge of the verandah to take off her heels. Cloudstreet was still, the house limping with shadows, and the sky over it all was the colour of an army surplus blanket. She was still damp under the overcoat—taffeta and tulle clung to her, cooling. It was getting pretty late in spring for an overcoat, but she couldn’t stand having every bloody dag and drongo on the bus knowing she was coming home unescorted yet again from a dance. A faint smile of sympathy was just as bad as a leer when you were all clobbered up and coming home alone.

  She sat there a while in the shadow of the house, trying to fend off the twinges of hayfever she felt in her nose and throat. An easterly tomorrow would be all she needed—pollen like the Yellow Peril.

  It was the same blokes at the Embassy tonight, the larrikins in suits, the quiet movers with brandy on their breath and Brylcreem in their hair. The ones with vagrant hands, the ones with bad teeth, broken noses, feet like snowshoes, bellies like baskets. The same old meatmarket with all the girls backed around the walls and the blokes perving in from the doorway. The band cranking up, and the awful rush of blood to the face as they came in to pick and choose for the night’s first dance. God, how she loved it! The itch of petticoats, the rushes to the toilet when it was clear there’d be no first dance for her, and the breathless re-entries she made to the ballroom in time for some lottery marble to grab her by the arm and say: Gday, love. Like a spin, wouldja? Oh, she got some grouse dances, and some fine old moments, but it was always Rose on the bus without a bloke to see her home. She couldn’t understand why she cared half the time; she didn’t really make big efforts to be noticed, and she didn’t quite know how she’d feel having some handsome sort bringing her to this particular doorstep, this great sagging joint with its pile of crates out front and the compost stink of aged vegetables. All its timbers were unpainted, grey, flaky. From the front, it had the appearance, with only Rose’s light burning and her blind half up, of a miserable dog sleeping and keeping an eye half open for an excitement that was never going to arrive. No, she could hardly own up to some smart love that this was where she lived. Moreover, that her family only lived in half of it.

  She sighed and went inside, pausing a moment on the threshold to unhook her stocking from a splinter that seemed to live for this moment every Wednesday and Saturday. Going up the stairs, she heard the whoosh of petticoats and the electric buzz of her nylons.

  In bed she listened to the sound of someone crying. There was always someone weeping in this place. So many people lived here it was hard to figure out who it was. Just a quiet sobbing, it lilted in the walls, and willed her to sleep.

  Rose Pickles was twenty-four years old and a woman, though she hadn’t got used to thinking of herself in this way, and even a stranger could tell this by the girlish look on her face which she wore underneath every other expression she ever had, whether happy or miserable. She had a noticeable face—strong nose, brown unsettling eyes, and a complexion that always had summer in it. She had the Pickles shortness and their cocky way of walking. A man’d be stupid to think she wasn’t pretty, but then most men are at least a little stupid. Rose Pickles was proud, and difficult to slow down long enough to get a good look at. She never looked anyone in the eye, and as often as not, she went unseen as a result.

  She voted Labor every election because she knew it would break her old man completely to have a bosses’ pimp in the family. Still, it didn’t do much good because Pig Iron Bob was still there in Canberra queening it up, and no one looked like moving him yet. Actually, she didn’t care or know much about politics; she just hated Australians who tried to be English (though she figured it was reasonable for a Pom to try to be an Australian—at least there was a future in that). For years she’d enjoyed working on the switch in Bairds, but she was bored with it now and would have changed jobs years ago if the Depression hadn’t hung so heavy over the old man. When it came to jobs, Sam Pickles threw incaution to the winds. Better the devil you know, he’d say. You’ve got a good job, now be grateful and keep it. And though she had her own ideas, Rose could never bring herself to leave.

  Besides, she had fun on the switch. There was plenty of safe mischief to be had, and friends, and talk at teabreaks. Darken, Merle and Lyla were older than her, and they weren’t the marrying sort, though sometimes Rose suspected that was something they said to protect themselves. They never seemed to go out with the same bloke twice. They were loud, hearty and big, like farmers’ wives, with plenty of clothes and makeup and no one to go home to cook for.

  Rose learnt ways to meet men that Darleen, Merle and Alma had been using for years, and she discovered that with a headset and a bank of wires between her and whoever she was talking to, she was as confident as all getout; full of cheek and fun, able to knock up a rendezvous with a Nice Voice in the time it took to put them through to Accounts or Hardware. The trick was to arrange a meeting at lunchtime on the steps of the GPO, to organize the bloke to stand beside the first pillar off Murray Street so you could spot him as you walked past, anonymous in the crowd, and if he was a dag, as most Nice Voices turned out to be, you just walked on and got yourself a salmon and onion sandwich at the counter at Coles till his lunch hour ran out. Still, they weren’t always dags. She got friendly with a few decent-looking blokes who took her to the flicks at the Piccadilly or the Capitol and then shouted her a milkshake or a spider before putting her on the bus home. They were always perfect gentlemen, to her vague disappointment, and at the humid discussions that went on in teabreaks between the girls from the office and the girls from the switch, Rose had to lie to keep up with the others. But she hardly had the imagination to compete. Her friend Marge from Mail Order always stole the show.

  And then he says to me: Do ya knock? And I says: Not if I’m oiled. Ah, like a motor are ya? Well, I says, I do take some startin. What are ya, six or twelve volt? And I tell ya, he was all over me like a rash. I was lucky to get out of that Buick alive!

  Rose could never figure out why blokes never acted that way with her, though she had a feeling about the salmon and onion sandwiches. But she wasn’t miserable the way she could remember being when she was younger. At least now she was out of Cloudstreet all day and half the night, and even if blokes did wave her off on the bus from a night at the pictures, even if she came home alone from the Embassy, at least she’d got to do the things she loved—see movies and dance.

  The morning after she’d gone to sleep with the crying in the walls, about a week after the old man came home from the bush stuffed like a scarecrow with money, Rose had a run in with a Nice Voice that got her excited in a strange way.

  It was barely nine o’clock when she got the call. The light came on, Rose put down the nail file and jacked in.

  Bairds, good morning.

  Hmm. Bairds. The voice was male and resonant and the tone wasn’t matey.

  Can I help you, sir?

  It’s about Earl Grey.

  Does he work here, sir? I’ll have to check because the name’s not familiar.

  It’s tea, love, he said drily.

  Mr T. Earl-Grey, is it?

  Oh, a card, are we?

  Sir?

  Look, I’m expecting ten pounds of tea from you people and it’s weeks overdue.

  I’ll give you to Mail Order then, sir, said Rose. Gladly, she added as she plugged him through. Earl-flamin-Grey, my bum.

  A moment later, he was back.

  Heard that, I did. I should report you, girlie.

  The firing squad in haberdashery or death by moron on the switch, it’s all the same to me, mate. Go look for Earl. And she plugged him through to Farm Supplies. He was back inside a minute.

  Now listen here!

  She jacked him through to Boys Wear and counted.

  Very smart.

  There’s a ladder in your stockings, sir.

  She gave him to
Haberdashery and Hosiery, and thought she could feel the old switchboard heating up. When she heard his line back, she waited only to hear him draw a breath before punching him on to Mail Order and his mysterious ten pounds of Earl. She was flushed with excitement and took a few moments to see that the switchboard was lit up like a pinball machine. The last light on the board was him again.

  It’s me again.

  You don’t say. Any luck with Earl?

  They haven’t found it yet.

  Dear, dear. Want me to put you through to the Governor-General?

  You—re a cheeky bugger.

  The board was lighting up again.

  Well, thanks a dozen, but I’ve got to get back to work. There’s a lot of buggerizing to be done.

  She heard him laugh.

  Well, I’m going to keep after this tea.

  Good luck, Earl.

  Rose pulled the plug on him, and went to work on the rest of them before the whole three floors fell on her. Darken came in and Merle and Alma behind her. Rose glared at them; they were ten minutes late.

  Bairds, good morning … just putting you through … one moment please … Where the hell have youse been? I’ve had the Charge of the Light Brigade on my hands here … Bairds, good morning …

  Gawd, look who’s in a tizz this mornin!

  I spose we’d better begin, ladies.

  Heads on, bums down, I reckon.

  But by the time they got their headsets on, the switchboard had cooled off.

  You bludgers, Rose said with a smile. What have you been up to?

  Oh, a meetin of minds in William Street.

  Sailors, I spose.

  How’d you guess?

  Who else is gunna go you three in a group at nine in the morning? They must’ve been at sea a good while to pick a pack of rough sheilas like you. Bairds, good morning … Oh, it’s you again.

  Listen, he said on the other end, sounding sort of mature and well-fixed, why don’t we meet somewhere? You sound like a smart girl.

  Only meet smart ones, do you?

  Somewhere close to your work? You’re on Murray Street, right?

  That’s right.

  Righto. What about lunch? Let’s meet at the GPO.

  First column on the left as you go up the stairs, she said. Twelve o’clock. Bring your teapot.

  When he’d rung off, the switch was quiet and the others were quivering with suppressed laughter.

  Looks like their mate caught up with them, said Merle.

  Whose mate?

  The sailors, said Alma. He wasn’t in our league. They reckon he only goes for the roughest scrubbers, and I bet he’s glad he found ya, love.

  Rose smiled tolerantly across their squall of hysterics. The door opened, and Mrs Tisborn came in from the office. They ruffled themselves into sobriety and blushed guiltily.

  This is a switchboard, not a fowl house!

  Rose had a light on.

  Bairds, good morning.

  My name’s Toby, by the way.

  Very good, sir. Shall I put you through to kitchenware?

  What?

  Rose pulled the plug on him and felt the sweat slipping down the inside of her blouse. Mrs Tisborn was prowling, the great buffer of her bosom aimed here and there.

  I’ll be watching you girls. And remember, Miss Pickles, you’re still not too good for Hosiery.

  Thankfully, a light came on and Rose caught it first. When she plugged it through, old Teasebone was gone.

  Cor, blimey, whispered Darken. Straighten yer seams, girls. It’s stockins for the lot of us.

  Penal servitude, said Merle.

  You rude thing, said Alma.

  It was him, said Rose. My date.

  Geez, love, even Blind Freddy could’ve put a girl straight on that score. No salmon and onion sangers for you today.

  Through the crowd she sees the bloke leaning on the first pillar above the post office steps, and her first impulse is to go on ahead and buy those salmon and onion sandwiches at Coles and forget the whole flamin thing. He’s not bad looking. Good suit, nice pair of shoes. Glasses, though he doesn’t seem the squinty, limp type. Hatless. A bit of an individual, it seems.

  She’s too nervous for this. What’s a bloke like that want with a shopgirl like her? He’s no run of the mill lair. He’s the sort of man you pray will come out of the smoky gloom and ask you for a dance.

  Rose wheels back for another look and finds herself going up the steps. Now or never, Rosie.

  When she gets to him, his eyebrows rise and Rose feels herself being given the onceover. Before he can, she gets the first word in.

  Gday, Earl. Haven’t strained yourself, have you?

  He smiles indulgently.

  Hello. I thought you’d be a looker.

  Boom! goes Rose’s heart.

  They stand there a full moment in the spring sunshine with people coming and going around them, posties wheeling past on their heavy old PMG bikes.

  You hungry? Rose asks. I am.

  Yes, yes, let’s get a bite.

  They wind up at the sandwich counter in Coles and Rose forgoes the salmon and onion. They eat and Rose swings on her stool like a girl, waiting. This bloke seems different to men she’s known. There’s no big talk, no flashing of money, no nervous guffaws.

  I’ll guess and you tell me how close I am, he said, wiping his fingers on greaseproof paper. You left school at fifteen. Your dad votes Labor, you play netball, you’d like to be a lawyer’s secretary and you sleep with your socks on.

  Rose smiles and knows whatever she says will sound stupid. Patchy, she says, but boring enough to get me right.

  What’s your name?

  Rosemary.

  Rose.

  Yes, she says relieved.

  What a talker. You need the switchboard between us, do you, before you can really fire?

  I spose I’m used to it. I suddenly don’t know what to talk about.

  Football? The common cold?

  Just ask me out, she says.

  Let’s go out together. Friday.

  You’re a reporter, she says. You went to uni, your parents live in Nedlands and you’ve tried to teach yourself to talk like one of us.

  Us?

  Friday, she says. Meet me at Shenton Park station. Seven o’clock. Bye.

  She slides off her stool, minding her stockings.

  She steps out into the sunshine and has to concentrate to find her way back to work, though it’s barely a block away and she’s walked it every lunch hour for years.

  Well, she thinks, hardly believing her cool delivery. Well. She wondered about her guess. A reporter? Yes, she’d seen those blokes around. Fast movers, funny, sharp, always asking and watching. Yes, he’d be right there in the thick of it. He’d know politicians and criminals. He’d be a mover and shaker. Well, well.

  Toby Raven

  At six-thirty that Friday, Rose was waiting outside the Shenton Park station. He lurched up in a Morris Oxford and nearly took her left hip from its moorings. The first thing she learnt about Toby Raven was that he couldn’t exactly drive. He made his way, but that’s the best you could call it. Rose climbed in, suddenly twice as nervous, and they hopped away.

  Well, well, he murmured, smiling widely at her after a few moments.

  Hello, said Rose.

  Hel-lo.

  Toby sent the car in a swoon towards the kerb and Rose prayed that he would never again feel moved to take his eyes off the road.

  It’d taken all afternoon to dress for this, and she could barely move for starch; with her nervousness turning so quickly to naked fear, the sweat on her steamed up the tulle and the car began to smell like a laundry. She pulled the wrinkles out of her gloves and tried not to ruin her lipstick with gnashing as they drove beneath the long shadow of Kings Park and beside the river reclamation to the lights of the city centre.

  Gawd, she thought, this should be a fabulous feeling—cruising with a beau—if only a girl wasn’t afraid of dying. She sat back
as Toby swooped and swerved, grunted and grated, and took deep breaths as the colours of the city broke over her; she did a real job of seeming perfectly serene.

  They passed through the high class end of town with its grand hotels and ballrooms to cross the railway bridge into shabby streets and boozers’ parks. Toby wedged the car up on a kerb with a thud that nearly put Rose’s head through the roof. He sighed triumphantly.

  Let’s go in.

  Rose couldn’t see anywhere likely to be an eating establishment. There were shopfronts, houses, shadowy doorways. She got out and smelled garlic.

  You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Toby said beside her. It was hard to tell what he meant, but she smoothed her great full skirt graciously all the same.

  He led her to a narrow doorway where a big, bumper-breasted woman met them and took them down to a crowded, smoky room full of tables, chairs, tablecloths, candles, laughing people, chinking glass and cutlery. Great vats of spaghetti were carried past by boys, and jugs of wine that reminded Rose of nosebleeds. People seemed to be speaking all kinds of languages, and some seemed to know Toby.

  They sat at a small waxspattered table, and bread was brought. It wasn’t exactly the dining room at the Palace Hotel.

  Where are we? she said, trying to look pleased.

  Maria’s. This is where the real people come.

  Rose felt her cheeks glowing. Beaut!

  How do you like your spaghetti?

  Oh, she huffed, like my tea—as it comes.

  He laughed. You’re not about to let me go on that tea business are you?

  Listen, she owned up, I don’t know a thing about spaghetti. Or the real people. I’ll just have whatever you reckon.

  Two carbonaras, he told the boy. And a jug.

  Do you come here a lot? Yes, all the time. Terrific place. It’s a hideaway for those in the know, you might say. We all come here. Makes a bit of a change from the old mutton and boiled veg.