Cloudstreet

by Tim Winton

  By December, Dolly wasn’t even home when he got off the train. Some mornings she wasn’t even in bed. Things went missing from the house: rugs, silver, even the brass spittoon with the star of David on it that they’d brought down with them from Joel’s pub. The times he did see her she was sick and mean and Sam couldn’t find the will in him to go at her about all the things she was flogging, the way she looked, what was happening to her. He sat by the wireless, listened to the house cracking its knuckles and decided to weather it out.

  One morning, with the hot hayfever easterly blowing in from the desert and whipping the dry grasses against the walls of the house, Sam got the fright of his life. It was light already and he’d finished his breakfast, and had only his hat to find before going off for work. He went through his bedroom, the kitchen, loungeroom, the ground floor hall without a sign of the damned thing, so he went upstairs and looked in Rose’s old room, remembering now that he’d left it on her dresser, old fool that he was. But it wasn’t in the room at all. There was a thumping in the walls like an erratic heartbeat, the kind he felt with a headache coming on, though when he went out into the corridor he knew it was actually someone pounding and it came from that no man’s land room at the end, the one he never much liked. He was getting late for work, but he was curious about that beating in the walls, and besides, he thought, it might be the old girl—there was no sign of her about.

  The library door was open a crack and a dim glow showed. Sam went on down, and when he pushed the door open he saw the retarded Lamb boy with Sam’s own Akubra on his head, wearing nothing at all else except two silver coins on a chain round his neck. The boy stood against the wall staring back into the corner behind the door, and he was thumping the walls furiously. His nuts swung beneath his belly; his buck teeth were bared and there were tears on his cheeks.

  Sam felt a bolt of panic. The boy didn’t even seem to see him. He stepped into the room whose atmosphere made his stomach twist, and when he turned he saw the most vicious-looking old bitch he’d ever seen in his life. She was white and dressed in some outfit from another time. There were lacy gloves in her hand that were beautiful, delicate as he’d ever seen. She seemed to be smiling; a sweet, frightening smile. Sure that he might shit himself at any moment, Sam Pickles took the boy by the shoulder. Fish went limp and weepy against him.

  She won’t let me play! the boy sobbed in his man’s voice.

  I know how it feels, son, Sam replied, certain at that moment that he’d finally laid eyes on Lady Luck herself. But when he looked back, the old lady was gone, and the only light in the room came from the hallway.

  Is there someone up? Sam backed out of the room and called down the corridor.

  A door opened. Mr Pickles? It was the Lamb girl Elaine, who always seemed engaged but not married. Fish? She poked her rollered head out into the hall. What’s happening? Where’s his clothes?

  I think he’s a bit at sea, said Sam.

  She won’t let me play, blubbered the boy. He was bigger than Sam and heavy.

  Sam felt his joints tingling as if somewhere out of sight there was a small wire shorting.

  Whirling Dark

  What is it whirling dark across the rooftops and down the streets like a wind, like a hot rancid breath? Cloudstreet suddenly looks small, and the further up you go the flimsier it looks. It could blow away in a moment. All those rooftops could go like leaves, and across the world there’s men with circuitry and hardware, men with play lighting their eyes, fellows whose red faces flash like the buttons beneath their hands. All the rooftops of the world become leaves. They quiver and titter before the indrawn breath of brinkmanship and world play right through summer and winter. While down in the streets below their roofs, some people, the people I knew, the people I came to know better having left them behind, fidget before other withheld winds. Dolly drinking and hating up a storm, the shadows bulleting around the library like mullet in a barrel, Fish himself quaking with pent force and worry while across town in the orderly quiet suburbs, Rose Lamb meets the oncoming hayfever season the way she meets the Cuba crisis—with the windows down and the curtains drawn.

  Lost Ground

  Rose stopped reading newspapers, and put the radio in the linen press. She didn’t want to know about Cuba and all the horrors gathering. The world was a sad, miserable place and soon it’d be no place at all. Quick was off deluding himself in uniform, bees hummed mindlessly at the window, the sky was the colour of a suicide’s lips so she blotted it out altogether with paper on the panes. Oh, they were waiting for grandchildren over at Cloudstreet but they could bugger themselves as far as she cared. The girls from Bairds called round a couple of times, fat, whorish ignoramuses that they were, calling her Love and Petal all the time. They were gross, sweaty, powdercaked, and their nervous laughter made her want to scratch their eyes out.

  The little bedsit was cramped and cheerless, perfect for the hard feeling that had come on her. For the first time since she was a girl Rose felt invincible, as though no one alive could alter her course. The little belly she’d had, which now seemed so gross in memory, was gone, and with it the flesh of her thighs and backside. In the mirror she looked lean and unpredictable; she liked what she saw, though she knew Quick could barely look at her. He despised it, this vomiting food after meals, though he’d exalted over it when there was a baby to cause it. It was puking from emptiness that he hated. Doing it for nothing.

  All day she sat inside making and remaking the bed, arranging the cups in the kitchenette so their handles pointed exactly the same way. She boiled and reboiled the cutlery, and on all fours she searched for floor dirt. She didn’t touch her books, there was no order in books. When Quick came home she locked herself in the toilet because she couldn’t bear to see him deface order.

  It was a shock to see the old man at the screen door one Saturday afternoon. He had his hat in hand, smelled of shaving soap, and had a dried out bunch of roses in his fist. She let him in and pulled her housecoat around her.

  This is a surprise, she said unevenly. Shouldn’t you be at the races?

  Well, he said, shouldn’t you be out doin somethin?

  She shrugged.

  You look awful.

  Thanks.

  You don’t have to, that’s what pisses me off, Rose.

  You’ll want a cuppa.

  Yeah. No milk.

  I remember, Dad. I—m the daughter, remember.]

  Yeah, I recall right enough. Small here, isn’t it? You gunna let me sit down?

  Rose wiped a vinyl chair and pushed it his way.

  There must be something wrong, said Rose.

  I’m here about your Mum.

  Aha. Can’t you manage a friendly visit?

  We don’t exactly see you makin nuisance of yerself visitin Cloudstreet. Besides, it’d be a brave bastard who tried makin a friendly visit on you.

  Rose felt the heat of anger gaining on her. Let’s just have a cuppa, shall we?

  If you can keep a cup of tea down, that’ll be fine with me.

  Don’t harp at me, Dad!

  The old man took a seat and slung his hat over his knee. He looked a little changed, as though he’d decided something. And he looked older.

  Yer mother’s losin control altogether.

  She never had any self control. Rats have more discipline than old Dolly.

  Jesus, Rose.

  Well, what’s news?

  News is she’s gettin old an scared. If she doesn’t lay off the slops a bit she’ll just die.

  What dyou care? She’s only ever made you miserable.

  She’s my wife, he said looking at her anew. Looking at her as though she was a snake underfoot.

  I can remember a time, Dad, do you remember? When I was a girl, the miserable little girl I was, and I found you in the bathroom getting ready to slit your throat. She drove you that far. You remember that?

  I remember, he said, looking at the floor. You came. I stopped. For you.

  Rose
poured his tea, wiped her hands over and over with an ironed teatowel.

  She’ll stop for you, too, you know.

  So you came for help?

  Yeah. Sam let off one of those grins that she hadn’t seen since God knows when, since Geraldton and days when there were only air raids and Japs to worry about, and her fury subsided a moment, despite her.

  Help? Dad, I cleaned up her vomit, washed her clothes, dragged her home from the pub every bloody night of my childhood. I replaced her, you know. I did her work. My childhood was taken from me, Dad. She hurt me all her life. Don’t you think I helped enough? Don’t you think you’ve got a bloody hide even comin to ask?

  She’s grievin. It’s Ted, you know.

  Ted, Ted, Ted! She only ever loved the one of us!

  Well, for Chrissake, how do you think that makes me feel? You think you’re the only one? Nothin can fix that for us, Rose. But show some pity. She lost a child.

  Well, she’s not the only one!

  You never even knew yours. It’s not the same. She was Ted’s mother.

  She was never a mother. She never loved me.

  You wouldn’t let her, Rose.

  Rose stared at him, mouth open.

  Sam looked at his cooling tea.

  You’ve lost her, that’s why you want me to come.

  She’s been gone a coupla days.

  She’s left you.

  No, she’s left herself.

  You still love her, don’t you?

  Sam shrugged, wet-eyed and stiff in his seat. I got used to her. I dunno.

  Well, I’m not crawling through the bars of any more pubs looking for her, Dad.

  You won’t go with me?

  Why?

  It shames a man lookin for his wife.

  Jesus, Dad! Haven’t you got used to the shame of it all? She’s made an idiot and a laughing stock out of you so often it’s like a joke now. Hasn’t it worn off yet?

  I thought you’d come lookin. Just for me.

  I always went for you, Dad.

  Don’t try to be cruel to her, Rose. She’s had her chances, she’s nearly finished. Winnin out over someone like that isn’t much of a victory. She can only lose from now on in. She’s nearly sixty odd. She can only get old and die. You’re young. You can have more babies, things are ahead of you. Look at me. Whatever I’m gunna get in this life I’ve had, and damnnear all that’s been lost. You can bear it when you lose money and furniture. You can even grit yer teeth and take it when yer lose yer looks, yer teeth, yer youth. But Christ Jesus, when yer family goes after it, it’s more than a man can bear. A man’s sposed to have that at least to look forward to.

  Rose watched him go out, dusting off his hat, striding down the steps with his elbows in the air and he was gone before the screen door came to with a slap and left her in a shrinking room.

  Arrest

  Night falls. All down Swan Street the dogs bark and children are hectored indoors. Alone in her two rooms Rose sits on the bed, picking at the candlewick bedspread with a great blankness expanding in her mind. She’s hungry, but the feel of food in her mouth just makes her retch. Quick is late off the afternoon shift but she’s not thinking of him anymore. For a while there, around five o’clock, when she realized that her flesh had come to feel as though soap had dried on it, she thought that perhaps she should go out and find a doctor because she was suddenly afraid of falling asleep and waking to find herself pinned to the wall by the faint grass-smelling easterly that murmured at the screen door, but the thought petered out somewhere and left her with a fear that seemed to have lost its source. And now, now she’s not thinking of anything at all. She’s even forgotten to be afraid. The candlewick bedspread moults under her hands.

  She listens to her own breathing. It fascinates her, reminds her of things, so mesmeric. Girls. It’s a girl’s breath, that’s what she hears. And these two rooms don’t exist. Something bad is going to happen. All this breathing here in the hallway in front of 36. The Eurythmic Hotel when you’re eleven and a half years old. This isn’t a memory—she doesn’t recall this. The door of 36. Those sounds behind, Jesus Christ, she knows what that is. They’re fucking in there behind the door. Who is that? And anyway, what’s she waiting for? Listen to them go in there, snorting and snouting like … but I’m a girl, I don’t know this. I don’t … I … my God. Mum? There’s been an accident, an accident. Dad’s lost his fingers. And she’s in there huffing and puffing with someone else. Your mother’s on her bed under some stranger and you’re turning to steel right there.

  A car pulls up noisily somewhere.

  Rose begins to weep. I didn’t want to remember that! I don’t want that.

  And now someone is running, someone close by.

  I was a girl, she thinks; I shouldn’t have had to hear that. I shouldn’t have had any of it.

  Rose? Rose?

  A policeman at the door. He bursts inside like he owns the bloody place.

  It’s not fair! she yells, Not me!

  Rose?

  The taxi floats down Stirling Highway. She sees the clock-tower of the uni lit in the far distance.

  Rose, says Quick.

  Yes?

  Are you orright?

  Looks like a fuckin scarecrow to me, says the taxi driver.

  She’s also my wife.

  Shit! Sorry, Constable. I thought it was an arrest. Gawd, I’m sorry.

  Just drive.

  Quick?

  Yeah.

  You putting me in the hospital?

  Quick smiles. He looks beautiful in his uniform: No. Though I probably should. Look at you.

  I’m ugly.

  Not as ugly as me.

  Where we going?

  Cloudstreet.

  Is everything alright?

  We’ve found your mum.

  Oh God.

  I don’t wanna do this, Quick! Rose pleads, trying to slow him up in the corridor.

  From a doorway, a woman’s voice comes screaming: You fuckin bastards! Get your stinkin hands outta me stockins or I’ll piss all over the lotta yer!

  Quick looks pale and nervous himself. His tunic is crumpled from holding her in the taxi. Elaine drifts by squinting with strain.

  I don’t know much about this stuff, Rose. I got the call and thought I’d better bring you. I thought you’d come.

  The call from who?

  Yer dad. Some bloke slipped a note in the mail box, I dunno, someone told him. I dunno.

  Dad, you little mongrel, she murmurs. You gutless little runt.

  Down the corridor the woman screams again. Aaargh!

  You don’t know what this is like, Quick!

  He shrugs.

  You’ve been sheltered from this sort of stuff, damn it!

  He nods. Yeah, I’m finding that out, orright.

  No one should make me do this again. I’ve told you all that stuff. They shouldn’t make me.

  Quick shook his head.

  God, Quick, I’m married. I’m my own person.

  She’s yer mother.

  I can’t help that.

  Neither can she. They said she wants you.

  She can go to hell.

  The voice is broken and hoarse now, pouring from that room. A man comes out sweating and closing a bag. The doctor. She’ll settle now, he says leaving.

  I think she’s found Hell, someone says, by the sound of that.

  Quick snatches up his cap. I’ve gotta go. Good luck. He turns on his boot heel and pushes his way through the doors.

  Rose stands there with her hair about her like a storm-cloud, all the steel gone out of her.

  The Girl with the Brown Fatness of Hair

  Dolly saw the girl swimming through the crowd. It was hard to see because she herself was lying on the bar with men leaning on her and their drinks on coasters balanced on her belly, between her breasts, along her thighs. They were squeezing her for it, those men, milking her tits for beer, foaming up their glasses, reaching inside her camisole, forcing her l
egs apart to get at things and dragging out coins, furniture, dead babies and old bottles. Between her knees and through the smoke and laughter she saw the girl with the brown fatness of hair. There was a great ticking watch on the girl’s wrist, big as a saucer. Dolly heard it through the roaring mob and saw how it weighed the kid down. But the girl waded on doggedly. She was strong, you could see, and she was coming, and the laughter was drying up and the hands were coming out as they all started dying around her.

  A long time after everyone left, Rose stood by the bed. The old girl sagged back onto the pillows with her wild hair spread out upon them full of silver streaks, tobacco washes. She looked incredibly old and tired, more haglike than any pantomine witch. It was hard to believe that something like this could give birth to you. The whole house went quiet till it was just grinding on its stumps, like a ship at anchor.

  You wanted to see me, said Rose dully after a long time.

  Dolly closed her eyes.

  Rose sat down.

  I’m tired.

  Well I’m tired, too, so get on with it.

  Don’t hate me.

  Too late for that.

  Why?

  My whole life, Mother, that’s why.

  Dolly blinked. What did I do that was so bad?

  Rose smiled bitterly. You’ve gotta be joking. You stole from me. My childhood, my innocence, my trust. You were always a hateful bitch. A drunken slut. You beat us and shamed us in public. I hate you for all the reasons you hate yourself, and I wanted to kill you the way you wanted to kill yourself. Everything, you stole from me. Even when I was a teenager you competed with me, your looks against mine. Shit, even my grief you steal from me. You can’t imagine how I hate you.