Cloudstreet (39 page)

Lester almost gasps. It’s one thing for him to say it, but for her to admit such a thing, it’s terrifying.

You believe in hard work, love.

Not for its own sake, I don’t. We weren’t born to work. Look at them next door.

There’s always the family, says Lester.

Families aren’t things you believe in, they’re things you work with.

Don’t you believe in … love?

No.

No? Lester bites the ends of his fingers.

I feel love. I’m stuck with the love I’ve got, and I’m tryin to work up the love I haven’t got. Do you believe in love, he says. It’s like sayin Do you believe in babies. They happen.

What about goodness, lovingkindness, charity?

They’re just things you do, you try to do. There’s no point believin in em.

So what do you want? says Lester.

I want my country back.

The tent?

I wish I could lace it up an never come out, she says with an unexpected laugh. You could slip food under the flap and I’d never see a soul, never say a livin word.

Lester shakes his head. Why?

Then I could get on with the real war.

You want a miracle, don’t you?

I want the miracle finished off. I demand it, and I’m gonna fight to get it.

So you do believe.

Lester, I believe in eight hours’ sleep and a big breakfast.

Oriel gets up and goes to her tent.

Lester sits out on the stoop and watches the lamp waver into life inside the tent. The scabby arms of the mulberry tree reach around it so that from the upper floors Oriel’s silhouette looks like it’s moving about inside the ribcage of some sleeping animal. From where Lester is, though, it’s just a woman going through her drill before bed. I’ll bet she even prays, he thinks. But the light goes out, the sight of her diminishes in the gloom, the dew chills him.

Keeping Watch

Day by day Quick began to fade, until by the end of the week he had no light in him at all, and he slept thirty-two-and-a-half hours with the snores of an explorer. A tall, pale woman he’d never met sat on his bed with a rosary and a hangdog look and took turns with Fish to keep watch.

In the Poo

Sam Pickles came home a week after the wedding with grass on his sleeve, blood on his collar, and a tooth in his pocket. His hat looked abused. One eye was oystered up with swelling. There was bark off his nose.

My Gawd, murmured Dolly who was still in her dressing gown. That’s what I call a day’s work. What the Christ have you been into?

Me luck’s runnin uphill.

Runnin out yer arse by the look.

Sam eased himself into a chair at the table.

You’ve lost a tooth.

Sam fished it out of his pocket and put it beside the teapot.

Geez, look at the colour of it. That’s smokin, doin that. It’s as yeller as Tojo.

Pour us a cup.

How much do you owe? Dolly said as she poured him the strong metallic tea.

I could make it back on a quinella or just a decent run of luck.

That much.

The stove fizzed and snapped with the kettle working back up to the boil. Next door creaked with the business of closing the shop. That slow kid was laughing; the sound got on your nerves, made you wish they’d put him in a home with his own kind where he’d be happier.

Wincing, Sam drank his tea.

Could you eat a chop?

Sam nodded. Dolly got up and slipped the pan onto the stove. She was in an unaccountably decent mood tonight, he thought.

How many blokes dyou owe?

One fella who owns all the fellas. He’s a nasty cove.

What’re they gunna do?

Work it out of me, I spose. There’s plenty of shonky jobs they’ll want done.

Oh gawd. Haven’t you got some union mates to back you up?

Sam smiled: They are the union.

Jesus.

When he was eating, Dolly took his gladstone bag and shook the
Daily News
final out of it, the horseshoe, the rabbit’s foot, the breadcrusts, pennies, watch parts, peppermints and old train tickets, and went upstairs with it. She came back with it full of clothes and shaving gear. He looked at her across the table, pushed the plate away. There was a knock at the door.

Godalmighty.

Sam got up, found the crooked old poker by the stove and went to the hallway door. Before he turned the knob, he looked at her and saw what a handsome woman she still was, despite all. He opened the door with his bung hand and had his good one ready.

Gday, said Lester Lamb. I’ve got some old caulies. They’d be good for a soup. I had too many too quick and … you orright?

Yeah, yeah, come in Lester.

Lester put the two greyish cauliflowers on the table. Evenin Mrs Pickles.

Cauliflowers.

Yeah, I just—

Thanks, that’s beaut.

Lester saw the open bag on the table. He looked at Sam’s face and the blood on his shirt.

You off, then?

Yeah, said Sam. I’ve got some business to do.

You’re in trouble.

The stove spat and swallowed. Someone thumped up stairs.

The bookies?

Sam squirmed against the door. Well—

The union, said Dolly.

Ah, the flamin unions, then is it? That bunch of grovellin bullies. By crikey, I can’t … He trailed off and went thoughtful. Need to find a bit of tin to crawl under, eh? Listen, gimme ten minutes. Grab some blankets.

Rose came down the station ramp and saw the Lamb truck going. She waved dutifully and then stood there in the little gust of wind it left in its wake. The old man; that was the old man in the passenger side with his hat pulled down over his eyes. And the cocky, the bird on his shoulder and all. Rose swung her handbag and tried a quick trot but her feet were just too sore from dancing. He’s in the poo, she thought; he just has to be.

Lester drove out north and before either of them spoke the city was behind them, vibrating in the rearview mirrors.

What’s the story? Lester asked.

I gotta keep me lip buttoned, really.

Fair enough.

Sam lit up a smoke. It was something to see, a man with so few fingers rolling and lighting like that.

Your missus clean your face up a bit?

Yeah. Gave me the shock of me life, Sam said with a wetlunged laugh.

What you bring the bird for?

It agrees with everything I say.

What’s she really like, Sam?

The bird or my old lady? Jesus, I dunno. Like she looks. She’s just a rough broad. She used to be … I dunno … softer. We had a lot of bad luck you know. She used to be easier to get along with. She wasn’t such a piss artist in the old days.

Heard from your boy?

How’d you know about that?

Come on, mate, we live between the same walls.

Sam dragged so hard on his smoke, the cab lit up till they could see each other a full few seconds. He’s not so bloody stupid as he seems, Sam thought. He’s the sort of bloke you’d never know what he was capable of. He might come good in a blue, for instance, though he might be a dobber, too. Didn’t he used to be a copper once? A man should never trust an ex-copper.

I haven’t heard from Ted yet. Silly bastard. He’s gonna find his dick in the wringer before long. He’ll end up married to some big bellied girl lookin down the barrels of a shotgun.

Bad way to start a marriage.

Sam snorted. Tell me about it.

Is that your story?

Doesn’t it bloody show?

Lester shrugged politely.

He’s got Sunday School written all over him, thought Sam.

They drove into the dry, capstone country where ragged banksias showed up in the headlamps and groups of roos stood in paddocks, motionless as shire committees.

Where we goin?

A fishin shack. How long will you need?

A week maybe.

Will it blow over or do you have to blow it over?

I reckon I have to do the job meself.

Trouble is, said Sam, thinking as he spoke, that a bit of action costs money. To get things done.

I can’t lend you any, said Lester, the wife wouldn’t have it. He thought: he sounds like a little crim all of a sudden.

Wouldn’t necessarily be a loan. Rent in advance, maybe.

Well, we’re paid up for years already.

Lester turned off towards the coast at a clump of black-boys on a rise. The sky was littered with stars.

You ever thought of buyin it?

Lester sniffed. Cloudstreet?

It’d be a money spinner.

Hardly made you a rich man, mate, said Lester.

I’ve had a lot of bad luck.

I thought about buyin it once. A long time ago before the old girl moved out the back. But it’s too crowded.

Christ, yelled Sam, it’s hardly deserted. There’s your whole mob and us. And that flatchested Cathlick sheila your missus took in.

No, I mean it feels claustrophobic. Even when it’s empty it feels overcrowded.

Jesus. You believe in luck, Lest? You remember that horse Blackbutt? Luck!

Mm.

It’s like that lighthouse out there. Pointin the finger, like the Hairy Hand of God.

Lester drove silently until he couldn’t bite his tongue any longer. Come clean, Sam, how much do you owe the bookies?

Sam sighed. So the bastard had known all along. Two hundred quid. Some blokes in the union paid it for me.

When was this?

January.

Coo. No wonder they’re a little punchy. Will they just take the money if … you come up with it?

Yeah. I reckon. But I gotta come up with it.

They rolled down between balding dunes where a small river was dammed up behind the beach. A half dozen tin shacks stood concealed from one another by peppermint trees. No lights showed. There were no other vehicles except a rusty old Fordson tractor that looked like it was used to haul boats out of the water. Upturned dinghies stood beneath trees, with the frames of chairs, kerosene tins, broken rope swings from summer. Lester stopped outside a little corrugated place, left the headlights on and got out to work at the padlock with a bunch of keys. Sam stood out of his light, smelling the sea, wondering how it could all go this far.

There’s a coupla crates back in the cab you can bring in, Lester said, getting the door open. A stink of dust and ratshit wafted out.

I didn’t know you had a beach house.