Tim Winton - Cloudstreet

After they’re dressed and gone, hurrying out into the daylit house with news for the world, their sudden love remains in the room, hanging like incense.

Outside Chance

Oriel Lamb had nothing to say. Her son stood at the flap of the tent in his undershorts with the creeping sun behind him, and she had nothing to say at all.

It’s probably a bit of a shock, he said.

Oriel stepped into her boots and took a Bex for the headache that could only be minutes away. She made her bed while he stood there, set things straight on her dresser, trimmed the wick of the lamp.

Mum?

Aren’t you cold?

Yeah, but—

Go inside and light the stove.

Just then someone started to laugh up in the Pickles side of the house, the kind of laugh that’d see a person in the casualty ward if it went on much longer.

Well, I see Mr Pickles has just been informed, said Oriel.

Don’t see what’s so funny, said her son.

The laugh toned down to a fitful giggle that sounded safe enough for the moment. A window on the ground floor slid up and Dolly Pickles put her head out; she looked truly vile with her hair imploded, a fag on her long bottom lip. She shook her head, pulled it and her dishwater bangs inside, and ground the window down again.

Go inside, Quick. I want to get dressed.

He went, she pulled the flap to, and sat on the bed, wrinkling it in a most unsatisfactory way.

Inside, Lester Lamb was looking for Quick. He knew damn-well that Fish had been out all night with Quick in the boat, and that the old girl would go mad, but he’d seen, too, the troughs full of fish still out on the truck with all the local cats fighting and gorging on them, and he knew he had to get to the boy before she did, because he just couldn’t imagine what’d happen if she saw.

He went quietly from room to room in the strangely subdued house which felt like a storm had been through while they were all asleep to leave the atmosphere thick and exhausted, until he got to the back door and saw Quick coming. He motioned to Quick to come quickly, the boy seemed eaten by dread all of a sudden.

You’ve left the fish out! he hissed.

Oh, gawd!

What’s the matter with you?

I’m gettin married.

Today?

No. It’s—

Good, well let’s get the fish in.

The cats yowled and spat as Lester and Quick heaved the troughs down and hauled them inside. The house was waking quicker than usual. Through the shop and into the kitchen they went.

It’s a good night’s worth, son.

I’m gettin married, Dad. I’m marryin Rose next door.

Good gawd!

The old man threw himself onto a chair which slewed on its joints and collapsed beneath him, sending him onto the floor on his back. Pieces of wood slid down the lino like broken tackle on a reeling ship.

She’s so … pretty, Lester said without breath. I’ve hurt me back.

It’s gunna be orright, Dad.

Let’s wait for the X-rays.

No, I mean—

Good Lawd! bellowed Oriel walking in on them. For pity’s sake, let’s be sensible about this!

He fell over, Mum.

Sit down over there!

Red burst in. Good on ya, Quick. I knew you weren’t completely useless. You don’t deserve her.

Elaine followed, white, peaky, outraged.

Well, Lon’s asleep as usual, said Quick, and Fish’ll be down drectly.

Who’s gunna declare the meeting opened, then? said Red, grinning.

I’ve hurt me back, said Lester.

I’ll second that, said Quick, delirious with apprehension.

Get off the floor, Lester, said Oriel.

The floor’s yours, Dad, said Quick. The meeting’s opened.

Oriel Lamb began to weep. It sounded like trains colliding.

Well, it’s a step down from Tony from the uni, murmured Sam, rolling a fag philosophically, but he seems a good boy.

That’s all he is, Dolly said in disgust. A good boy.

Rose had never felt so much iron in her. There was this feeling of striding, of invincibility that she’d only ever had in dreams before. She shifted in her stance against the kitchen wall and felt the soreness still. There was nothing they could say, that anyone could say, to take this from her.

You up the duff?

Leave it out, Mum!

They’ll think you are anyway. Six weeks is gunna look lovely.

Not that having things look lovely has been your enduring obsession, Mother.

I’m thinkin of you, you silly little bitch.

Good, that makes two of us.

They’ll hate it.

You mean you hate it.

That woman’ll tear you to bits.

Chub came in.

What’s all the yellin?

I’m getting married to Quick Lamb in six weeks.

Oh. There any bacon?

It’ll be a bloody dry weddin, Sam said with a look of wonder.

Not if we’re payin for it, it won’t, said Dolly. No flamin fear!

Oh, murmured the old man. I forgot that. See, I knew I won that two-up money for something.

You mean you’ve still got it? Dolly looked appalled.

Under the mattress. Lost me nerve there for a while, I did.

This is so funny, so bloody hilarious, said Dolly, not managing to sound amused. She wants our blessin, but she won’t ask for it.

She’s proud.

Stop smirkin like that, the both of yuz! said Dolly.

What do you reckon, Dad?

Oh, you know me, I’ll always back an outside chance.

Rose kissed him and felt the urgency of his embrace until she could count the fingerless knuckles in the small of her back.

He’ll have to come an see me.

He’ll come.

We’ll get free fish, I spose.

I reckon it could be arranged.

They’re gettin this place off us, bit by bit, said the old girl. We’re signin ourselves over.

Give’s a kiss, Mum.

Go to buggery.

Grandeur, Almost

In the end, after six weeks of tears and tizzes, Quick stands up there at the front of the church with Fish at his side and the family sweating behind him. In his hired suit, Fish looks like he could run the Liberal Party and make a killing. Quick can hardly believe he got his way. There’s organ music, the smell of mothballs and pious bookdust. He catches a glimpse of his mother’s magnificent look of forbearance and injury; her hair is bowled over in a frightful series of curls, hardly a monument to straightliving and modesty. It’s almost like a helmet she’s lowered on her scone for protection against passion. The old man beside her sits reedbent and curious, tie knot resting like a spare Adam’s apple at his throat. Quick can’t remember noticing his baldness as being so advanced. They look so old, the two of them. The knife never lies … should have spun the old knife, he thinks, just for a laugh. Though maybe we could do without predictions today.

The high ceiling reaches into a cobwebby dimness with weak streaks of light blunting themselves against one another from opposite sides of the church. It’s almost grand, but a good compromise, he thinks, between pooftery High Church and shoebox Baptist.

You got the rings? he whispers to Fish.

Yairs. Fish pats his pocket.

Need a wee?

No. Not yet.

Won’t be long now.

Someone’s asleep in this house, too.

Ssh, now. They’re here. Oh, gawd, they’re havin a barney out on the street.

A few Lambs and Lamb customers twist their necks to see a moment of sparring between bride and mother before the organ lets loose with a volley of notes which sound like a call to order.