Cloudstreet (44 page)

For the better part of the day, Sam stays in Kings Park where Lester left him at dawn. He sleeps in cool shade before the sun gets high, and later he walks down the quiet avenues, along the endless rows of trees, each with its plaque bearing the name of a dead soldier, his unit, his deathfield. The bush of the park comes alive with sweeping birds, the scuttle of goannas and rabbits. All day he wanders, finding a statue, a new road, a landscaped garden, and at the eastern edge, a view of the city with the river leaning its way in and out of the plan below. A ferry pushes its way from Mends Street to the Barrack Street jetty. A rich man’s yacht, red sails shuddering like a singer’s lungs, cuts in behind it, and children wave. He’s come to like the place, he discovers. The autumn blue sky bowls across the whole business and warms his certainty. He feels the notes in his pocket.

Heading down to the big boulevard of eucalypts, past the statue of John Forrest, he comes to the great log the kids call the Toothpick. It’s huge and barely weathered, ten feet high and a hundred feet long, on its side like a fallen beast. At its sawn ends he sees the lines that divide its years, concentric markings like the inside of a gobstopper.

There’s some floorboards in you, old son, he murmurs, leaving.

Lightbrained with hunger, he goes on down to Mount Street, past the grand houses and the gleaming Buicks and Humbers, into the city. Hay Street is full of trams and beer barrels. Kids are selling the
Mirror
and the
West
on corners, trollies hiss by down William Street, and outside Foys the cashews roasting, the sandwich counter roaring, send him giddy and glasseyed on his way. Afternoon picture shows are finishing with a straggle of squinteyed patrons coming back out onto the street as if stunned by the ordinariness of the day. Men smoke on the steps of the GPO, eat pies and stay wary of their suits. With two hundred pounds in his pocket, he sits in Forrest Place with the gas-crazy Anzacs and mealy whingers who ask for a fag and a florin and look at you like you might be the bloke who caused all their problems in the first place. With two hundred quid against his leg, he sits without food, without a drink or a smoke, looking across the rails toward Roe Street where someone’s backyard is being rigged with a tarp and the dirt raked in a flat circle for tonight. All along the street, the tired old tarts are calling sailors and frightening off schoolboys while the trains shunt by spitting steam. Sam feels change in his pocket. Yes, he’ll buy a shave in an hour, and after dark he’ll go across the bridge, hungry, smokestarved, dry, clean as a monk. And lucky.

Beryl Fades Out

Mum, said Red. Beryl is fadin.

Oriel looked at the potatoes in her hand and thought of the things she’d like to tell the spud growers of Australia about taking a little time, a little pride and a little care.

Mum? All afternoon she’s bin goin out like a light.

Your father’s out like a light today himself. Hasn’t been out of bed all day.

I think he’s crook, Red said disapprovingly.

Hm.

Then what about Beryl?

Go find her for me.

They’re holeing up this afternoon in Cloudstreet. In their beds, their rooms, in their work and their heads they’re closing doors and turning keys while the trees lean in against the gutters and squeeze and the nails creak, the boards squinch together just a notch more beneath a shifting, a drifting, a lifting sky as Sam Pickles pulls lint from his pockets, as Fish touches Quick’s back leaning into the steamy guts of the Chev with a spanner, watched by Dolly and above her by Rose while Beryl goes back in to Lester without knocking.

I’m leaving here tonight, said Beryl.

Lester sat up in bed and saw Beryl trying not to bawl and weep.

Going? Lester’d gone beyond fury today. He’d been all day in a state of silly wonder, and now he didn’t know where else there was to go. He’d spent years arresting people for things both mild and maniacal. He’d been to war and lived a Depression on the land, been a father and a husband, and this week, even an adulterer, but it counted for nothing because here he was with Beryl Lee on the end of his bed beggin the question: why was it that he didn’t know a thing about the underlying nature of people, the shadows and shifts, the hungers and hopes that caused them to do the things they did?

Why, Beryl? I thought you were happy here, safe.

Beryl unwound her defeated neck and fixed him with a doleful stare until he could feel his eyes pressing the back of his skull.

Well, I have … I have
feelings
too you know.

Lester sighed. Ah. Quick, is it? I’ve seen you since he’s been back.

Oh, Lester.

What?

You’d have made an awful copper.

I was.

She fixed him with that significant look again and Lester groaned.

Me? Oh, Beryl. I’m sorry.

It’s just got too much for me.

But you don’t have to go.

No, I’ve been deciding ever since Quick came back. I … hung about him because, well because of the state he was in when he came home to us, and I wanted to talk to him, ask him some things. You see there’s a house I’ve been talking with, a convent—

Oh, come on, Beryl!

And I wanted to pick his brain about a few things. He has shadows in his eyes, that boy. I’m sure if he’d wanted to talk to me—

He doesn’t know you, Beryl, he hardly knows his own family anymore.

Well, anyway, I’ve decided without the benefit of getting through to him. I’m going tonight.

But you don’t want to be a nun.

Don’t you believe in commitment?

I dunno, Beryl.

Why’re you staying here with your wife? Think of the calisthenics you could have had with … other people.

Well, I made some promises in my time.

Beryl smiled and her whole posture seemed to benefit. And you’ll keep them all in the end, Lester. That’s you. See. And I’m the same. I’m a Catholic. I make promises, too. I love the Church.

Geez, Beryl, it’s drastic.

Look at this old house, Lester. Look at that tent down there. Do a room-by-room and have a look. This has always been drastic and I thank God for all of it. I’m getting married again, Lester. Be happy for me.

It’s not natural.

Marriage is never natural.

Lester laughed. Oh, Beryl, you’re a bonzer.

Beryl Lee smiled the sweetest most crucifying smile and Lester heard Fish begin to thump the piano upstairs.

And we hardly noticed you, he said.

But you’ll remember, won’t you?

My oath.

A terrible moaning came down through the floor. Beryl left him and he lay there like a sprayed insect.

Oriel looked at Beryl and took her in her meaty arms.

Don’t pity me, Oriel.

Pity? You’ve gotta be usin levity on me! You see that tent? You see this non-Cathlick beatin breast? Pity, Beryl? Don’t shame a woman. I’m just sad to see you go. I’ll … probably … well, miss you.

But we hardly ever talked.

Talk? Those poor misguided nuns’ll teach you the use of talk, love. A woman doesn’t need talk. She needs a team. I hope you find it. You can always come back. Always.

Beryl said her bit and stuffed her bags and everyone descended to the kitchen to make a dinner worthy of her. Lester whipped and dipped. There were scrubbers and peelers, stringers and wringers, as the stove bawled and the pots jangled up a head of steam. The big old house heaved and sighed around them. Chooks were still fighting for roosts down the back, and the pig was snoring by the time they finished eating and Lester cleared his throat to speak.

Beryl, as head of the household I think it’s time to let you know how glad we are to have had you round. You’ve worked like a bloke and we’ll miss you, I reckon. We wanna say good luck in all you do. He looked at the others, a little uncertain, as though calculating something, and then he grinned. You know we’re not a drinkin family, Beryl, and you’ll also be aware that Mum here doesn’t agree with fluids at meals on account of the science of digestion, so in order to serve you a toast, I’ll ask everybody to charge their forks.

And he speared a spud and held it aloft, waiting for them all to follow suit, which in the end they did, openmouthed with amazement. Yes, charge your forks, and here’s to Beryl, a jolly good fella.

To Beryl, they all said, lamb, spuds, or just gravy on their forks, if that’s all they had left, and they bit and munched, following his lead—even Oriel whose face led you to believe she was eating live bullant.

Nun better for our money, said Lon, who got a blow from everyone in reach except Beryl herself.

Bless you all, she said.

We’ll smuggle icecream in, eh, Dad, said Quick.

Ah, Beryl laughed, you’ll bring the Church to its knees.

I’m told that is the correct position, said Oriel stone-faced.

In the brief, hysterical silence to follow, Lester said:

I do believe your mother made a joke.

Their eyes were as big as hardboiled eggs.

Ticking

Sam Pickles opens a gate across town with his stump sparking like a cut cable.

The light goes out of the night sky a moment. The pig hoots and bawls. Fish goes to the window stormbrowed. A man stands in the street across the road with his great timepiece ricking and ticking.

Lester came back from dropping Beryl off. Everyone slumped round the cleared kitchen listening to the queer rattle of the gutters.

I’m goin prawnin, said Oriel.

Thay all just gawked.

Not really the season, Mum, said Quick. November at the earliest.

There’s always prawns in the river. There’ll always be something.

Brrr. I’m listening to the wireless, said Elaine.

Me too, said Red.

Yeah, said Lon.

In the river? murmured Fish, building something out of his hands.

You’ll be in bed, Fish.

I’ll tell you stories, son, said Lester. He looked darkly at Oriel.

Come on, Quick, she said.

Eh?

Get the net and get your togs on.

It’s cold, Mum.

Goin on me own, am I?

Quick stood by the big old wireless and sucked his teeth. It’s givin in, he thought; it’s too early to be givin in.

And I haven’t seen him for two years, Oriel said to Lester.