Tim Winton - Cloudstreet

cloudstreet

TIM WINTON

SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION

For Sam Mifflin Sadie Mifflin Olive Winton and Les Winton with love and gratitude.

SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION
Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 1991 by Tim Winton

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First Scribner Paperback Fiction edition 2002

Originally published in Australia in 1991 by McPhee Gribble

SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 0-7432-3441-3
ISBN 13: 978-0-743-23441-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-439-18855-2

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to several people who kindly made working space available to me during the writing of this book: to Joe Sullivan and the late Peter Bartlett for Spencers Cottage; to Leonard Bernstein for the room at Vlihos; and to the Australia Council for the studio in Paris.

Thanks to Erica and Howard Willis for invaluable help, and to Denise Winton for years of hard work.

Some of this story was written with the aid of a fellowship from the Literary Arts Board of the Australia Council and a travelling scholarship from the Marten Bequest in 1987 and 1988.

Shall we gather at the river Where bright angel-feet have trod

W ILL you look at us by the river! The whole restless mob of us on spread blankets in the dreamy briny sunshine skylarking and chiacking about for one day, one clear, clean, sweet day in a good world in the midst of our living. Yachts run before an unfelt gust with bagnecked pelicans riding above them, the city their twitching backdrop, all blocks and points of mirror light down to the waters edge.

Twenty years, they all say, sprawling and drinking. Theres ginger beer, staggerjuice and hot flasks of tea. Theres pasties, a ham, chickenlegs and a basket of oranges, potato salad and dried figs. There are things spilling from jars and bags.

The speech is silenced by a melodious belch which gets big applause. Someone blurts on a babys belly and a song strikes up. Unless you knew, youd think they were a whole group, an earthly vision. Because, look, even the missing are there, the gone and taken are with them in the shade pools of the peppermints by the beautiful, the beautiful the river. And even now, one of the here is leaving.

He hears nothing but the water, and the sound of it has been in his ears all his life. Shirt buttons askew, his new black shoes filling with sand, he strides along the beach near the rivers edge nearly hyperventilating with excitement. His tongue cant lie still; it rounds his mouth, kicks inside like a mullet. He tramps through the footprints of the citys early morning rambles and nightly assignations toward the jetty hes been watching the past halfhour. He breaks into a run. His shirt-tail works its way out.

Its low tide so he reaches the steps to the jetty without even wetting his shoes, though he would have waded there if need be, waded without a qualm, because hes hungry for the water, he wants it more than ever.

Three cheers go up back there in the trees on the bank. But hes running; seeing slats of river between the planks, with his big overripe mans body quivering with happiness. Near the end of the jetty he slows so he can negotiate the steel ladder down to the fishing platform. Hes so close to the water. A great, gobbling laugh pours out of him. No hand in his trouser belt. The water to himself. The silver-skinned river.

He sits. He leans out over it and sees his face with hair dangling, his filthy great smile, teeth, teeth, teeth, and then he leans out harder, peering to see all the wonders inside. Its all there, all the great and glorious, the sweet and simple. All.

Within a minute hell have it, and itll have him, and for a few seconds hell truly be a man. A flicker, then a burst of consciousness on his shooting way, and hell savour that healing all the rest of his journey, having felt it, having known the story for just a moment.

From the broad vaults and spaces you can see it all again because it never ceases to be. You can see that figure teetering out over the water, looking into your face, and you can see the crowd up on the treethick bank behind him finishing this momentous day off and getting ready to wonder where he is. And you cant help but worry for them, love them, want for themthose who go on down the close, foetid galleries of time and space without you.

I

The Shifty Shadow is Lurking

R OSE Pickles knew something bad was going to happen. Something really bad, this time. She itched in her awful woollen bathing suit and watched her brothers and a whole mob of other kids chucking bombies off the end of the jetty in the bronze evening light. Fishing boats were coming in along the breakwater for the night, their diesels throbbing like blood. Back under the Norfolk pines gulls bickered on the grass and fought for the scraps of uneaten lunches that schoolkids had thrown there. The sun was in the sea. She stood up and called.

Ted! Chub! Carn, its late!

Ted, who was a year older than her, pretended not to hear, and he came up the ladder dripping, pigeontoed, and dived off again, holding one knee, hitting the water so that he made an artillery reportker-thumpand a great gout of water rose up at her feet.

She got up and left them there. They can do what they like, she thought. Rose was a slender, brown girl, with dark straight hair, cut hard across her forehead. She was a pretty kid, but not as pretty as her mother. Well, thats what everyone told her. She wasnt vain, but it stuck in her guts, having someone telling you that every day of your life. Probably in a minute or two, when she got home, someoned tell her again, someone in the public bar or the Ladies Lounge. Theyd be all swilling for closing time and thered be a great roar of talk, and shed try to slip upstairs without getting caught up. She wasnt in the mood for it this evening. Yeah, something terrible was up. Not the war, not school, but something to do with her. She didnt know if she could bear any more bad luck. In one year theyd lost the house, the old man had been through two jobs and all the savings, and now they were living in Uncle Joels pub.

Rose had never felt a shadow like this before, but shed heard the old boy go on about it often enough. Well, she wondered, I bet hes squirmin out there now, out on the islands, feelin this dark luck comin on. She stopped under the trees and looked back out over Champion Bay. The boys were silhouettes now. She still heard their laughter. The sea was turning black. Yeah, hed be squirmin. And if he wasnt, he should be.