Cloudstreet by Tim Winton Page B

would have been dragged and ricked and torn and wedged and burst and broken. He thought about nothing like that. Quick thought about nothing at all. He listened to the grinds and groans of the house. Flies went about their mysterious business. Ticking noises came from in the walls. The cocky next door squawked and quipped. Below, the bell clonked on the shop door. Sometimes, when the hunger drifted over into dreaminess, he forgot he was Quick Lamb at all. It excited him to discover how quiet he was inside.
    On the third day the old man came in and rustled a newspaper, and then Quick heard scissors going, hissing through paper.
    A lot of sad people on the wall, Quick. What’re you doin with em? What’s it mean?
    Quick said nothing.
    Knocks me round to see you like this, boy. You’ll starve to death. Look at these poor sods—you don’t wanna be like them. You don’t need to be. You’ve got a roof over yer head, family—well, we’re not much I know, he chuckled. But, strike. Here—
    Quick saw the shadow cross him and hover. He heard him thumbing a couple of tacks into the wall.
    There. Another one. That’s yer schoolmate, if you really wanna feel miserable. They’re buryin im in Fremantle tomorrow. Be dressed by eight. After that we’ll go down the wharf for some fish and chips.
    Quick set his jaws. He realized suddenly that he was aching; he was sore and tight in the guts and he stank.
    No.
    It’s for Fish. He’s worried.
    No.
    Quick heard the old man cross the room and slam the window down.
    Christ Almighty, boy, if you care that much about someone from school, why don’t you care about yer own blood? You know damn-well your brother is busted in the head and he’ll never grow up right. The least you could do is let him be happy. Don’t torture him, Quick. And us. You don’t need to be like this—it’s a lie, a game, and yer not helpin anyone at all. Yer feelin sorry for yerself and it’s making me sick. Don’t pretend to Fish. And then the old man’s voice got quiet and dangerous. You and me understand about Fish. We were there. We were stupid enough to drown him tryin to save him. You remember that. We owe him things, Quick. We got a debt. All we can do now is let him be happy, let him be not too confused. I can sit here and talk and get nothin back for as long as it takes to get angry enough to swat your arse and send your mother up to deal with you. But Fish, he’ll wait. He’ll wait till you say something to him. Don’t you forget about Fish, boy. Not as long as you live, or your life won’t have been worth livin.
    Quick heard the old man go out then. The door closed, and it was like the room was roaring. He’d never heard his father say words like that.
    In the dark that night, Quick tried to pray, but nothing came. He knew it wouldn’t come for any of them anymore. He felt the hunger raving in him.
    He woke and saw it. The people in all the pictures on the wall—they were dancing and there was Wogga McBride jitterbugging along the tracks. They were laughing, all of them. He’d never known such terror as coiled in him right then. He got out of bed, ran into Fish and Lon’s room and climbed into bed with Fish. He lay awake there with his brother’s sleeping body beside him until dawn. When the sun came up he began to weep. Fish woke.
    What you laughin for, Quick?
    The Kybosh
    It was strange that Lester should get up before her on a nonmarket day. Oriel Lamb found a bowl and a teacup on the kitchen table, and that’s all. She sat down with a sigh and rested her head on the wood. It could only be bad. To be up early, to have gone somewhere without a word, to have taken the truck. The fresh summer sun tilted at the window. She saw the pale blue promise of heat out there. An engine whistle blew. Oriel looked at her hands. They were farmer’s hands. Women told her they were men’s hands. She watched the way they squared up to make fists. She rested them on the table. Her knuckles were like