God Almighty, it was hopeless. Now look, now he’s weeping; he’s on his face in the sand and he’s bawling.
Quick knows the planets from school but he can’t tell one from the other as they blur past like stones someone’s chucking at them. Fish sighs and tilts his wings in the bow. The boat’s vibrating the way it’d hum if they hit rapids and went chuting down over snowy water between rocks. Quick’d swear Fish is steering them. Even the anchor’s rattling against its little length of chain. Quick feels fatigue coming to claim him — he aches all through — but he strains to stay awake, to see, to see. Fish is up there gargling like a nut, talking to himself or something, and then in a moment he’s quiet and the boat is skimming, full of hiss and bounce and Quick knows straight away they’re back on the river.
The water! Fish cries in distress.
The river, Fish. We’re back on it.
Where’s the water go?
Were on it, mate.
No. It’s go.
Fish begins to whimper. Quick pulls him gently back into the bottom of the boat and holds him. Like a baby, he thinks, and he’s as big as me. He feels Fish’s head against his chest and the big, sad jerks he makes sobbing. All the excitement disappears. Quick knows the old misery again but he doesn’t let himself break. He gives in to sleep.
Lester found them at dawn, asleep and aground in the shallows along the foreshore at Nedlands. Old men, retired officer types, were smoking pipes and walking their great ugly hounds back on the grass, and the river was flat and without blemish. Lester pumped along the beach, seeing only the boat, and his vision started to blotch with fear. He wanted to pray, but it felt like vomit rising in him so he held it off.
When he came to the boat he saw them. They were wrapped in each other on the boards between the seats, all knees and elbows and skewed shorts. The oars were shipped, the rowlocks stowed. They’d damn near made it all the way to Crawley. Lester stood ankle deep in the cool water and let out a great roar of relief and wonder. Quick twitched and sat up. He looked about him. Then he looked at his father.
You orright? Quick asked.
Lester opened his mouth, but all he had was laughter. He couldn’t help himself. He was dancing in the sand. Fish woke and he and Quick exchanged glances. The old man chiacked on the beach and the sun hauled up over the hills.
They got home at nine. After pushing the truck through Nedlands, Shenton Park, and Subiaco.
Oriel met them on the verandah. It seemed the whole street knew they were coming up Railway Parade, and when they heaved in, she saw the three of them were singing. The Pickleses were looking from their windows and the early customers in the shop came out into the yard to watch. Quick and Fish and Lester came up chuckling and nudging and she felt the pit between them. They were foreigners, they were her blood but they were lost to her. Oriel hid her fists in her apron and felt ready to die.
No juice, love, Lester said. No juice, and no money.
She seized the boys and hooked them into her breast. She felt their blood, their breaths against her. She spoke over their heads.
No brains, Lester Lamb, she said. And no wonder.
Blisters had risen like fruit on Quick’s hands. She saw them. She pulled herself erect and looked about at those who’d gathered to watch. Her little green eyes sighted on them and the spectators shuffled, looked at their boots, looked back again to see that she hadn’t let up, and a couple moved off. No one spoke. The rest began to file away. Lester stood with his hands clasped together like a child. His daughters began shutting down the shop. Even the Pickleses above pulled their heads in.
I’m hungry, said Fish.
Burning the Man
Rose Pickles saw the bonfire out of her window with its rippling yellow mass making silhouettes of the Lamb girls as they tossed fruit crates onto the great spitting blaze to the sound of an accordion. Guy Fawkes night. She heard voices in the hall, the parade ground barking of Mrs Lamb becoming suddenly lowpitched and friendly enough to make her curious, so she went out to the landing and hung over the banisters.
Oh carm on, Mrs Pickles — look I’ll call you Dolly an be done with it. Lester’s gone out and bought all the gear for the kids — they’d love it. Carm on over. There’s spuds to go in the fire and cakes and everywhatall.
Mum? Rose called down. Her mother looked confused and embarrassed. She only had on a dressing gown and her hair was set beneath a tartan scarf. She looked awful, like anyone’s mum. It made her angry to have a pretty mother, but when she let herself go it was worse still.
Guy Fawkes night, said Dolly. I forgot.
Carm over to ours, eh?
Mum?
We haven’t got any crackers.
Rose got the boys off the floor of their room where they were making a wingless fly dance with a piece of matchstick and had them hammering down the stairs after her. Their mother stood there with one of her legs showing and watched them go out the door.
Firelight softened everyone’s faces as they stood around, poking at their scorching potatoes and singing to the accordion Mr Lamb strode around with. The boys fiddled at the fence, setting up strings of fizzers and penny bombs and Catherine-wheels until sparks leapt up into the clear black sky. Mrs Lamb brought out cocoa, lemonade, and leftover pasties with Rosella sauce. Mr Lamb organized a mass whistling of ‘God Save the King’ while he ate a lemon, right under their noses. The last one to plug on to the end was the winner. Chub hardly noticed the lemon, and though he whistled like an emphysemic lung he got the prize which was a box of broken cake pieces and half a jar of cream.
Rose screamed and giggled as the crackers went off and everyone gasped at the colours and the noise. She could hear her mum and dad laughing as the Catherine-wheels got going. She couldn’t remember when she felt so happy before. The yard was full of kids, full of shouting, full of orange light and smoke. The Lambs yelled a lot. Their boy, the slow one, bellowed with laughter and grabbed anyone’s hand who went past. Hens laid eggs in fright and a dog somewhere down the block barked until it was hoarse. The older Lamb girls were friendly even though they talked to Rose like she was much smaller, and even the redhaired one she didn’t like much was sharing things and cracking dumb jokes. The eldest boy, the one they called Quick, was alternately shy and boisterous and he kept asking which parent should be burnt first.
When they brought out the Guy Fawkes Rose clapped and exclaimed. It was stuffed with wild oats and dressed up in motheaten flourbags (because Mrs Lamb didn’t believe in wasting old clothes) and he had a pipe Mr Lamb had whittled from pine. Everybody yelled and cheered when Rose’s father helped Mr Lamb put the dummy on the fire, but when they sat to eat their black potatoes, the slow boy Fish began to cry and then to scream.
No. Burn the man. Don’t burn him. He’s the man.
At first they laughed. The Guy Fawkes’ head was tilting and one of his arms was gone. Flames shot out of his collar and he seemed to twist a little as the flourbags caught. But when Fish went crazy Quick Lamb and his mother took him inside and everything went quiet and strange and the party died.
Oh, you remember that alright. You see lights buzz and whizz up bangcrack. Everyone loving. Taters black an eaty. Here, Quick, look here! Lady and Lestah’s laughing with fire up they chin. Lon come runs with fizzer things laughing up he hair. Tummy full with laugh and taters. That girl, she laughs. Right up, the sky big an black, nightime after darking an not in bed, you know, not even close to bed.