He wasn’t at all surprised to hear Joel grunt and then shout. It was a big strike. Sam brought the lamp alongside and saw Joel’s cane rod arching halfway to the water. Line sang out and ran from the reel. They laughed like kids. Joel feinted and pulled, crabbing along the beach, to worry the fish, wear him down. Sam held the gaff and the light close by; he guffawed and stomped and felt like getting sickdrunk and dancing all night. He whooped and hooted as the great silverflanked mulloway came twisting in through the shore-break. Nah, it was no surprise at all. Not with Joel. He put down the light, swung the gaff into the fish’s gills and dragged it in. He turned to Joel and there was the surprise. Joel was on his knees clutching his heart. Sam Pickles stood and watched man and fish flap on the sand until neither moved. He stood there a long time after everything was still, letting it soak in. Joel, his only living relative beyond Dolly and the kids. His lucky, wealthy, generous, last relative. In whose pub his family was living. Sam’s feet turned stiff with cold. The facts racked themselves up like snooker balls. He was bereaved. He was unemployed. Minus a working hand. Homeless. Broke.
A sea breeze blew.
Sam tried to decide which he would drag back first, man or fish. It wasn’t going to be easy. The lamp burned low. He tried to weigh it up. He sat down to nut it out.
II. Fish Lamb Comes Back
JUST near the crest of a hill where the sun is ducking down, the old flatbed Chev gives up the fight and stalls quiet. Out on the tray the kids groan like an opera. All around, the bush has gone the colour of a cold roast. Birds scuffle out of sight. There’s no wind, though the Chev gives out a steamy fart.
You’ll have to back her up, Lest, the woman says to her husband. Go on, turn her around.
Carn, Dad! someone calls from behind the cab.
The man spits out the window, lets the brake off, and they roll back. He lets the clutch go, and with a jerk that sends the kids lurching all over the back, the motor grinds up again and the grey-blue bush is full of clatter.
This time the truck goes up the hill in reverse and the kids elbow each other and feel a right bunch of dags heading up like that, but they’re the first to see the rivermouth, the oilstill river and roiling sea; it looks so like a picture they’re suddenly quiet.
The engine idles, best it can.
Whacko, one of them says.
They shift around on the prawn nets and watch the sun hit the sea without a sound.
Lester and Oriel Lamb are Godfearing people. If you didn’t know them you could see it in the way they set up a light in the darkness. You’ve never seen people relish the lighting of a lamp like this, the way they crouch together and cradle the glass piece in their hands, wide eyes caught in the flare of a match, the gentle murmurs and the pumping, the sighs as the light grows and turns footprints on the river beach into longshadowed moon craters. Let your light so shine.
Around them their six children chiack in the sand.
Get some wood, you bigguns, Oriel Lamb says. Hattie you look after Lon.
The beach widens in the light of lamp and fire. The children see sparks rising like stars.
These are farm people, though Lester Lamb has taken to being a policeman because the farm is on its last legs. Lester Lamb polices like he farms, always a little behind the moment. He’d quit the force if only his wife’d let him. Around town he’s known as ‘Lest We Forget’ and if he knew, it’d break his Anzac heart.
He unravels the prawn net and shucks off his pants. His scrawny white legs bring a smile to him.
I’ll take the boys.
They’re not tall enough, Oriel Lamb says.
Ah, the girls grizzle too much. Drives me mad.
Put on yer shoes, or yull be stung. Don’t want any cobbler stings. Can’t stand your grizzlin.
He laughs and remembers the last time he was stung, when they had to load him onto the flatbed and Hattie had to drive because no one else could, and they delivered him to the doctor in the main street naked and screaming like a breech birth.
Orright, he says, lacing up the old brogues his father left him, no stings tonight. Give us a kiss then.
With the two older boys, Mason and Samson, Lester Lamb wades out. He holds the lamp over the water while the boys drag the net; it makes a long triangle out behind them, narrowing down to a little sock in the end. Mason is eleven. They call him Quick because he is as unquick as his father. Samson is two years younger and the others call him Samsonfish, or just plain Fish, for his wit and alertness. Everyone loves Fish. Just by dunking a girl’s braids in an inkwell he can make her love him. He endears teachers to him by giving them lip. And in town, he’ll wait till dark and crap in a paper bag and set fire to it on someone’s doorstep so they come out screaming and stamping and get poofooted, only to melt into jolliness when they see it’s just Fish Lamb and his fun. Even his three sisters Hattie and Elaine and Red love him, and they hate boys to Hell and back.
Quick knows that his brother Fish is smarter and better looking than him, and that people love him more, though Fish doesn’t catch fish as well as his name would suggest, because he’s always wisedicking around, talking too loud, being lovable.
Don’t smile, Fish, Lester Lamb says. You’ll frighten the prawns away.
Oi, Quick, look at Dad. He looks like a statue in a fountain with that light. Wants to be careful someone dunt come over an toss in a penny to make a wish.
What would they wish for, ya reckon? Quick asks.
Yeah, what? Lester Lamb asks.
Prolly wish they could get their money back, I reckon.
Cheeky blighter, Lester Lamb thinks as he wades with the light and lets the talk go away from him.
On the beach, Oriel Lamb sees them dragging round the bend and back towards the beach. The fire coughs and she goes back to darning. She doesn’t hate being poor the way Lester does. She’ll cut garments down and cadge and patch to give things a second life, she’ll keep the farm swaying on its back trotters, but not be unhappy. She’s prouder than the British Empire. She’ll send the kids into town on old Mabel with a shilling between them and know they’ll spend it on sherbert and icecream and watch the outdoor flicks for free from a vacant bush. They’ll see Randolph Scott back to front through the old white sheet, and they’ll see the projector flicker and send out its bolt of light, and they’ll watch the townie kids eating popcorn out of paper cups, but they won’t for a moment think they’re poor. They’ll know they’re Lambs; they’ll know how to treat others with a mixture of pity and respect. And, what’s more, they’ll always come back with change.
She looks up and sees Lester and the boys hauling the net up onto the beach. The water is flat behind them. She can almost see the trees etched out on the other bank, the paperbarks where the dunes begin. There is the sound of surf away across the sandbar. Little Lon is asleep at her feet. She wraps him in her cardigan and he seems no bigger than a kelpie curled up like that.