Diary – Love at Cumbersome corner – success Pt 4
By Bruce Williams
The broker shop with the broken windows sells only broken things: hot TVs; hot refrigerators. Divorcees wedding rings.
Two shops down by the bus stop at the corner of Cumbersome Road and Riley Street, is a laundry decked out in green and white, run by a Cantonese couple, Hong Kong expats: Doris and Henry. I assume they have Chinese names, too, but they have never told me. And I have never asked.
About three years ago, fully sick of their landlord’s persistent rent increases (Polish lawyers running a no-client business up stairs), they moved into the always-for-rent place just across the side-street. Doris and Henry have been working in their new place ‘ and the “For Lease” sign has been hanging in their old place ‘ ever since.
And all the while, business has boomed. Now they have a fleet of delivery cars ‘ one I’ve seen as far afield as Woolloomooloo. Two staff has become ten. They give my daughters American candy and Chinese smiles. And, even with 15 dryers running full bore during two weeks rain – Autumn outside, but Summer among the tumblers ‘ between Doris and Henry, it’s just business as usual.
Having picked up my bundle of ironed shirts, I cross Cumbersome, turn at the public courtyard, and walk down the street of my home and family, past the unorthodox Greek church and the Fijian tabernacle. Reaching the gate at 193, I remove the junk mail from beneath the “No Junk Mail” sign. Now on the doorstep, I press my key into our lock. And take a deep breath before turning it.
Five hours later, Sam and Ellen asleep, and Betty watching DVD reruns of Westwing, I open that same door with my key, this time, in my pocket. My back is to our dimly lit hallway and my face is to the suburban night of Cumbersome.
In the courtyard up the street, on one of two wooden benches, the lovers sit. Her tracksuit is pink, and his one’s blue. She balances on her lap a small typewriter ‘ the sort that used to be called ‘portable’ because a single person could lift it. They both dictate, but only she types. Clack clack clack, like a dicky heart. And there’s no paper, except for the chicken-wrap wrappers that blow in little, romantic, waltzy swirls at the lovers’ feet.
The stone mason’s door is shut and the single, frosted door-window is dark, but the pair cast shadows from the light of the cobbler’s opposite, who is catching up on a back-load of heels and toes.
Doris and Henry, and their green and white laundry. Pink girl and blue boy, and their busted old typewriter. They are the success stories of our neighbourhood.
Because, in Cumbersome, it’s all about love.
