Where’s your self-respect? Wallace says.
Better than working, says the boy. Making the rich man richer.
Wallace swears and looks back at Roy. The girl is bent over the felt, her cigarette smouldering in the ashtray at the edge of the table. Our empty jug is sitting next to it and Roy is trying to show the girl how to work the cue, pressing himself against her. He has his hand on her arm. She shrugs him off and moves away around the table.
Well, you’re not going to hold on to a woman bludging, Wallace says to the boy. Not once you’re hitched. Soon as you’re hitched your old lady’s going to be sending you out to work. That’s a lesson in life, boy. Once a man gets married it’s the woman calls the shots. That’s true as I’m sitting here.
Why buy the book when you can borrow from the library? says the boy, grinning.
The other boy guffaws. He’s got the smile of an idiot.
That’s easy enough said at your age, says Wallace. But you want to end up like Roy Thompson over there?
He points his thumb behind him where Roy is following the girl around the table, leaning against her every time she tries to line up the cue, talking, pretending he’s trying to teach her how to play pool. He is holding his beer in one hand and has a cigarette in his mouth. The girl keeps pushing him away.
You know what Roy Thompson is? says Wallace. He’s a small-town Casanova.
He says it again.
A small-town Casanova.
He’s said it before, plenty of times.
He’s a grown man, says Wallace. But he never growed up.
Wallace holds out a scarred and callused hand, dirt tracing the deep creases and round the nails. He counts off fingers.
Still lives with his parents, grown man. Still chasing women. Still scared of the dark.
Bull, says the boy.
No bull, says Wallace. Grown man, still afraid of the dark. Scared of spiders too.
He looks over at Roy and the girl. He thumbs behind him again.
Look at him will you, he says. Still running around like a bloody teenager. Nearly sixty years old, thinks he’s sixteen. Bloody Roy.
Roy’s all right, says the boy.
Wallace drops his hands onto the table.
Roy’s my mate, he says to the boy. And I’d never say a word against him. But he never growed up and that’s a fact. That’s truth.
Wallace leans back into the vinyl cushioning. The cushioning wheezes from holes burnt through by cigarettes, showing grubby tar-stained foam inside. It squeaks with the movement of Wallace’s sweating back. He puts his elbows on the table and his arms are brown and hairy. Muscles tighten and disappear.
Now you look at me, says Wallace. I got my own house, a wife, kids. I got responsibilities. I got a family to take care of. But that’s leaving a legacy, right? Because my family’s going to keep on going long after I’m dead. Makes me a part of history. A part of human civilisation.
He leans back against the wheezing, squeaking vinyl and tilts his pot, draining the last trickle. He puts it down on the table.
Yeah, but Roy’s got a better car than you, says the boy.
Wallace sits there with his hand wrapped around the empty pot and swears.
Over at the pool table, the girl has gone after Roy with her cue, trying to pummel him in the crotch. Roy is backing off fast, spilling his beer, his cigarette falling from his mouth. She has him against the wainscotting and he shies away from her into the cue rack, the cues falling as he backs into it, one of them hitting the side of his head. Roy holds one hand above him, the other splayed between his thighs. The men at the bar laugh. The other girls move in on Roy, hurling abuse. The back pockets of their jeans have flowers stitched into them, each petal perfectly traced. They surround him, yelling and swearing, and then leave him cowering against the rack.
Roy just about lost his balls, says one of the boys, who has turned to watch the whole thing. He turns back, grinning.
The men at the bar and the other pool table are all laughing at Roy as he sidles away from the girls. Even Les is laughing and he blinks his eyes as slow tears squeeze out. Les’s wife comes from behind the counter, her face red and angry. She tells the girls that they’re barred if they pull a stunt like that again and that she has never seen such unladylike behaviour in all her days.
And if you’re going to act like an animal, then you can go and sit outside with the dogs, Roy Thompson, she says.
What’d I do? Roy whines, still hunched over.
Wallace turns back around to us, shaking his head.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, he says to the boy. And I mean for real. On that very same pool table with a pair of bull knackers. Nearly had them cut right off.
That’s bullshit Wallace, says the boy. You talk so much bullshit.
No. No bullshit, says Wallace. Why’d I bullshit you about a thing like that. That’s truth, isn’t it Smithy?
I wasn’t there, Wallace.
Yeah, but you heard about it, didn’t you? And you was there that day, wasn’t you? Day Roy didn’t have his hat.
Yeah, that’s true, I say.
Roy is sidestepping around the girls to the bar. The men are cheering him on and calling out to him.
Wasn’t a fair fight was it, Roy boy? they say. Outnumbered, weren’t you Roy?
So one day Roy comes to work without his hat, says Wallace. And he’s whingeing about it, come late because he couldn’t find his hat.
At the bar the men are patting Roy on the back and making fun of him, holding their fists up.
And you know Bob Carter?
No, says the boy.
Course you do. Big bloke. Works at the abattoir.
Oh, yeah.
One of the men at the bar buys Roy a brandy.
Dutch courage, he says.
Well, Roy was having it off with his wife. So day before, Bob Carter comes home and finds Roy’s hat hanging on the bedpost.
Roy is sitting at the bar and rolling a cigarette. His hands are trembling. He is whining in a high voice.
Unprovoked, we hear him saying. That was unprovoked assault.
So Bob Carter gets a pair of bull knackers, takes Roy’s hat and comes looking for him, finds him drinking here. Now he’s a big bloke, Bob Carter, and I kid you not, he picks up Roy with one hand, just like that.
Wallace shows them, lifting up his hand, making a tight fist. His muscles bulge.
I kid you not, says Wallace. Has him pinned down on the pool table, pair of bull knackers in the other hand. And he would have used them too and that’s truth. If it wasn’t for me and Mick-the-Pom grabbed him, he would have used them. Ask any man here. He’s a big bloke, Bob Carter.
Roy slides back onto his seat.
You see that? he says. Bloody feminist brigade we got here. He drinks down the brandy.
Tell the boys, says Wallace. Didn’t Bob Carter nearly knacker you? Cut off your balls?
Bob Carter? says Roy. Nah, that was just a joke He found you out having it off with his old lady didn’t he? says Wallace. Found your hat on his bedpost.
True, says Roy. But we’re mates, me and Bob Carter.
What happened to your hat? asks the boy.
What do you think happened to my hat? says Roy. I’m wearing it, aren’t I.
Roy starts rolling a cigarette and looks down at the table and the empty glasses.
I thought we was drinking tonight, he says. Whose shout is it?
Yours, says Wallace. Only you went to the birds and not the bar.
Wallace likes that.
The birds and not the bar, he says. Send Roy to the bar and he goes to the birds instead.
Roy grumbles and licks his cigarette and smooths it over and puts it behind his ear. He slides back off his chair.
The birds and not the bar, says Wallace, his eyes playful behind his glasses. That’s Roy for you.
I feel a hand on my back and a kiss on my forehead.
Sorry Smithy, says Charlotte Clayton, licking he
r finger and wiping the lipstick off my head. There are two girls with her. They have come in from the lounge and the men are all looking at them, the girls uneasy from wolf-whistles and men’s comments. They are all done up flash, their hair curled and their faces made up, black-lined eyes large and liquid, skirts short over dark stockings and tops hardly there, one trimmed with lace, the other riveted with a swath of black sequins, its shape like the turning of birds in flight. They wear high heels and clutch tiny leather handbags to their chests.
We’re off, says Charlotte.
Take care, I say.
The boys watch them go. They watch them until they are out the door, then turn back grinning. One of them whistles.
Who’s your girlfriend, Smithy? the boy asks me, grinning.
I’d watch who you look at like that, says Wallace in a low voice.
You mean, don’t look at what you can’t afford, says the boy.
Wallace is serious.
No, I mean, watch how you look at her, he says quietly. You could get yourself into trouble there, boy.
No harm in looking, says the boy.
You reckon, do you? says Wallace, looking at him.
Wallace pushes his glasses against his face and sits back, watching a drunk stumble past with a glass of whisky in one hand and a beer in the other. The drunk steadies himself, stands straight, downs the whisky and then the chaser, his head back and his Adam’s apple working fast. He stoops and turns back to the bar.
A wise man knows when to keep his head down and his mouth shut, says Wallace. Hear no evil, speak no evil.
What do you mean? asks the boy.
I mean, some women are more trouble than they’re worth, says Wallace. That’s Brett Clayton’s old lady.
The smell of beer is everywhere and it brings memories to me, shapeless, formless memories, all soaked in the smell and the smoke and the noise around me and they are the forgotten memories of an entire lifetime.
Who’s Brett Clayton? asks the boy.
Who’s Brett Clayton? says Wallace. Boy doesn’t know who Brett Clayton is, he says to me.
He turns back to the boy.
You know John Gibson, he says.
No, says the boy.
Course you do, says Wallace. Bloke they found down the riverbank, .22 in the back of his head.
Oh, yeah.
Was Brett Clayton done it, says Wallace. Drugs. All over drugs.
The boy looks around the pub.
Which one’s Brett Clayton, he asks.
Wallace snorts. He’s not here is he? He’s inside.
Oh. Yeah, right.
Nah, not for shooting John Gibson, says Wallace. Copper never got him for that. Incompetent is what he is. Incompetent copper. Everyone knows Brett Clayton did it, but we got an incompetent copper in this town.
So how come he’s in jail? asks the boy.
Wife-bashing, says Wallace.
Who’d he bash? asks the boy.
Wallace swears with his knuckles on his glasses. Who’d you think he bashed? Put away for wife-bashing.
What, her? says the boy, nodding towards the door.
Well that’s his wife, isn’t it, says Wallace.
Jeez, says the boy, leaning back against his chair and sipping his beer.
Ask Smithy, says Wallace. Smithy knows all about it. Even went to the trial, didn’t you?
I nod.
Pleaded guilty, I say.
Wallace looks over at the bar for Roy, who is talking to a bloke sitting on a barstool, balancing on it with his boot against the trough. Wallace leans forward and puts his elbows on the table.
Was Smithy found her, he says. Beaten black-and-blue, wasn’t she Smithy?
That’s right, I say. Black-and-blue.
Down the old railway line, says Wallace. That’s where you found her wasn’t it, Smithy. Going home from pub. Pub after closing. Found her down the tracks, didn’t you? Beaten black-and-blue.
That’s right, I say.
Wallace stretches his shoulders back and his singlet pulls tight around his chest. He slumps back over the table again.
Neked, says Wallace.
Cor, says the boy, the talker. He looks towards the door again. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.
I look at the boy and he looks down. He reaches for his beer.
Roy comes back with the jug and new glasses and pots. He sets out the glasses and fills them. He takes a drink standing and then looks at me.
You’ve got lipstick on your head, he says.
I know, I say.
They all drink.
They all drink and all the men are drinking and their faces shine with the drink and their eyes and lips are with drink, drunk and dead drunk and talking loudly. Voices slur and stools scrape. They hawk and spit into the trough, their noise like dull constant thunder. Men sprawl out around the bar and the tables, sitting and standing and leaning, some men redfaced and angry, others cheerful, content with the faces of children. They lope and stagger and stride towards the bar.
No way, says one of the boys to Wallace. Not going to catch me going to that.
Course you are, says Wallace. It’s tradition. Isn’t it Smithy?
What’s that? I ask.
Iris’s Christmas party, Wallace says.
I suppose it is, I say.
Who’s going to be there? asks the boy.
Boss. Iris. Girls from the cellar.
They’re not girls. They’re old ladies, says the boy.
They’re not so old.
The boy shakes his head.
Not catching me there.
You got no choice in the matter, says Wallace. It’s a tradition.
They got beer? asks the quiet one, holding up his glass.
Yeah, but not enough, says Wallace. Boss doesn’t approve of beer. So we bring our own.
What’s the point though, says the other one. We can’t get pissed.
Course we get pissed, says Wallace. No way I’m going to Iris’s Christmas party without getting pissed first. We get pissed before we get there.
Wallace picks up his pot and drains it.
Really?
Course. It’s a tradition, says Wallace, putting his pot down. The table is wet with spilt beer and mired with streaks of ash, the coasters sodden.
We start drinking down Crown morning, ten o’clock, says Wallace. Drink until the party starts, and then we keep drinking once we get there. Take down Roy’s big esky. Longnecks, whatever Boss gives us. I never been so pissed as I get at Iris’s Christmas party.
Wallace fills his pot and downs it.
Last year Smithy got so pissed he fell into Iris’s fish pond.
I thought Smithy didn’t drink, says the boy.
Last year he did.
I wasn’t that pissed, I say. I just didn’t see the pond.
How can you miss Iris’s fish pond? says Wallace. It’s huge.
Biggest fish pond I ever saw.
Yeah, I say. But it’s all lily pads and duckweed on the top, isn’t it. You can’t tell it from the rest of the garden. That’s how come I went in.
Well what was you doing wandering round Iris’s garden in the first place? asks Wallace.
Going for a slash, I say. I went round the side of the house. To be discreet, go behind a tree. So I cut through the garden. Didn’t know there was going to be a fish pond there.
Well you should of, says Wallace. Was you and me built the thing.
Yeah, well, I say.
And so we’re off round the other side of the house, says Wallace, pointing behind him with his thumb. At the barbecue. And we hear this big bloody splash and then Smithy yelling his lungs out. So we go round and there’s Smithy, Smithy right in the drink, splashing round like he’s drowning in it, hat’s come off, and he’s all caught up in the lily pads, all mud and duckweed over his face, yelling blue murder. Couldn’t get out. Too pissed to get out of the thing.
Wallace fills his glass and puts it to his lips.
You was in a pa
nic all right, he says. Thought you was drowning. Only in a bloody fish pond.
Wallace laughs and drinks and the drink goes down wrong and he coughs and laughs until he is red in the face. The boys laugh too, looking at me.
Wouldn’t have missed that for the world, ay Roy?
It was quite a show, says Roy, looking up from his cigarette.
And afterwards, says Wallace, pushing his glasses against his face. Afterwards, you know what Iris calls him?
What? asks the boy.
You remember, don’t you Smithy? says Wallace, staring at me I look at him, look into those huge eyes watching me from behind their thick walls of glass, the eyes twinkling, dancing, wrinkled at the corners with amusement, Wallace’s turned-up mouth grinning.
Yeah, I remember, I say.
An old fool, says Wallace. He chuckles and takes a drink. That’s what she called him. That’s what Iris says. An old fool.
All around is the noise of men.
I look out the window. The sun has set in mute tones and weary, the sky low and still, its heavy cover illuminated, a dirty blush across rolling surfaces and shadow. The gloomy, flickering light of the street lamps comes misted through the glass, moist and beaded from the hot damp bodies of the men inside. It illuminates a single strand of spider’s silk, hung with the tiny husks of insects, gutted and mummified, the shells quivering in fast and minute vibrations. The base of the pane is littered with them, with dead and decaying flies and moths, nested in the thick mass of web, splayed and funnelled at the corners. The ulcers in my throat and mouth and on my tongue are stinging and I bite my tongue to feel the sharp pain. The quiet boy finishes his glass and smacks his lips and lets out a sound of contentment. His face is flushed and his eyes are lazy. He looks at me without focus and sways slightly.
I’m not pissed yet, he says, pouring himself another glass from the jug.
Yes you are, I say.
I get up and go to the bar.
Walking past the swarming mass of ruddy faces and loud talk and laughter I hear my name called but I go down to the far end of the bar where the lights are dimmed and a man sits alone at a dark table in the corner. Les’s wife brings me another lemon squash and I drink it, the sour liquid harsh on my mouth and throat. I become lost in my own thoughts.
Les’s wife comes back down the bar, carrying crates of empties.
The Vintage and the Gleaning Page 7
