How you going there, Smithy? she asks me. All right?
I watch her carry more crates over. She puts them down with a clatter and wipes off her hands, smiling over at me. I start saying something to her.
What’s that love? she asks.
You asked me before, I say. You asked if I was raised a Catholic. It was the sisters raised me. Up north. Aborigine orphanage, mission school, somewhere up north. Course there was plenty of us weren’t Aborigine. Plenty weren’t orphans neither.
Les’s wife is counting the glasses and she stands up and presses her hands against her back and leans against them, rolling back her shoulders.
Now that’s something I always forget about you Smithy, she says. I always think you’re from round here, but you’re not, are you?
No, I say. Up north. I’m from up north.
But Florrie was from round here, wasn’t she?
Yeah, Florrie was, I say. That’s how I come here. But I’m from up north originally. Aborigine orphanage. Mission school.
Cheering comes from down the other end of the pub. A kelpie has slipped its leash and run inside. It sniffs about the place, panting. Men turn their ruby faces and crane their necks to watch the dog.
Give him a drink, say the men.
Down the bar, Les doesn’t move from his stool. He watches the dog as the owner grabs it and hauls him into his arms like a baby, letting the dog lick his face.
Give him a beer, yell the men.
The owner carries the dog over to the bar and lets the dog lap at his beer, its head twisting around to reach the pot, whimpering and squirming in the man’s arms as its tongue darts in and out of the liquid, the dog blinking as it splashes him in the eyes. The man throws the dog about in his arms and the dog shoves its muzzle into the pot, pulling it out covered in froth. Whimpering still, the dog struggles to lick up the dregs.
All right, that’s enough, says Les.
The owner carries the dog out and the men hold up their drinks as it goes past. The kelpie twists and squirms, its tongue stuck out, trying to reach the glasses. The man chains the dog outside with the others and the excitement dies.
The sisters were all right, I say to Les’s wife. I never learned to read or write, but that was my own fault. I used to slide down the banister for fun and one day I come off and cracked my head open. Doctor come to look at me and said I’d grow up an idjit. Said there weren’t no point teaching me nothing because I’d grow up an idjit.
Les’s wife is looking down the other end of the bar where men are milling about the taps.
But it wasn’t so bad, I say. Growing up there. I just spent me time knocking around the place, looked after the chooks and the cow, did the milking every morning, collected the eggs. Then I went shearing forty-seven years.
Les’s wife looks over at me.
Well, good for you Smithy, she says. Now I’m going to have to look after that lot down there, if you’ll excuse me.
Fair enough, I say.
Come down if you want to have a chat, she says. Only if I don’t keep the taps running they’ll be baying for blood.
I go down the bar and stand by the tap. Men are holding their empty jugs and pots and glasses. Les’s wife takes a jug and puts it under the tap. I am close up against the men and I can feel their heat. They smell of sweat, beer and tobacco. I look up at Les, who is watching me from his stool.
What? I say. You got a comment, Les? You got something to say?
What me, Smithy? he says. I would never say a bad word against you. Les looks down the bar. You ever hear me say a bad word against Smithy here? he says. Les is drunk.
Les’s wife is handing out jugs and pots and glasses and taking empty ones. Men put money on the bar towel. I push through them to get to the counter. A man slaps me on the back and says something. I lean against the bar and talk to Les’s wife over the taps.
But there was this one sister, I say. Sister Bernard. She taught music and she said even if I was touched in the head there wasn’t any reason I couldn’t learn music.
Les’s wife hands out a jug and takes another.
What’s that, Smithy? she says. You’ll have to speak up.
One of the sisters, I yell. Sister Bernard. She discovered I had a talent. I could sing. Said I had a natural talent.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and someone grabs my hat. I look around and a young bloke has lifted it off my head, showing my white hair. Everyone around is laughing. Down both sides of the bar and at the tables they are all laughing.
You look like an old man, Smithy, one of the boys shouts from our table. Wallace is sitting next to him, grinning.
I am an old man, I say. I grab back the hat. The young fellow slaps me on the shoulder and goes away.
Les’s wife is shaking her head.
Well I think it’s dignified, she says to me. They got no reason to be laughing, Smithy. Old age is a blessing now, isn’t it. Makes you wiser and all those things, doesn’t it?
She smiles at me.
I suppose, I say.
She goes back to the taps and the money.
I could really sing, I say to her, yelling again. Like a proper little choir boy, I was.
Well isn’t that nice, she says. That’s just lovely. That’s a lovely story, Smithy.
I shake my head.
What it was, I say, it was I had a talent. I had a talent but I lost it. I went shearing instead. It was me own choice. All me own choice. But sometimes I wonder whether I could have done something with it. Gone somewhere, you know.
A man takes his pot without paying and Les’s wife leans over the bar and grabs him by the shirt as he turns to go.
Oi, Les’s wife says. You think this is tastings at the cellars?
Sorry, says the man. He is drunk and sweating and he fumbles with the money, dropping coins and bending over to pick them up. Sorry, he says, handing over notes and coins all bunched together.
Les’s wife laughs.
Not to worry, pet, she says. It was an honest mistake.
The man stands there and keeps apologising. He is sweating a great deal and when he leaves he forgets his pot. Les’s wife shakes her head at me, smiling.
Aren’t you glad you gave it up? she says to me.
Yeah, I suppose I am, I say.
Because it wasn’t long ago I seen you in a state like that yourself, she says.
She nods, her eyebrows raised.
I seen you worse than that, she says. I seen you much worse.
I know, I say.
So you just make sure you keep off it now, she says. It’s very easy to fall back into bad habits.
No, I’m off it for good, I say. There’s no going back for me.
Well, good for you, Smithy, says Les’s wife.
I go and sit back down the end of the bar.
Now the pub is drowned in the full roar of drunkenness. Men knock against one another. Stools tip and slide and strike the boards. There is the clatter of glasses as Les’s wife puts down crate after crate. The ring of the cash register, the floor thumping with the steps of men heavy with drink, Les’s wife’s voice raised in outrage as some drunk overturns a table and an unsteady hand lets a glass drop, shattering on the tiles to hilarious uproar. A man slumps his head against a wall and vomits up beer and bile and the stench of both. Lips, once loosened, pour, and the voices continue raised, men spewing forth what they have kept inside themselves for days or weeks or for a lifetime and they see only the blur of faces and they speak not to men but to something greater than men and they do not know that it is empty and uncaring. And there are men who talk and there are men who are silent and those who talk do not know what they are saying and those who are silent do not listen, but drink for the very silence, for the silence of their souls. And I was such a man.
Wallace comes over from the table. He slams his pot down on the counter, the beer spilling, and flops against the bar.
I just thought up names for those two, he says, pointing to the boys.
Oh yeah,
I say.
That one’s Aspro, he says. Because he’s a slow-working dope. And that one’s Cocaine, because he’s an even slower-working dope.
I thought you were going to call that one Yap-yap, I say.
We can call him both, says Wallace.
Wallace starts talking and he is half-drunk now and I find it hard to follow what he is saying. Wallace’s wife sent him to a speech therapist once, but the speech therapist said it was his underbite that was the problem. Then he went to a city doctor who said he could break Wallace’s jaw and reset it, but Wallace would have to wear a wire mask for two years and even then he couldn’t make any promises. So Wallace talks the same as he always has, the words coming out pitched all over the place in gruff bursts and high whines. Most people don’t understand a word he says and when he drinks even we can’t make much sense of it. I know what he is saying when he sees the schoolteacher though.
Aw, Christ, he says. The bloody schoolteacher.
The schoolteacher is dead drunk and he comes up slowly, unsteady on his feet, putting them down carefully, one at a time. He has a glass of port in his hand and he is trying not to spill it but it swills in the glass and over the sides. His jumper is stained with the port and he sweats all over, his hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes glazed. Saliva has dribbled down his beard and it sticks there slimy and white with bubbles. He looks like he could topple over at any moment. He nearly goes past us when he sees Wallace. He leans in to look at Wallace’s face, spilling half his drink.
Wallace! says the schoolteacher.
Wallace swears under his breath, ignoring the schoolteacher, facing away from him.
Wallace! says the schoolteacher again. He looks into his lapping glass, mumbling something, and then starts talking loudly again, slurring his words.
Wallace! he says. How are you Wallace?
Fine, says Wallace, not looking round.
The schoolteacher looks back into his glass, swilling the remains about and he moves towards Wallace.
Wallace, he says. He leans slowly forward and takes hold of Wallace’s hand. Wallace pulls it back in a fist, swearing, his mess of teeth a snarl.
No, no, says the schoolteacher. It’s all right Wallace.
He takes Wallace’s hand again and gently prises open the fist with shaking hands. He holds Wallace’s open hand and studies it, squeezing the fingers and the palm.
Wallace, he says quietly, fascinated. Look at that Wallace, he says.
He holds out his own palm to Wallace.
And look at that, he says. Look at that.
Wallace shies away from the schoolteacher’s hand, swearing.
No, no, says the schoolteacher. Look at that Wallace.
He lets go of Wallace’s hand and stands up straight, wavering, his eyes half closing.
You, Wallace, he says. This. He taps Wallace’s palm. Me, he says. He holds out his trembling hand. He looks at it with unfocused eyes.
Me, he says, tapping his head hard with his finger. I’m a hypocrite.
Me, he says. He holds his finger to his head with his thumb raised. He flattens the thumb and makes a noise like a gun going off.
He stands there with his eyes wet and staring, swaying on his feet, looking at nobody. He stands like that for some time and his eyes close and he rocks dangerously. Wallace looks away, swearing under his breath and he drinks with his head down.
The schoolteacher opens his eyes and looks around.
Good on you Wallace! he shouts.
He slowly turns to look at me, squinting as though I were a long way off.
Good on you mate! he says.
The schoolteacher stands there, his mouth moving but saying nothing and then he lurches off.
Wallace watches him go.
Bloody schoolteacher, says Wallace. You know what that man is? He’s what you call an educated idiot.
That’s what Wallace always says about the schoolteacher.
He drains his pot and stands up.
Bloody schoolteachers, ay Smithy, he says to me, slapping my shoulder and leaving.
Les’s wife starts putting out food in wooden bowls along the bar. The men at the tables stand up and stretch their legs and wander over. Les’s wife comes down the bar and puts a bowl of dim sims in front of me. The smell turns my stomach.
The men crowd the bar, eating with one hand and drinking with the other, still talking, they never stop talking. Les’s wife puts plastic squeeze bottles of tomato sauce and soy sauce and vinegar next to the bowls. I look over at Wallace and Roy and the boys. Wallace is talking, waving his arms about, his gabbling like a howl. The quiet boy’s head is sagging.
Oi! I yell over to them. I whistle. Oi!
Wallace looks up in mid-speech, his arms spread out. I point to the quiet boy and motion for him to come over. Wallace shoves him off the chair with a rough sweep of his arm. He turns back to Roy, still talking. The boy stumbles forward and sidesteps in my direction. I go and take him by the arm and help him over. I sit him down.
The boy turns slowly to look up at me. His eyes are bloodshot and the lids heavy. There is a sly look on his face.
Smithy, he says, like it is something funny. He pats me on the back and hugs me with one arm.
Smithy, he says, grinning.
Yeah, well, I say.
I slide the bowl of dim sims over to him.
You’d best get stuck into that, I say. Otherwise you’re not going to last the night.
You should drink, Smithy, says the boy, holding his glass up as though he’s making a toast. It’s good.
It’s all right to have a few drinks after knockoff, I say. And there’s no real harm getting pissed Friday nights, even Sundays. But I spent half me life pissed.
Good on you, says the boy, toasting me again.
No, I say. You don’t understand. When I was drinking it used to be I had to drink myself sober. Mornings I had to drink to get sober, you understand?
What’d you mean? says the boy. You mean you couldn’t get drunk.
If I drunk enough I’d get drunk, I say. But you’re not getting my point. Here, I say, pushing the dim sims closer to the boy.
The boy takes a dim sim and eats it. He licks his fingers and looks at the bowl.
Go on, I say.
He takes another one.
Well it’s been my ruin, hasn’t it, I say. I been drunk half me life and now I can’t hardly remember nothing. All them years, hardly nothing. Can’t hardly remember me own life. Because I drank it all away, you understand. And it’s ruined me inside too, done my health in. Doctors say the only way to keep me alive now is to put me in hospital, feed me from a tube. And it’s the grog done it.
Half your life, says the boy thoughtfully, slurring his words. He grins, struggling to look at me, his eyes rolling.
He takes the dim sim and holds it above him, dropping it into his mouth.
Yeah, I say. Half me life drinking, other half working. Because you only worked the season. You did a station, hit a town, and then it was on to the next station. But outside of the season you didn’t work. No need to. The pay was good, providing you was a hard worker, good enough for back then, anyway. Enough to provide for your family, buy a house, all that. So outside of the season there was nothing to do but go down pub. I used to be down pub from the time it opened to the time it shut. Get pissed every day, go home, have me tea, go to bed. Never spent time with me wife. Never saw me kid grow up. And now I look back at me life and I wasted it, didn’t I? You only got one chance in life and I already used mine up. And I stuffed it. Stuffed it good and proper.
The boy nods, wolfing down dim sims.
I mean, when you’re young you work, you get pissed, you go with women, you do this and that, but you never think about the consequences. Everything’s moving, everything’s going along and you don’t stop to think. But it goes fast. It goes so fast you barely notice it. Notice it going. And then it’s over. It’s over before you even know it. All of it. One day it all just s
tops. Because it’s stopped now. For me it has, anyway. Everything’s stopped.
I rest my elbow on the bar towel and it is wet. I look at the damp patch on my sleeve.
Nowadays I’m doing all the thinking I should have done when I was young, I say. When I could have done things right. But all I got now is memories and regrets. And there’s not a thing in the world I can do about it. That’s it. That’s me life. Gone. Can’t change a thing. Can’t go back. Can’t put it right. You understand what I’m saying?
The boy’s eyelids are half-closed and his head is beginning to nod. His hair has fallen over his face and into his beer.
Yeah, he slurs, you gotta look before you leap.
But that wasn’t what I meant. That wasn’t what I meant at all.
I look down the bar at the men. One of them is smoking a large-bowled billiard pipe, clenched between his teeth as he talks, striking matches in brief bursts of flame before they disappear into the bowl. He puffs at it hard and smoke rises in jets and then disperses. He is talking to Bob Martin, who busted his kneecap when a jack slipped from under his truck. He is not the only cripple in the pub. There are men with metal claws for hands, plastic forearms, hobbling about on prosthetic legs. They most of them got injured on the job and paid out and some of them not so old either. Bob Martin grows orchids now.
I look at the boy slumped over his beer.
I reckon you’ve had enough, I say to him.
Me? says the boy. He raises his head and brushes his hair back. He takes a drink. Nah, he says. I’m only just getting started.
I see John Langtree coming towards us, heavy on his feet, his big gut shaking from side to side as he lumbers along. He stoops and sticks his face up close to the boy’s, his face like a slab of meat, his gut pushing against both barstools.
Who’s your girlfriend, Smithy? he yells, spitting the words right into the boy’s face.
Lay off it, John, I say.
Oi! he yells, staring the boy in the eye. He pokes the boy in the chest and the boy’s eyes open up wide.
You think you can take him on? he shouts, pointing at me.
The boy is blinking as though he has been suddenly woken up. He grins nervously and looks around at me.
You think you can take him on? John Langtree shouts again, wheeling his huge, quivering body to turn to me, shaking his finger at my face.
The Vintage and the Gleaning Page 8
