Miscarriages Chapter 1. The blackguard who drinks alone .

1. The blackguard who drinks alone

I’m sitting here holding my Dad’s hand. It’s all rough and there’s a big bump where he broke it punching his old man in the jaw, a story he loved to tell when he had a few in. Now it’s limp. He’s breathing in bits-and-pieces. His face is all bloated and dark purple like the cheap plonk he’s been drinking. He’s in a coma. They say he’s going to kick it any day.

It’s six in the morning and I’m supposed to be getting ready for school but I’m not going. My matric exams are coming up pretty soon, so I’m staying home to study. I’m the only one left with me dad. Mum took off a few years ago. She was fed up with his drinking, my auntie said. I can’t blame her. But I didn’t go. I liked it here because I could do anything I wanted, and nobody cared.

This isn’t fun though. Watching my Dad die. They want me to blame him for it, I know they do. They reckon he’s disgusting, and me—I dunno—they think I’m a poor little shit that’s got to be saved from his Dad. They try to stroke my hair, even hug me. I push them away. They should mind their own business. The old pub was Dad’s life. I don’t blame him for that. The booze is killing him. So what? He had a lot of fun, and a lot of good mates. Cut short by the booze, but shit, anyone’s life can be cut short, even mine, can’t it? I’ve nearly been killed a couple of times just crossing the Melbourne Road.

Dad’s wheezing now. I let go his hand. I think he’s coming to. Dad? Dad? Are you in there, Dad?

*

I’m doing barman’s work in the night cupboard, filling up the glasses on Mrs. Counter’s tray for her customers in the Ladies Lounge, the Snake Pit as they call it. Mr. Counter will pay me good tonight. I’m going to live it up, have a few, then do that little sheila I saw come in here with her old man last week. Saved up and bought a new sports coat and pants. Can hardly wait.

A bloke comes up.

“Gimme a flask of Corio,” he says.

I reach up to the shelf and dust one down.

“Five and ten,” I says. He gives me a ten-shilling note. I ring up the money and give him his change minus a shilling. He doesn’t look at it. I look back up at the shelf. There’s a flask of Gilbey’s gin there. I’m going to swipe it for tonight. I dust off all the bottles and rearrange them. Mr. Counter will be pleased. It might throw him off when he counts the stock. He doesn’t do it every day anyway.

*

Today I’m fourteen and I’m going to get screwed tonight. I’m in the paddock behind the old pub. The back fence leans right over like it’ll fall on me. It stinks of piss and beer. It’s getting dark and there’s a red glow all over the paddocks. The stubble of burnt grass crunches under my feet. I squat, trying to hide in the giant scotch thistles, bastards of things, without getting pricked. I’m in my best clothes, white sports coat, navy pants, blue suede shoes. Hair slicked back. My ass grazes a thistle as I drop down. The flask of gin slips out of my pocket and clanks on a rock. It’s the one I stole last night.

It’s dark. The cops cruise up and down, sitting in their car like pervs at a keyhole. They shine a spotlight and it hits the old pub fence. I freeze, scared shitless, not of the cops, but my old man if he found out. Got no idea why they’re cruising round here. The pub’s been closed for over three hours. All the drunks are well gone. The spotlight strays by my hand that’s gripping a rock to keep me steady. I stop breathing, thinking they could hear me. It’s the Preacher! I think to myself. Then suddenly it’s really dark. The cop car drifts away. I struggle to stand up, my hand slips off the rock, and I fall back into the thistles. I roll over on to my elbow, right on the burnt grass so now I’ve got black all over the sleeve of my white sports coat. Shit-head cops! I take a swig of the gin. I have to force it down. How anyone can drink this stuff I don’t know. But I’m making myself do it. I’ll get laid tonight no matter what.

*

This crazy bitch, she says she’s fourteen. I’d say she was thirteen at the very most. She comes up to me out of nowhere just as I turn the corner on Sparks Road. The church hall’s lit up and the rest of my gang’s hanging around the door.

“Going to the flicks?” she asks.

It’s Iris. I can barely make her out in the dark. She comes up real close, nose grazing my cheek.

“Dunno. What’s on?”

“Dunno.”

There’s hardly anything of her, skinny as a rake, a little bulge at her breast, but a soft face, pale in the dark. She pushes her lips up to my ear. I imagine they’re full, lush, like a rose sprayed with water.

“Let’s go anyway,” she whispers.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and elsewhere.

“Yair, OK.”

I stick my arm around her waist and plant a kiss right where I think her lips are. She’s on to me. We kiss like buggery. It’s like kissing a serpent with a beautiful soft face. Her lips are wet and slippery. I’m half out of my mind.

The movies have started. We get to the church hall door and stop by the mums selling the tickets and the lollies. I buy a box of Jaffas. One of the mothers looks at me with a I-know-what you’re-up-to look. I say, “Thank you Mrs. Lester,” and take my change. We head straight for the middle of the fourth row from the back. That way, the sticky-beaks can’t see us. The Movietone news is still running. I see the Beatles getting off a plane somewhere in America. Then we’re into it.

She’s got a hold of me. I pull back. Don’t want to mess my underpants.

“Wanna swig?” I ask, sliding the bottle of gin out of my pocket.

“Nah, hate the stuff. What is it?

“Gin.”

The movie’s half way through. The lights go on while some kid’s father puts on the second reel. We start eating our Jaffas. Iris drops one and it bounces like a ping-pong ball on the wooden floor. My mates look back to find me, grinning. They see I’m busy.

*

That was two years ago. Now I’m here with me Dad across the road from the old pub where he spent most of his life. We’re in the old sleep-out on the back veranda that Dad added on to our commission house when I was little. I’m holding his hand trying to keep him going, jabbering to him, saying whatever comes into my head. I get up and go to the front room to look at the old pub, the walls, once red brick, painted a sickly cream, flaking away; the rusted gutters clinging to the veranda over a cracked concrete path; the big window with LADIES LOUNGE painted on it in fancy gold letters, the tall red chimneys, magpies perched on wires, white spots beneath.

They say the pub won’t be there in a year or two. What will I do then? I’m only seventeen, well, nearly seventeen. I’m still at high school. My last year’s about done. My mates around here think I’m crazy. They all got jobs a couple of years ago. My Dad always said I had to get a good education. He was telling me that right up until his coma. I should be studying right now, doing my one hour a day that I promised myself I’d do. Only I hate sitting in my bedroom at the desk he made me. I used to study right here where he’s out to it, on the little cot. But Dad took it over when he got home from the pub and flopped down here after he’d had a piss in the toilet that was right next to the sleep-out. Anyway, I’ve read my economics, history and geography notebooks over and over, I know them off by heart. What else is there to do? What the hell are those smart kids at school doing when they’re studying all day? Of course, there’s English, but you can’t really study that, can you Dad? You either can do it or you can’t. And then there’s my favourite subject Latin that I muck around with and I’m really good at, but none of the other kids at school know that, not even that I got my funny old Latin teacher to loan me a book that was what he called vulgar. I spent a lot of time copying out the whole book, all the rude words. A lot of fun that was, Dad. And you’d come up to me at my desk and say, “what the bloody hell are you doing all this time studying?” And I’d close the book and say, “nothing, Dad. Just my Latin.”

Remember telling me about high school, Dad? I was in sixth grade and I asked you where was I going next, to the tech school like you did? And you went red in the face and said you’d go and talk to the teacher because he shouldn’t be putting stupid ideas like that into my head. Next thing at school, my teacher, Snozzle we called him because of his big nose, draws two columns on the blackboard, one called “High School” the other “Tech School.” He writes in the high school column, “4-6 years, then “Latin or French,” and in the tech school, “4 years” and that’s it.

“Raise your hands all those going to high school,” he says.

I raised my hand along with one other kid.

“You going to do French or Latin?” he asks.

“Latin,” I reply.

“Why not French?”

“My father said only the smart kids do Latin.”

Snozzle wrinkled his nose a bit and the girls in the back row started giggling. “You’ll all be going to girls’ tech to learn how to cook,” he told them.

And when I came home and told you what happened, remember what you did? You took me to Geelong and bought me a kitbag for when I went to high school. And I’ve still got it, Dad. It’s right under my bed. I never take it to school though, because it’s too big to fit in my locker.

Thanks to you Dad, I’m doing my matric exams in a few weeks, and then, like you wanted, I’m going to Teachers College next year. Yes, I know. Don’t need matric to go to Teachers College, but I know you wanted me to do the whole six years and that’s what I’m doing. I’ll have lots of money, so my mates say. The Education Department pays us. Pretty good wicket, like you said Dad. I feel his hand twitch. His chest rises. He even licks his lips. I’ve made him happy, I have. I squeeze his hand and I’m sure I see his eyelids flutter just a little. “Don’t worry, Dad, I love ya, truly I do.”

*

They call the old pub the “blood house” but its official name is the Corio Shire Hotel, and I love the place. There’s bloody fights on the street outside every Friday and Saturday nights. Only fist fights though. There’s rules. No knives. No broken glasses. If ever that happens, the blokes grab the bastard and let the other bloke pummel him.

My Dad was easily the pub’s best customer. He never liked me hanging around the place, but I did odd jobs for Mr. Counter, the publican. I ran errands, learned how to joke with the customers, and on race days carried bets to the back of the pub and placed them with Skeeter the bookie. I made some good dough, especially if I carried a bet that paid off. And Skeeter paid me as his spotter. I only had to tip him off a couple of times though. Mr. Counter had a deal with the cops.

Dad had his own place in the corner of what was called the “old bar” of the pub. He’d go on and on about how the old stone walls were a hundred years old. And he’d say how much better it was than the “new bar” that was built a few years ago showing off its u-shaped bar, with lots of space and fancy beer taps. The old bar was always crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder. Dad liked it. Reckoned he felt close to his mates that way, even though he always drank alone. And it was where most of the brawls broke out when a bloke’s elbow spilled another bloke’s beer. That’s all it took. Mr. Counter’s bouncer, Grecko, a champion heavyweight boxer, wouldn’t stop the brawl. He’d just grab them all and push them out to the street. And all the blokes would cheer them on.

I kept out of Dad’s way because he looked embarrassed when I showed up. But later, when things were not so good, he was happy to borrow a few bob from me.

*

I was thirteen when we moved into the commission house across the road from the pub. I took the bus to high school in Geelong every morning and it dropped me off at five o’clock every day in front of the pub. I was really scared. The tipsy blokes would come up to me and start chattering away about nothing. You couldn’t be sure whether they were friendly or would hit you. And they’d breathe their fumes right in my face, grab my shirt or my loose tie, just as I was trying to cross the road. And the road was the Melbourne Road, a big strip of concrete with cars speeding up and down it all the time.

It took a few weeks before I was game enough to step into the pub. Then I nearly pissed myself! I put my foot on the old bluestone step, the greasy green and white striped canvas in the doorway rubbed my cheek, then a wall of stale beer and smoke hit me in the face. I turned and ran home straight across the Melbourne road, without looking, cars screeching to miss me.

The next day, though, I was back. This time I stepped past the old canvas and sidled up to the bar, but I slipped on the slime-covered floor and before I knew it, I’d called out “shit!” and all the blokes in the bar laughed at me. A bloke called out:

“You shouldn’t be in ’ere ya little shit! Get the buggery out!”

Panicked, I ran out and across the road and nearly got run over again.

The next day I once more put my foot on the old bluestone step. It was about five o-clock. I heard the siren at the Ford factory. There’d soon be a crowd of blokes crossing the road and fronting up to the bar. I turned and saw them coming at me. I jumped away. I’ll come back tomorrow, a Saturday, no school, and see it all up close.

*

Me mum, she was still home then, made me eat a German sausage sandwich with lots of butter. I loved those sandwiches, but all I could think of was getting across the road to see what was going on in the pub. I chomped down the sandwich and took off, mum calling out where was I going, but I was gone.

It was well after five and a hot night. The pub was packed, and it was hard to work my way through the big crowd outside. Being small, I slipped through the gaps between drinking schools and made it through the old bar entrance. Shit! The blood rushed to my face. I came out in a hot sweat; my ears went numb with the blokes yelling to each other. A bloke grabbed me by the arm.

“What ya bloody doing in ’ere?” he says with a big grin. He’s a red-faced bloke dressed in oily overalls, no shirt or even singlet. I was scared shitless and couldn’t talk. He didn’t wait for me to answer. I pulled back, but couldn’t see the doorway, only the windows and the iron bars that stopped drunks from falling through. Hot sweaty bodies closed in on me. I crawled along the filthy floor and bumped into a stool. A hand grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up. It was my Dad.

Remember that, Dad? And you know what you did? You grab¬bed me by the scruff of the neck and shoved me through the crowd and growled, “get back home and don’t let me see you here again!” We got to the door and you gave me a push and I ran straight across the road. A car screeched. I was nearly run over again Dad! You must remember that. Nearly killed by my own father! Nah, Dad. No worries. I’m only joking. I’m squeezing the old man’s hand. His knuckles are white, his fingers thin and bony. I lean over and look into his puffy face. His eyes are nearly closed, but there’s a flicker. My nose is nearly touching his. It’s OK Dad. You did a good job. Look at me. Going to Teachers’ College next year. Just what you wanted. Pretty good deal, you always said, didn’t you?

*

I’ve been moping round the house, stretching my legs, talking to myself all this time. It’s kind of easier talking to myself than to Dad, because I don’t know what he hears and I don’t want to upset him. Who knows what’s going on inside his head?

“You silly old bastard, look what you’ve done to yourself,” I say, sitting in the old lounge chair beside his cot, grasping his hand in mine. Shit, you’re drinking yourself to death all your mates reckon. I don’t care what they say. I’ll give you another glass of plonk if you wake up. You know who I saw yesterday? Yarra the chunderer. Re¬member him? They called him Yarra because his puke looked like the water in the Yarra. I was on this bottle drive, collecting beer bottles for the church. We went to his house. I didn’t know it was his till I went around the back. There’s a huge pile of empties stacked against the fence. A great find! And then I look across to the back door and he’s sitting on the step. I go over to say hello. I couldn’t believe it was him. You know how funny he is. I tell you Dad, I never saw such a sorry sight in my life. His eyes were all big and puffy and watery and red rimmed, just like a cocker spaniel’s. Poor bugger. He looked at me. I pretended I never knew him. I didn’t know what to say. He cadged a shilling off me. I couldn’t say no, taking all his bottles away, you know. His little kid wanted to come with us. We couldn’t let him of course. I thought he was going to cry, not the kid, Yarra himself. A grown man, for heaven’s sake! What do you think Dad?”

Mum wouldn’t go to the pub. I used to think it was because of Dad, but he said it was because she reckoned it was a disgusting place. Who knows? Like I said, my first time in the bar the smell of stale beer and sweat knocked me over. But now I don’t even notice it. Of course, I’m not talking about the shit-house. If mum had seen it, she’d have wanted to move to a house a mile away!

Dad’s coughing a bit. His eyes are half closed. I have to keep talking to him to keep him going. I’m starting to say the same stuff over and over. Dad, did you know I once sneaked in the pub after hours? Found an open window in one of the guest rooms and climbed through. I told mum I was at C of E boys club. A couple of years ago I suppose it was. It was creepy. I no sooner got in, I heard voices, loud voices and laughing and I peeked down the passage and you know what? There were cops boozing. Would you believe it? I got back out. I wasn’t scared. I had to pee. I wanted to go bad, and I knew there was a toilet down the passage, but I wasn’t game to go there. And to get to the shit-house out back–you must have done it a thousand times—to get there you had to walk down the side of the pub past the old cypress tree. As soon as I got that far I knew it was close because of the stink! Dad, I don’t how you put up with it! It just stunk so awful, and every-thing round it and inside was all green and slimy. I stood up to the urinal, aimed high, but I couldn’t go! It was awful! Thank goodness it was after hours and there was nobody there! I turned and ran back out. Forgot to button myself up even. I get to the cypress tree and there’s a bloke there, drunk as a nut pissing full bore right under the tree, which happens to be right outside the pub kitchen. The cook’s yelling at him and banging on the window. He turns full on to her and says, “sorry missus, didn’t know ya wanted to see the bloody lot.” I ran across the road and got home just in time. Nearly pissed my pants!

There’s a little twitch at the corner of Dad’s mouth. I’m sure he’s trying to smile.

*

I’m in the bar, doing my job collecting empty glasses. I catch my foot in the lino that’s worn through and turned up at the ends. I bang into a bloke’s elbow and spill his beer. I’m scared shitless. My face turns red. “Gees. Sorry mate!” I say, “here, let me shout you another one.”

I don’t have the money but I know if I don’t make the offer I’ll get bashed up. He’s a big brawny bloke with bare arms, bulging muscles, sun-burnt skin and wearing one of those white singlets that’s gone yellow under the arms. He’s looking down at me. I’m staring at his lips, waiting to be clobbered. I squeeze my way past his mates and make it to the bar. The barman looks down at me. He knows I’m in a spot. I shove the empties over to him, and push one forward and say, in a squeaky voice, “can you fill this one?” I nod towards the bloke. The barman, a good bloke if ever there was one, puts up two new glasses and fills them and pushes them across. The bloke pushes them back and gives me a fierce look. I’m done for, I reckon. He grabs my arm and I wince. Then just as quick, he lets go and roars laughing and his mates join in. He pats me on the head and says, “didn’t I see you down at the old Clarendon pub?” I see my Dad out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring straight ahead. Hope he’s not listening.

“Me? Nah, never been there,” I lie. I was there all right. It’s the pub just across from the Geelong footy oval. He’s lost interest though. He grabs his two free beers and he and his mates get down to it. I slink away. My Dad never said nothing.

*

Dad’s breathing stops and starts again. I think he’s going to kick it soon. I suppose someone should tell mum. She went and stayed with my auntie in Yarraville, Mr. Counter told me. She’s been gone for a while now. She was only going to be there till she found a job then she’d get a place of her own. I don’t know. I don’t remember much about her to tell the truth. She never hardly spoke up, was always in the kitchen cooking. I’d light the stove for her each morning. She’d cut my lunch and I’d run off to school. She ought to know that Dad’s going to kick it pretty soon. She probably does. Don’t think she’d care, though. Not that Dad beat her up or anything. He wasn’t that sort. He was, like they say over at the pub, a quiet drunk. Just sat on his stool in his corner and drank from nine when the pub opened till five minutes before it closed at six. Then he’d buy a flagon of plonk and take it home. And the next day he’d start all over again. Mum just stayed in the kitchen and cooked and didn’t say nothing. Except on Thursdays, she’d run out of money and ask him how she was going to feed us. I was about eleven or twelve then, I think. Somehow, she always put something on the table. I was never hungry. She must have been a good Mum, I s’pose. Then one day, she just wasn’t there. She’d gone. My Dad never told me nothing. I had to scrounge for myself. Lived on bread, butter and Vegemite. Good old Mr. Counter at the pub let me into the kitchen and the cook gave me leftovers, so I did all right. Then one day my auntie Connie showed up and tried to get me to go away with her. But I wouldn’t. Dad just stood there, sipping his plonk, looked at her, like she was some kind of dog that strayed into the kitchen.

Dad? Are you in there, Dad? Are you all right? Take a deep breath, Dad. That’ll make you feel better. Would you like a sip of plonk?

I’m feeling under his cot. There’s always booze under there.

*

Hey Dad! Do you remember that night we were round at Millie’s? Remember her? I bet you do. She really liked you, I know. She liked me too! A bit too much, to tell the truth. I could have done her, but you were there. Well, sort of. She tried to do me, but I just couldn’t do it with someone three times my age. Anyway, she was yours, wasn’t she? Don’t think you’re hearing this, are you, Dad? And just as well. I told my mates at school all about that night. They couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t drive, remember? I wanted to drive you. There were cars all down the street. Millie’s place was right across from the police station. Unbelievable! I already knew Millie from the pub. I’d go into the Snake Pit, what they called the Ladies Lounge, and all the women would go crazy over me. I loved that. Trouble was they were ugly as shit and too old! Anyway, we get in there…

What’s up Dad? Squeezing my fingers? You’re in there, are you? Oh, that’s right. She wanted you to be best man at her wedding! That was a riot! I left that out, didn’t I? So, I’m in the Snake Pit and you walk in. And Millie latches on to you—hey Dad, do I see a little smile on your face? Are you coming good?— and she says, “I wantcha to be best man at me wedding tonight.” And you look at her and say, “I’d be honoured, Millie me love.” And she grabs your arm and drags you over to her table.

“You see here?” she says, pointing to an old leather case, “it’s me going away case. Packed all ready for me honeymoon.”

And you say, “shit Millie, that’s great.”

And she says, “don’tcha believe me? Here, look inside,” and she opens the case and tips everything out!

She was really something, Dad, wasn’t she?

So we get to her party that night. We go in the door and you trip over this drunk passed out in the hall, and you’re lying on your back.

Millie calls out, “hey! Whatcha doing lookn up me dress?”

And you say, “gimme a beer, Millie.”

“It’s me wedding night,” she says, “‘and all you bloody think of is beer!”

You struggle up—I think I helped you—and you give her a peck on the cheek. Don’t know how you could do it, Dad.

“Now can I get my beer?” you say.

“Somebody get me best man a beer,” she yells, “and get me another brandy you pack of bastards!”

The smoke and the drunks are killing me. I grab myself a lemonade and take off out the back door. Then I’m gawking at the back yard. It’s a circus. One of the cops from the police station across the road is driving round and round the rotary clothes line on his motorbike with a red-faced drunk sitting in the side-car singing Round and Round the Mulberry Bush and sucking on a bottle of plonk.

Remember that Dad? And they tie the bike to the clothes line and the cop revs up the bike and makes it go faster and faster. Crazy bastards! Then wham! The bike breaks free of the line and smashes into the fence and the silly buggers go flying in the air. Were you there for that, Dad? I saw you, I think. Millie was hang¬ing all over you, crying because the bike ran over her veggie garden.

I did see you, Dad. I never let on to you, or anyone else, except my mates at school, that is. Can you hear me this time Dad? Squeeze my hand, Dad. That’s right. I know you’re in there. So I was there that time at Millie’s. I was standing right there in the bedroom doorway. You and Millie were going at it. I dunno what I was thinking. It was a horrible sight, but it got me all worked up. The two of you were on the bed. You tore off her dress. You were starkers. And Dad, I hate to say it, but you were so drunk, you were dribbling all over her tits. And she was lolling around, her tongue hanging out of her mouth like a thirsty dog’s. A shit-awful sight, I tell you! Oops, sorry Dad, didn’t mean to swear, hope you’re not upset. I mean it was so bad I couldn’t look any more. I couldn’t last it out to the end. It’s my big regret. I never saw you finish her off. I had to go to the toilet, you know?

The ride home that night was pretty scary Dad. But then you probably can’t remember. You and Mr. Counter were both drunk and I wanted to drive, and you wouldn’t let me because I never had a license. We were going to get more beer, remember?

Mr. Counter drove all over the place and you egged him on, reckoned he was doing a great job! Shit, Dad. I was scared and I was huddled up in the back seat. Then there’s this sudden swerve and screech and I look up and there’s this lamp post coming at us. And Mr. Counter lets go the steering wheel and out comes this huge burp, and Dad you slide off the seat on to the floor. And there’s a big jolt as the car hits the curb and bounces up on to the footpath. I feel like I’m floating and I see a shadow or something, arms flung up in the air and then there’s a thump and I sees this bloke’s face squashed against the windscreen, then slide back as the car stops, and the body rolls off. Shit, Dad. It was really awful. You were swearing and trying to kick open the door, and Mr. Counter was slumped over the steering wheel, snoring.

Someone peeks in and yells, “are you blokes all right?”

Dad, you were the most violent I ever saw. You kicked open the door and fell out and grumbled, “where’s the bloody beer?”

I climbed out and a bloke tries to help me and I shake him off. Then I saw the body slumped across the gutter and the blood coming out of his mouth. He was one of the regulars from the pub. And he was drunk too of course. Did you know him Dad? I think you did. What happened about that, Dad? Do you know? Was it Mr. Counter’s fault? Should have been. But nothing happened to him, did it?

*

I got knocked out this day over at the pub. It was just before mum walked out. I was helping out in the beer cellar and one of the extractors blew out of the barrel and banged me right between the eyes. I was walking round in a daze with blood coming down my face and someone called out for Mr. Counter. The cook cleaned me up then Mr. Counter brought me home. Mum opened the door and Mr. Counter handed me over and he hugged my mum and said, “he’ll be OK.” And mum just looked at me and I went straight to my room and went to bed. And as I lay down I tried to convince myself that they were just being very friendly and mum was thanking him for taking care of me. She asked him in. Do you think something was going on, Dad? Gees, Dad, did you know? Don’t suppose you cared anyway. I know it’s none of my business. But I can’t help wondering.

I’ve got your hand, Dad. Do I feel you squeezing me again? I don’t think so. You’re too far gone, that’s what I think. I found a little flask of brandy under the cot. Here, taste it. I put my finger into the bottle then tip it up. Brandy runs down my finger and I lick it off. Then I put my finger in Dad’s mouth. I have to force it in. How’s that Dad? Bring back old memories?

*

I know the quack can’t do anything. He was useless yesterday, wasn’t he, Dad? He might be able to make you more comfortable. I phoned him. He says he’s coming. Just a minute till I have a sip of my cuppa tea. Here, try this. Found the eye dropper. Filled it with a bit of whiskey so I can slip it in your mouth. There, that good? Ok, Ok, not too much. That’s right. Calmed you down, didn’t it? I’ve got your hand again. You can still squeeze it, can’t you?

When I was boiling the kettle I was thinking about Little Linda. Remember that time in the Snake Pit? Who could forget it? I was picking up glasses and I runs into this thing, woman or girl standing at the bar cupboard where they got their drinks for the Snake Pit. She’s this short skinny little thing. Looks about the size of a kid in grade six except she’s got this big swollen belly, pregnant like you wouldn’t believe. And she’s got this wrinkly face. You know Dad? And the wrinkles are full of dirt, something awful, Dad! She’s got these thin glasses that’s stuck together with sticky plaster. Everyone called her Little Linda because she was real little, not like her dad who they called Tank because he was the size of a tank and he barged around like one, and everyone was scared shitless of him.

Mr. Counter says, “what can I do for you, Linda my love?”

And she laughs and says, “don’t come at that fuckn luv business with me! Gimme two whiskeys and a beer, and make it quick. I feel bloody crook.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” says Mr. Counter.

“Go to the shit-house, you bastard!” she cackles.

“How long to go, Lin?”

“Shit, I dunno! The way I feel, it could be any minute. It’s a fuckn nuisance. The sooner the better, that’s what I say.”

She gets her grog and off she goes to the Snake Pit.

I’m back in the bar collecting glasses when there’s these terrible screams. I remember you sitting on your favourite stool in the corner, staring at your beer. But the screams even made you look up, and you say, “what the hell’s that coming from the Snake Pit?”

I run around to the Snake Pit and there’s Tank standing at the door, slapping and banging anyone that comes near the place. Mr. Counter comes up and yells, “Tank! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Keep out of it Eddie, or you’ll get it too. I warn youse all. No bastard’s going in there while me daughter’s like that.”

“Like what? Oh no! You don’t mean she’s dropping it right in there, do you?”

And she has the baby right on that greasy lino floor in the Snake Pit. Could you believe it Dad? I sneaked in under Tank’s arm, and there she was! And I saw it all! Wish I hadn’t. It was disgusting! I could’ve thrown up. Nearly did.

And then, you remember this Dad? The next day, she shows up like nothing happened, asks for a beer and two whiskeys. She looks just the same, haggard and filthy. And she’s got this old pram.

“The new one?” asks Mr. Counter, pointing at the pram.

“Yair. Struth! Am I glad it’s there and not in me guts! Don’t just stand there gawking! Get me drinks! I’m bloody crook!”

She downs the whiskeys and takes her beer and pram to the Snake Pit. I follow her in. The women in there, they all go up and gawk at the baby and it gets lifted out and passed round. It’s making a feeble cry. I dunno, Dad. I felt sorry for it, I really did. But what can you do?

Dad? You OK? The whiskey help you? Yes, that’s it. A bit of the old dog, right? You’re smiling inside, aren’t you? I know you are.

*

Dad, I’ve got to keep talking. I can’t just sit here saying nothing, watching you die. Remember that New Year’s Eve when the corpse got lost? After the six o’clock bell went and all the customers were gone, and the barmen were having an after-hours drinking session with Mr. Counter? There was this banging on the front door. Grecko the bouncer opens it. And that big round copper they call Dopey pushes past him half waddling, half running down the passage, his fat gut bouncing up and down over his belt.

“Quick, Eddie,” he calls, “ring for an ambulance!”

“Why, what’s the matter, been an accident?”

“There’s a corpse out in the car park! Dead as a doornail he is! I’ll have a whiskey while you’re ringing the ambulance if you don’t mind.”

“You don’t want an ambulance, you want a hearse!”

“No jokes you bastards, this is serious. Ring for that ambulance before I run you all in!”

“Hey, Grecko, ring for an ambulance will you? Dopey, you sure he’s dead?”

“Of course. He’s not breathing, I tell you. And he’s as white as a ghost! And I reckon he’s going stiff already! Another whiskey, make it double.”

“Hey, Dopey, will I call the police as well?” jokes one of the blokes and Dopey spills some of the whiskey as his hand shakes bringing the glass up to his big huge mouth with its bulging lips.

“We better go out and have a look,” somebody says.

“There’s no need,” says Dopey, “I’ve seen it. You all better stay away. You never know, might be foul play! I think I’ll have a beer now if you don’t mind. This sort of thing’s a bit hard on the nerves you know.”

Of course, Dopey never pays for nothing. He sips his beer and licks the foam from his lips, and everyone starts quaffing it down waiting for the ambulance.

“And how’s your good wife, constable?” asks Mr. Counter.

“Huh, how should I know? Came home late the other night from the police boys club and just because I smelt of a bit of grog, she slapped me face and pissed off! I’ll have another beer if you don’t mind.” Dopey holds out his glass.

“She’s run out again?” asks Mr. Counter, amused.

“Yair.”

“This must be about the fourth time in six months.”

“I’m getting used to it. Getting to like it really. Married men don’t get as much freedom as I do with her out of the way.”

“I never thought of it like that,” says Mr. Counter and the other blokes nod wisely.

“I’ll have another beer, if you don’t mind,” says Dopey as he dabs his watery eyes with a hanky.

There’s a banging on the front door and Grecko let’s in the ambulance man. He’s a little bloke all dressed in a grey dust coat like my fourth-grade teacher used to wear.

“Er... you got a corpse here I think?”

“That’s what our constable here reports,” Mr. Counter says. He’s trying real hard not to grin. “It’s out in the car park.”

“That’s right,” says Dopey, being all official. “Come on and I’ll show you.”

Big Dopey waddles off, the ambulance man at his elbow, and the rest of us tag along.

“How do you know it was a corpse? I mean, how did you know it was dead?” asks the ambulance bloke.

“Now really sir. He’s stiffer than a board. I’ve been a cop long enough to know whether a bloke’s dead or not,” says Dopey all put out. “It’s just around here, beneath the cypress tree. You can see his boot sticking out just under that lower branch.”

The ambulance bloke runs forward.

“Here! Over here!” cries Dopey.

It was very dark, Dad, don’t you remember? We were all pretty much breathing down Dopey’s neck and he yells at us, “orright! Orright! Keep back there! Wait till I turn on me torch!”

We’re all sniggering and joking and Dopey flicks the torch on and then we see it! A shoe, a crumpled-up tie, and a bit of vomit.

“Ahem! Are you sure it was here?” asks the ambulance bloke, a big smirk on his face.

“It was here, I tell you! Somebody must have swiped it!”

“Now, really Dopey, who’d want to swipe a spew covered corpse?”

“But I tell you. The fuckn corpse was dead!”

“And how else could a corpse be?”

“Cut the fuckn jokes,” Dopey whines, “this is serious!”

“I’ll say it is,” snarls the ambulance bloke. “It looks like you’ve got us out here on a wild goose chase. Somebody really sick might have needed us right now. I might have to report this, constable.”

“But I tell you…”

Things didn’t look too good. Then Mr. Counter steps in to save the day. Gees, what a good bloke Mr. Counter is, Dad, isn’t he? I don’t even have to ask you, Dad, do I? He’s been your best mate forever.

“It looks to me,” says Mr. Counter, “that this corpse was prob¬ably well and truly flaked with too much grog. Then it got up and walked away. Really flaked alkies often seem like they’re dead you know.”

“Yes, that’s right Eddie. That’s what happened,” gabbles Dopey. “He’s probably still around.”

“What I want to know is who’s going to pay for the ambulance? I’m not going away from here with fuckn nothing,” complains the ambulance bloke.

Poor Dopey. He looks around us all, and we’re sniggering and nudging each other. Then Mr. Counter takes Dopey aside and whispers to him, but we can hear it all.

“Look Dopey. There’s still plenty of drunks staggering around the place. All we have to do is grab one, sock him one if he makes too much noise, and chuck him in the ambulance. And he pays the fee.”

“Do you think it would work?”

“Of course! Come on.” So Mr. Counter tells us to spread out and look for the corpse, and he goes off with Dopey and they pretty soon find a drunk staggering around and Mr. Counter says, “here’s one Dopey. I’ll grab him from behind and when he swings his arms, you step up to him, tell him he’s drunk and disorderly, then thump him one. Got it?”

“Well…”

“Good. Let’s go.”

So they grabbed the bloke. He never knew what hit him, and they stuck him on a stretcher and chucked him in the ambulance.

Dopey calls out to the ambulance bloke, “we found him flaked out in the gutter. You better be careful with him. Drunks get wild when they wake up you know.”

The ambulance bloke closes up the ambulance and locks it tight.

“Rightee-o” he says, “let’s go inside and do the paperwork.”

We all go back in the pub, and Mr. Counter lets them all have a few more beers until the ambulance driver gets tipsy, and then Dopey informs everyone that it’s past closing time and they all have to leave or he’ll book Mr. Counter for trading after hours!

*

Are you getting sick of me Dad? I’m doing all the talking I know, and I must be repeating myself. I wish you could talk to me Dad. There’s probably lots I’ve left out. What about the other yarn about Dopey and his boss, the Preacher. They’re a funny couple of cops, aren’t they Dad?

The Preacher called himself an “individualist” whatever that was supposed to mean. I couldn’t understand a word he said, could you? He always had a bible and read bits out to blokes he reckoned were too drunk. And he’d even give lectures in a booming voice, about duty to God, Queen, and the law. And he’d walk round the bar, slapping drinkers on the back, sometimes even buying someone a beer. And if a bloke wanted to buy him one back, he’d say, “fellow citizen, it’s against the law to drink in uniform, but, I shall accept because it’s necessary for a policeman to be on good terms with the populace.” Then he’d take off his cap so he wouldn’t be in full uniform. And he’d gulp down his beer, and slap his hand on the counter and announce, “well, I must away and do my duty.”

This night, the Preacher came in and as the last customers were leaving the bar, he raised his right hand holding his bible above his head and said, “the peace of God be with you.”

Remember that Dad? You were sitting on your stool, and you called out “Amen!” and then he and Dopey go around to the night cupboard for a few free drinks. And the Preacher says, “now, Dopey, my boy, how’s the wife? Is she with you, or is she with you not?”

“She came back yesterday. I’ll have another beer if you don’t mind,” he says to Mr. Counter.

“It is with great pleasure that I am pleased to hear it,” says the Preacher, “I am glad that you are present here tonight Dopey. Your assistance will be essential.”

“So, what’s the trouble?”

“You know Fred’s in hospital? Got run off the road on his motorbike.”

“Yair.”

“He is getting much better now that he is almost well, and being thirsty he requires something of the kind that you and I are drinking tonight. I consider it to be our duty as fellow policemen to see that this state of affairs is corrected.”

“So, you think…”

“Do not interrupt. It is my personal and individual opinion that the far too officious staff of the hospital will not allow said refreshments on said premises. We shall thus be required to put into action a plan for smuggling in same. Do you understand sir?”

“Well, I s’pose so, but…”

“Good, then it is that we shall proceed. We’ll do it tonight. I have already cased the joint, as the criminals say, and know exactly what we must do.”

“But Preacher, my wife’s home tonight, I promised her I’d go straight home. You know she’s not there too often.”

“Shame on you constable. Do you not recognize your duty to Queen and country when it is pointed out to you? The plan will not operate without you. It is beholden for you to come.”

“I’ll have another beer, if you don’t mind,” Dopey asks in his whiny voice. He makes this big sigh and his eyes go all watery. Gees, Dad, poor old Dopey, the poor bugger. And then Mr. Counter says, “inspector…”

And the Preacher bristles, “I am not an inspector, I am a first constable. We are the ones who do all the hard work.”

“Oh, sorry, Reverend. I was just going to offer you a hand, then Dopey could go home to his missus.”

“Well, of that I am unsure. It should be a member of Her Majesty’s constabulary. But I suppose it could be done. I am not an unreas¬onable man. You are able in body, I presume?”

“Never been better.”

The Preacher stands up straight, like he’s king George.

“Then it is exactly correct,” he says. “So shall it be. Peace be with you. Now we must fortify ourselves for the mission. I’ll have a double whiskey as well as the beer this time.”

Mr. Counter —what a good bloke he is, Dad—fills his glass, and Dopey pushes his forward too, and the Preacher gives him a really shitty look and says, “young man, you have had enough. Run along home to your wife immediately. You have an individual responsibility to her.”

Gees, Dad, the two of them, they were a funny couple, weren’t they? This big lanky Preacher, over six feet tall, and Dopey shorter and round like a giant pear. The Preacher looks down on him over his pointy nose that just about touches his chin. And Dopey doesn’t say a word, he just kind of nods at Mr. Counter, and plods away.

“Well now Mr. Counter, are we ready?”

“What grog do you want for your mate? I’ll get it while you fortify yourself,” says Mr. Counter with a smirk.

“Oh. Let me see. Nothing much at all. What about, I should consider, a bottle of whiskey—Corio is fine, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of rum, and let me see. Yes, a bottle of port thrown in for good luck. Port is an excellent invalid’s drink. It used to be drunk in the year of our Lord, you know.”

You were there then, weren’t you, Dad? It was the time when you were still doing a few odd jobs for Mr. Counter.

They sped off to the hospital in the police wagon, siren screaming.

“Well, what’s your plan Reverend?” asks Mr. Counter.

“My good sir. It is that I have tried to smuggle these goods past the nurses at the entrance without success, and so I have been unable to do so. I have therefore surveyed the situation with the utmost scrutiny that a man in my position and individual respon¬sibility is able to do, and have decided that you must climb up a large creeper that leads to the second-floor window where our beloved comrade lies. That is why I asked you to bring the string bag to carry the grog.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit early to do that yet? I mean, it’s only eight o’clock. We should do it when nobody’s around.”

The Preacher looks at him for a moment and says, “you are correct. Good thinking. I like the way you plan the method and execution of your attack. We shall delay some hours. I have also just realized that this parcel of alcohol is too heavy on the long climb as we intend. Therefore, I suggest to you that you open the whiskey. We shall pull up here while I phone the station and tell them I’m on patrol.” They pull up beside a telephone booth, but the Preacher stays in the wagon. They knock over the bottle of whiskey and then the Preacher advises the utmost caution and suggests a further delay until the very early hours of the morning. Then he opens the bottle of port.

“Now Reverend!” says Mr. Counter, “we should keep the port for a special occasion. You should have it after a meal or something.”

“Again, you are exactly correct, Mr. Counter. So it shall be. We’ll catch a meal to have with the port.”

“We’ll what?”

“We’ll go rabbiting my boy. The spotlight on my police wagon is very excellent for night shooting. And I have a rifle, a shotgun and my police revolver if needed. Away! Away we shall go!”

The Preacher speeds off to the paddocks just outside of Bannockburn. He turns on to a dirt track, and then into a paddock full of rabbit burrows and mounds of dirt. And every bump they hit, the Preacher calls out, “may the Lord have mercy on our souls!” and Mr. Counter thanks him for it.

They took turns driving and shooting, both of them drunk as lords, too drunk to drive and they couldn’t hold the spotlight still, let alone the gun, so they kept missing the rabbits, even with a shotgun! Then there’s this huge thump.

“Shit! We’ve hit a kangaroo!” cries Mr. Counter.

“Rubbish, sir! We have merely run into a tree.”

“Thank Christ for that!”

“I am pleased to hear you thank the Lord for small mercies, but really this must mean the end of our festivities here. We must make for the hospital immediately. Away!”

So they get back to town and they’re getting close to the hospital when the Preacher stops the wagon right near a crossroads. They sit there until a car rolls through a stop sign. The Preacher darts out in front of him and the poor bloke smashes into the wagon. The Preacher gives him a lecture on individual respon¬sibility and tells him he better have good insurance because he’ll have to pay for the crumpled fender on the police wagon. He gives the bloke a ticket as well. And then they go off to the hospital.

“Now, in consequence, Mr. Counter, up you go!” The Preacher points to the creeper running up the wall.

“Who, me?”

“Well, of course. You could not expect me to do it. It is against the law, and I’m a uniformed policeman.”

“Bugger you. I’m not going up there. I’ll fall and kill myself. Besides, someone might see me.”

“Who, the police?”

“Very funny reverend. But I’m not going up. And that’s it.”

“As an official member of the Victorian Police force thereby representative of the Queen, I hereby order you to do it.”

“And I order you to go and get stuffed!”

“Mr. Counter. You are using indecent language. I’ve a good mind to book you. But I’ll let you off only this once. Now, run along and do your job.”

“It is not my job!” Mr. Counter goes to get out of the wagon, but he hears a click as the Preacher grips his arm. The Preacher has handcuffed him to the steering wheel!

“Now, sir, I must ask you to do as I tell you.”

“Look, you stupid bastard, I’m not going up that wall for you or anyone else!”

“Then that settles it. I’ll have to take you down to the station for questioning. I am charging you with being drunk and disorderly, and for using indecent language to a police officer, a senior con¬stable no less.”

“And stuff you again!”

“I am an officer of the law, in Her Majesty’s service. I do not play games with law enforcement.”

The Preacher drives off, Mr. Counter still cuffed to the steering wheel, they pull up at the police station, and the Preacher takes him in and locks him up! Next morning a cop comes and lets him out, and to this day, Dad, so Mr. Counter says, the Preacher’s never said anything to him. Like it never happened!

I’m shutting up for a while, Dad. Going over my economics notes for the matric exams. I’ll make another cup of tea.

*

Remember Swampy, Dad? Remember him? He was one of the funniest blokes, wasn’t he? He always reminded me of Robert Menzies, you know? The prime minister? It was those big bushy eyebrows, that’s what it was. He had a roll of fat under his chin too. And his voice, it was really deep and gruff.

Dad, I bet you remember this one. I know you seen it. I must have been about fourteen at the time, doing my job for Mr. Counter collecting all the empty glasses. Then I heard this loud bark. It was Swampy.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!” he yelps.

“Baa! Baa! Baa!” A little crumpled up bloke answers from over the other side of the bar.

“Woof! Ruff! Ruff! Woof! Haw! Haw!” barks Swampy.

“Go-on-ya bloody dag-arsed ewe!” calls the other bloke.

“Haw! Yer bloody mongrel dog-catcher!”

So, this crumpled up bloke, his head sunk into his shoulders, goes on bleating like a sheep, and he’s wearing this tweed double breasted coat with the collar turned up over his ears. And get this Dad, when he talks, his tongue shoots out like a lizard’s and licks the tip of his nose. You must have seen him Dad. He and Swampy were always fighting. Remember what happened, Dad? Yair, gees it was funny.

Yair, that’s right, Dad. I see you’re trying to smile.

One day, Swampy shows up at the pub riding his old draft horse, his mongrel dog in tow, the best shepherd dog in Victoria, he boasted. So he hitches his horse to the bike rack and gets stuck into the booze the rest of the afternoon. His dog follows him into the bar and sits by the door. Mr. Counter tells him, as he does every time, that the health inspector said no dogs allowed in the bar. Swampy orders the dog to go home. Instead, the dog wags its tail and goes over to Mr. Counter and licks his hand. Swampy curls his leg round the other, wipes his nose on his sleeve and yells at the dog some more and it just wags its tail harder. Mr. Counter gets sick of the dog slobbering on his hand, so he walks away, mumbling to Swampy something about he’ll call the dog catcher. Swampy swallows his beer, slams the glass down and then gives his dog such a kick in the ribs it runs yelping straight out the door, its tail between its legs, like they say.

About an hour later, the dog catcher comes into the bar and stands at Swampy’s elbow. He swills a beer down then nudges Swampy in the ribs and says, “Aye, y’own a mongrel with a black spot over its eye, cross between a collie and a foxie ?”

“Yair, so wot?”

“I just picked ’im up.”

“Aye? Haw! Wot? Yer picked up me bloody dawg?”

“Yair.”

“You bloody, haw, bloody dawg-catchn bastard!”

“What’s the matter with you? I’m doin’ the right bloody thing by tell’n ya.”

“Haw! Shit! Who ya think y’are, ya crossbred bastard! Where’s me bloody dawg? Aye? Aye?”

“Givvus another beer,” says the catcher to Sugar, the head barman.

“Where’s me bloody dawg?”

“Well,” sniffs the catcher, as he licks the tip of his nose, “he’s in at the council shelter. I took ’im in half an hour ago. Had no tag on him. Poor bloody dog was starving anyway.”

“Shit! Haw! Haw!” cries Swampy as he gulps his beer, curls his leg, “you can just fuckn go and get ’im back.”

“Get ’im yer bloody self.”

“You get ’im. You took ’im!”

“He’s your dog, you get ’im!”

“You bloody Haw! Haw! Shit-house thief!”

“I told yer, I done me duty. You can do wot ya bloody like.”

The catcher walks round the other side of the bar and ignores Swampy who’s swearing at him and making all kinds of weird noises.

After a few more beers, Swampy goes quiet. He says he’s going for a piss, and goes out to the dog catcher’s cart and grabs the dogs from the back of the truck and locks them in the cabin.

The dog catcher knows something’s going on, so he runs out. Swampy’s nowhere in sight because he’s gone for a piss. The catcher opens the door of his truck, and the dogs leap out, baring their teeth and biting anything that moves and then they run in all directions. By this time, Swampy’s back in the bar, boozing on.

Later, a bloke comes in and says, “hey, Swampy, yer ’orse is gone.” Swampy lets go a huge donkey-like noise and he staggers out of the pub.

“Me bloody ’orse!” he croaks.

His dog is sitting on its haunches, whining, tied to the bike rack where his horse was.

“That fuckn shit of a dog catcher! He’s pinched me bloody ’orse!”

Just then the dog cart pulls up, his horse peering out from the back of the truck. The catcher struts around the truck, twitching and licking his nose.

“This your ’orse ?”

“Yair. Wot you bloody doin’ wiv it, you fuckn mongrel bastard dog catcher?”

“It was shitting on the footpath. Can’t allow that, against health regewlations!”

“Haw! Haw! There’s no fuckn footpath, yer shit! I want ’im back!”

“You can’t ’ave ’im!”

“Haw! Gimme me ’orse!”

“Get stuffed!” The catcher’s tongue darts out.

“Hey, Bessy!” drawls Swampy to his horse, “the bastard’s locked yer in ’is cart. Why don’tcha kick yer way out luv?”

“You’ll ’ave to come an’ collect ’er at the shelter.”

“Like buggery I will!”

Swampy picks up a stick and pokes Bessy. She’s not too happy.

“Come on Bessy luv! You can make it!”

He pokes her some more, and she moves away but doesn’t kick or anything. So he slides his arm through the rails and jabs the stick hard up her rear end. Poor old Bessy neighs as hard as she can, jumps and kicks, shaking the truck until the trailer gate pops open and she ends up on the road and gallops away up the Melbourne road as fast as she can go, with Swampy chasing her.

Ever since that day, Swampy’s always barked at the catcher whenever he came in to the bar, and the catcher always bleated back.