4. While passion and pride are strong

I’m working in the old bar, wiping down the counter and this bloke comes in and he comes right up to me. He’s this stocky bloke, muscly arms sticking through a dirty white singlet. He bangs money down on the counter and says, his head pushing forward like he’s trying to scare me, “what’s a young bloke like you doing pouring beer? You should be in the army fightn the fuckn commies.”

“Didn’t ya hear?” I say, and I feel a nudge from Sugar. He’s trying to tell me something. “There’s no national service any more. I don’t have to go.”

“You yellow little shit. What’s wrong with young kids these days? They got no guts! Gimme a beer!”

“I’m not yellow” I bristle as I pour him a beer and push it slowly toward him.

“Then why aren’t ya fuckn fightn, then?”

“Because I haven’t been asked.”

He takes a gulp of his beer, and I see four other blokes all looking a bit like him, coming up to the bar. This bloke, he’s got hardly no hair except a bit of blonde curls growing out around his ears and a kind of light fuzz growing from the back of his neck to half way up his head. Then he’s bald as a bandicoot and there’s this big dint in his head right above his right eye that’s looking sideways. And when he gulps his beer down, the dint comes to life and pulsates. He knows I’m staring at it, but he turns to his mates and says, “you all have pots?” and they all nod or grunt.

“Four more pots,” he says, “and stop staring at me war wounds. I’m fuckn proud of them, proud I wasn’t a fuckn coward like all you young blokes these days, not to mention your boss.”

I’m busy pouring four beers at the tap. The beer is a bit lively so I’m waiting for a lot of the foam to settle down. Sugar comes up to me and whispers in my ear, “watch it. He’s got a plate in his head. He’s half fuckn mad.”

Like I always do, I ignore Sugar, and I push the beers forward and say, “here you go. That’s six and five-pence-ha’penny “

“Tell your boss that it’s on the house, and if he doesn’t like it, I’m paying him with this,” and he hands me a white feather.

Dad. I bet you’d remember this bloke, because he had it in for you too, so the blokes in the bar said. He has a real fierce look about him and there was always a bit of dried spit in the corners of his mouth and when he smiles it isn’t a smile, it’s more like Nipper baring his teeth, and this bloke’s teeth are sparkling white, the ones that’s there, that is, with a lot of gaps and a big gold filling on the bottom. And when he talks he has this funny way of sliding his tongue to lick the corner of his gob. You had to keep clear of him because he couldn’t talk without spraying his spit everywhere. They called him Bomber because he reckoned he was a pilot in World War 2, but none of us believed it. He was a Banana Bender after all, he couldn’t fly a kite! That’s what the blokes reckoned anyway.

I opened my big mouth and said, “so what’s Mr. Counter done, then?

“He hasn’t told ya? Course not. He’s yellow, that’s why. You see this? You see this hole in me fuckn head? I got that saving him and the rest of ya.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Like fuckn hell. Where’s your boss? Go and ask him.”

“Six and five-pence-ha’penny, please,” I say.

“You see these four blokes drinking with me?”

“Yair, so what?”

“They’re me brothers. We all went to the war. There was six of us, one never came back.”

Immediately, the five a them go, “Shhhsh!” then raise their glasses all together and say, “to baby Ted!” and they down their beers.

This seemed to quiet them down, so I asked again for the money, “Six and five-pence-ha’penny.”

“You know,” says Bomber, “you’ll get called up for Vietnam, I’m telling you.”

“Nah. I’m always lucky. If they do a lottery call-up, I’ll win. Anyway, I haven’t registered. Never had time.”

“You fuckn what? You never registered for the draft? You fuckn little yeller weasel.” He reaches across the counter and grabs me by the collar. Fortunately, I’m not wearing a tie, much to Mr. Counter’s disgust. “Fuckn little shits like you should have their balls cut off. That’s what! Give us another round of pots and make it quick!”

I feel Sugar breathing over my shoulder. He’s pulling at my shirt trying to move me away. But of course, I don’t do what he wants.

“I can’t give you more beer till you’ve paid for the first round. Mr. Counter wouldn’t like it, you know.”

“You know what? Fuck Eddie Counter that worm of a fuckn coward. Give him that fuckn feather and tell him we’ll be back!”

They banged their empty glasses on the counter and marched out, Bomber yelling, “Left! Right! Left! Right!”

Yair, Dad. Poor Mr. Counter, he copped it. I went and gave him the feather and said it was Bomber who wouldn’t pay for the beers. He took the feather and threw it in the bin. I lingered in his office, expecting Mr. Counter would tell me what had happened. But he just went on counting the day’s take. I started to back out and just as I got near the door, he swivelled around on his stool and said, “he was after your Dad too. Your Dad had a really good job down at the Phossie, he was an engineer so he was in an essential trade that didn’t have to go to war, and what he did for a lot of blokes was he signed them on so they wouldn’t have to go to war too, and one of them was me.”

I opened my mouth to ask what was so awful about helping your mates, but Mr. Counter cut me off and said, “now I’ve told you. I’m not talking about it ever again.”

*

We were just closing up and all the drunks were pretty much gone. For some reason, the Preacher and Dopey never showed up, they must have had the day off. Easter was coming up. We were sitting in the passageway settling in to the grog and we just sucked down our first round when we heard this big smash and Nipper was yelping his head off. Mr. Counter comes out of his office and he’s holding this white feather squashed up in his hand.

“It’s Bomber and those bastard brothers of his,” he mutters.

And we all look at each other and I’m wondering what’s the big deal. But me mates, they’re looking like there’s a war about to start. Mr. Counter runs out the front door and Grecko follows, then the rest of my drinking mates struggle up and start running out. I get up to follow, but Bulla holds me back and says, “it’s not your war, son. Better you stay here.”

But I couldn’t stay behind, could I Dad? It’d mean I was yellow. And I’m not a coward, Dad. So I downed me beer and I sneaked into the night cupboard and poured myself a whiskey and downed that too and in no time I was ready to get out there.

I ran out the front door and nearly tripped over Grecko rolling round in agony on the gravel. Bomber’s blokes must have been waiting for him, because he had blood coming out of his nose and you could see bruises and cuts on his legs where they’d kicked him while he was down. Disgusting. Hitting a bloke while he was down, that was the worst. My mates were running around in all directions and Bomber and his brothers were armed with cricket bats and the broken stubs of beer glasses.

Bulla calls out to me. “Son! Get away.! Those glasses will cut you so bad you’ll be ugly as shit the rest of your life. Run in and get Mrs. Counter to call the cops.” And while he’s yelling that, he’s got this bloke by the scruff of the neck and he’s banging him against the cream-colored wall of the pub. There’s blood pouring down the bloke’s head. One of his brothers comes up behind Bulla and gets in a whack on his shoulder with a cricket bat. Bulla has to let go and turn to face his enemy. I’m frozen, staring at the war, because that’s what it was. Bulla yells at me, “ya heard what I said? Call the cops!” Bulla’s getting out of breath. He’s such a big bloke, but he’s so top heavy that it’s only a matter of time before he trips up and goes down, and once that happens, he won’t be able to get up. I run over and I’m pleased with myself because I’ve still got my beer glass. I smash it against the pub wall and I’m left with a nice sharp base. I come up behind the bloke that’s got Bulla cornered with the cricket bat and I ram the glass into the back a his head, or that’s what I tried to do. He was moving a lot, so I it ended up missing most of his neck and slicing into the side of his head and then I see half his ear’s hanging off.

“Fuckn assholes!” I scream.

“For Christ sake, boy!” yells Bulla, “call the cops!”

I look around for more victims. I grab the bloke’s cricket bat and bash him again over the head, where he’s trying to put his ear back together. He goes down like a sack of spuds.

“Watch out!” Bulla yells, and I turn around just in time to duck Bomber himself swinging at me with a broken glass. He’s a short, stocky bloke, all muscle I can see, and I know immediately that I’m done for, so I fling the bat at him and make off inside the pub and lock the door behind me. I call out for Mrs. Counter, and she’s running up from the kitchen. “Call the cops!” I yell.

“I already did!” she says, her head sticking out further like a stalk than ever before. “Is Mr. Counter all right?”

“I dunno. It’s pretty fierce out there.” And we hear a lot of glass smashing and loud bangs as rocks are tossed through the windows. And I run into the old bar and see this bloke banging at the big plate glass window with a cricket bat, but the bat’s bouncing off it. I’m looking for something heavy I can take back out with me. Then Sugar appears out of the office. He’s got an iron bar. Mr. Counter always kept it in there because it was where they counted the day’s takings.

“You looking for this?” he says with his familiar smirk. “You know I can’t go out there. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’ve called the cops a lot of times. They’re not answering. The bastards have gone off for Easter is my bet.”

“Thanks Sugar. Just what I wanted. The bastards aren’t getting away with this!”

I run out the front door again, banging it shut behind me. There’s a few blokes lying on the ground, moaning. I can’t tell whether they’re my blokes or not. But Grecko is starting to get up, so I go over and give him a hand, not that I’m hardly any use to such a big bloke. He sees the iron bar in me hand. “You better give me that,” he says.

But I skip past him because I see the Bomber bastard and I’m going to be the one that gets him. “I got no beef against ya,” Bomber says, “you was hardly born when the war was on. It’s the yellow bastard that didn’t go that we’re giving it to. And that bastard was Counter.”

“And my Dad,” I say, though I shouldn’t have.

“And who might that be?” asks Bomber, walking up to me, still carrying a broken beer glass and his cricket bat.

“Mr. Counter’s best mate, Harry Henderson.”

“Yair, I know that yellow bastard. I’ll get him too. Where the fuck is he? I s’pose he’s hiding out somewhere.”

“He’s dead,” I say.

“Well, fuckn good riddance. Saves me having to help him on his way.”

“Fuckn asshole!” I scream.

I can’t believe it but Bomber, the stupid bastard, turns his back on me and goes after someone else. I’m looking for Mr. Counter but can’t find him anywhere. I’m after blood, so I start to run after Bomber. Grecko sees what I’m up to and he starts after me. But I got a head start so he won’t reach me in time. And I’m right up behind Bomber and I’m about to swing the iron bar at the back of his head, when one of his brothers calls out, “behind ya! Behind ya!” Bomber tries to stop in his tracks and turns around just as I’m swinging the iron bar at his head. He puts his arm up, the one with the glass, to fend off me strike, but the bar is way too heavy for him and smashes into his arm. The broken glass drops to the ground and Bomber screams out in agony. I’ve busted the bastard’s arm and it hangs limply as he holds it against his body. I’m about to finish him off, when Grecko grabs my swinging arm—gees, he’s done that so often to me – and he says, “better leave it. Don’t want to kill him now do we?” He calmly releases the bar from my grip and I’m all worked up, my ears throbbing and my mouth’s dry. Grecko holds me tight. “Better go inside and have a beer,” he says as he pushes me a little towards the pub entrance. I look up and I see broken windows everywhere and Bomber’s brothers are helping each other get back into their big truck. Bomber’s sitting in the front seat holding his arm. One of his brothers starts up the old truck with a crank handle, then climbs in the truck and they drive off. Our blokes start to file into the pub, but we still haven’t found Mr. Counter. Mrs. Counter has come to the front and she’s asking where he is. So we all fan out looking for him. We’re all scared of what we might find. I walk around the back of the pub, and I see that just about all the windows have been broken, including mine in me bedroom. And I keep on walking and get to the dunny and I hear someone moaning. There’s no¬body in the dunny, gees, you’d have to be in bad shape to hide in there, and then I see Mr. Counter lying in the green grass behind the dunny. He’s got some blood on his face, but otherwise he looks OK.

“Are you all right Mr. Counter?” I go over and help him up. He looks real upset, but except for a few scratches on his face that look worse than they really are, I’m guessing that he’s OK.

“I think I’m OK. I don’t know how I ended up here.”

“Yair, dunno what could of happened. We gave them what-o anyway, Mr. Counter.”

“You did?”

“Yair. Gave them a good hiding.”

“Didn’t the cops come, then?”

“Nah. Who needs the cops anyway?”

I’m feeling good with myself. I played my part and I know the blokes won’t call me “son” any more, and Mrs. Counter better not call me “boy” either.

*

Mr. Counter’s called me into his office. It’s lunch time so I know there’s something up. I wonder what it could be, because I’ve been doing my job pretty good. Been doing just what the other full-time barmen do, work hard all day then get plastered at night. And on my day off which was Mondays, I go off into town and get plastered there too at the Criterion pub near the Kardinia Park footy oval, my favourite pub where I used to hang out with me Dad when I was a kid and followed the footy. So I wonder what could be up. Mrs. Counter’s been kind of hovering over me too, giving me looks when we’re sitting in the passage boozing on after we’ve finished up. I go into his office and Mr. Counter’s sitting there counting out his money like he always is. I stand there waiting for him to finish. He doesn’t tell me to sit. There isn’t anywhere anyway because he’s sitting on the only stool in the office.

“You wanted to see me Mr. Counter?”

“Yes. Be with you in a tick. It was your day off yesterday, you remember that?”

“Course I do. So what?” Something’s up I know, because my ears are getting red already.

“A mate of mine is the licensee at the Criterion.”

“Yair?”

“Yes. He says you had to be thrown out of the pub and that from now on you’re barred from going there.”

“Shit! What for? I didn’t do nothing!”

“Yes, no doubt. So why would he bar you then?”

“I don’t remember nothing.” And that was the truth.

“I’m not surprised, you were so drunk, as I heard it.”

“Well I had a few.”

“Yes. Well it was a few too many.”

“Why, what’d I do?”

“You got into a big brawl, that’s what, and it was you who started it.”

“Not me. I just do what me Dad used to do. I sit in the corner and drink on me own and mind my own business.”

“Not this time. Though you really were doing what your Dad did, you were drinking plonk.”

“Yair, I remember that bit.”

“And whiskey.”

“Yair.”

“And beer chasers.”

“Yair. So? I paid for it all didn’t I? Can’t I have a few drinks on me own?”

“Not if you’re starting to go the way your old man did.”

“Well I’m not. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you do. You beat up an old pensioner just because he said you shouldn’t be drinking the whiskey with beer chasers.

“Nah, not me. I just scared him a little bit, that’s all.”

“No. You beat him up really bad and he’s now in hospital. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Mr. Counter. I don’t remember doing that. Mr. Counter, that’s not me. You know me. I wouldn’t beat up a poor defenceless old man.”

“Well you did. I couldn’t believe it either, but my mate says you really did, and I believe him. He’s got no reason to make it up.”

“I don’t remember.” I’m starting to plead.

“Well you did. And I feel a bit responsible for you because I haven’t stopped you from getting on the booze. And it’s all you do. I pay you a good wage and you just spend it all on booze. You’re going to finish up like your old man. You’ve got to stop.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Counter. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I know what blokes like you are like. I watched this happen to your dad. The grog’s got you and I have to do something about it.”

“Gees, Mr. Counter. I’m all right. I can knock it off.”

“Your dad used to say that all the time and he ended up on the metho. Even you’d remember that.”

I stood there, my face red, ears throbbing. My mind was blank. I didn’t want to think about it. I remembered my Dad. I’d promised myself lots of times I’d never end up like he did. I just stood there, looking at the floor, feeling like a little kid being yelled at by his teacher.

Mr. Counter swivelled around on his stool. Then he said, “here’s what I’m going to do. From now on I’m only giving you a few bob a week to buy a few smokes and things. The rest of your wages I’m putting in a bank account that you can’t get at. And when the time comes you want some money to spend on some¬thing important, you’ll have to come to me to get it. Understand?”

I kept looking at the floor and I shifted from one foot to the other. I hadn’t felt like this since high school, which wasn’t that long ago anyway.

“You understand?” says Mr. Counter again.

“It’s not fair. I did the right thing by you. When Bomber’s blokes were going to do you in, I saved you. And this is what I get for saving your life?” I couldn’t believe I said all that.

“And I’m saving your life right now. I’m stopping you from going down your father’s track. You don’t want to end up like him, do you?”

I looked up from the floor, my ears redder than ever, me mouth as dry as it was the night I beat the shit out of Bomber.

“Who are you to talk, you bastard? You’re the one that helped Dad on his way. It was your booze he drank and you gave it to him.”

“I made a mistake. And I’m not going to make it twice.”

“You’re a… a hypocrite!”

“Maybe so. Say what you like. But I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“Fuckn asshole!”

“Get back to work.”

“Get stuffed!”

I turn to leave, and then Mr. Counter says, “oh and by the way. I think you need to get away from the pub life for a while, so I’ve loaned you out to Swampy for the next couple of weeks, like we agreed a few months ago.”

I stopped in my tracks. “You can’t do that!”

“I just did. Swampy’s coming in this afternoon. And after he’s had a few beers, he and Spuds will take you back with them. You can stay there if you want, or he said he’d bring you back here to sleep in your own bed. Up to you, but it’d be easier for you to stay out there. He’s got a sister, you know.”

“Yair. Old enough to be my grandmother. I’m not staying out there with that filthy old bastard.”

“Please yourself. But you’ll have to be out there at five every morning. That’s when these farmers start their day.”

“I’m not going.”

“We’ll see about that.”

*

Swampy and Spuds showed up and I was behind the bar washing up glasses.

“Haw! Haw!” laughs Swampy, “gimme a couple of beers, nah, make it three, one for yourself.”

I look around and pour three beers and then I walk around to the other side of the bar. Mr. Counter had a rule that if you ever felt you had to accept a customer’s offer of a beer, you had to go around the other side of the bar, so it looked like you weren’t drinking on the job. We raise our glasses together and cry, “bottoms up!” I take a big sip. I’d been longing for a drop all day, especially after my run-in with Mr. Counter.

“So you-a come-a with us?” asks Spuds.

“That’s what Mr. Counter said.”

“Haw! Haw!” laughs Swampy, “the kid’s got the sulks!”

“I fuckn don’t, and I’m not a kid.”

“After the next-a few weeks, ya won’t-a be,” says Spuds.

“Anyway. I’m not going. He can’t make me.”

“But we can,” grins Spuds. He chuckles away and Swampy slaps him on the back.

“We can, we can!” crows Swampy, and with that he orders a round of whiskeys and beer chasers. Sugar’s serving, and I’m expecting him to refuse to serve a drink for me. But he goes right on filling them all up. And when he’s done, Swampy puts up the dough, but Sugar pushes it back and says, “nah. This one’s on the house.”

“Haw! Haw!” says Swampy and he picks up his whiskey and cries, “dags up!” and downs the whiskey, bangs the empty glass on the counter, then downs in one gulp the beer chaser. I have no choice, not that I was even bothering to think about it. I follow suit with Spuds and we down ours too.

“We better go,” says Spuds with a grin, “we got all them sheep to round up and dag.”

“Can’t,” says Swampy. “Haw! Haw! It’s blowing a gale outside. Can’t dag sheep in wind like this. Have to wait for the wind to die down.”

“Mr. Sugar!” calls Spuds, “another round!” He pushes forward a crumpled ten-bob note.

“Coming up!” and he refills the glasses and pushes the money back to Spuds. “On the house. Compliments of Mr. Counter.”

“Dags up!” we all cry and soon the whole bar is watching us.

The wind gets stronger, and we can hear it whistling through the old cypress tree and rattling the old iron roof. Spuds walks outside and comes back again, a silly grin on his face. “Fuckn wind!”

And so, the afternoon passed, with many “dags up” toasts and Sugar pushing back the money and refilling the glasses. It must have taken a couple of hours or more. I can’t remember much of what happened after that. They tell me I was drunk out of me mind, staggering round the bar, trying to shake blokes’s hands, telling them what a good bloke Mr. Counter was, and chattering away till Grecko had to grab me and tell me to stop yapping because I might say something that would upset someone. Then Swampy, hardly able to stand up straight himself, anyway he couldn’t stand up straight when he was sober, staggers outside, the comes back waving his arms, steps up to the bar and stands on the only stool in the whole bar, Spuds holding him so he doesn’t fall and announces, “haw! Haw! The wind has ceased. We are free to go!”

Dad, I wish you’d been with us. Swampy was in his element. The three of us stagger out and pile into Spuds’ old truck. But the wind’s blowing like buggery, and I keep slipping on the step up to the back of the truck. Spuds gives me a whopping lift and I land in a truck full of potatoes, onions and fertilizer. Swampy slips off the front seat on to the floor as Spuds revs up the old ute, and guns her round in a mad U-turn and up the Melbourne Road. I thrash around throwing onions at anything we pass, but pretty soon I snuggle in amongst the veggies, and I’m sound a sleep