Miscarriages chapter 14. Before we were married

14. Before we were married 

The Newmarket hotel was a small step above the old Corio Shire pub even though it was probably much older. Painted in a sickly cream over brick just like the Corio Shire, but two stories high, it looked like two buildings, their steeply gabled roofs joined together, one half of it, probably the first part of the pub had a crenelated front, a protruding cornice over two narrow windows on the second story, the ground floor composed almost entirely of large windows. The second, larger part of the building was all stucco at the ground level, set back further from the footpath, shaded by a large portico supported by wooden columns, rather worse for wear, decorated with cheap wrought iron at the corners of the where the columns met the eaves. From across the Geelong road, one could see, set way back, a lone tall chimney, rising above the big sign that said “NEWMARKET HOTEL” in large blue and white letters, colours meant to convey the North Melbourne football team. Across the footpath from the one door that opened to the public bar rose a very tall utility pole, its typical crucifix-like shape supporting buzzing electric wires upon which sat, perennially, swarms of seagulls and cantankerous magpies that came to rest after feasting on the scraps and remains of slaughtered animals from the abattoirs one block away.

*

James had a spacious room up the stairs and at the back of the pub, much bigger than the one he had at the old Corio Shire. The licensee, Frank Highlands, his new boss, was a short, stout jovial bloke, who dressed like it was the last century, resplendent in a dark pinstripe double breasted suit, a fob pocket, and even a pocket watch on a chain. And when he walked, he swaggered in the way that some stout people do, his arms almost horizontal and his legs apart to keep his balance. Whenever someone spoke to him, especially if they asked him a question, no matter what it was, he had a habit of pulling out his watch to check the time. James took a liking to him instantly and enjoyed bantering with him back and forth, even though it appeared to him that he was head barman in name only. There were maybe a half-dozen barmen including a few part timers for the rush hours, but they were all treated exactly the same, none was more senior to any other. James was happy with this arrangement, at least for the time being. He just wanted to be part of the blokes, do his job, have a few beers afterwards, have a few laughs, and everything would be all right. Nothing to worry about.

He reached under the bed and pulled out his old kit bag. He opened it with difficulty, the latch was stuck. The old bag had seen many traumas. He leafed through random notebooks, not caring to examine them closely. There was an empty notebook which he pulled out and looked around for a pencil. He had a mind to put down some of the things he’d done in the army. But he had no pencil and besides, there were unspeakable things, things that could not be put down in writing, that was for sure. But the notebooks reminded him of the old days at the Corio Shire pub, the fun he had hanging out in the public bar, they were great times. And there was Iris, in her prime at thirteen years old, oh how he missed her.

In this pub, though, there was an even bigger contrast between the public bar and the saloon bar compared to the old Corio Shire. The rough and ready blokes that came into the public bar were a lot like the blokes at the Corio Shire, though a lot of them smelled a bit because of their jobs at the abattoirs across the road. But the saloon bar, that was something else. The price of the booze was a lot higher and they served fancier drinks, drinks that James had no idea how to mix. And the blokes that came in there were all dressed to the nines, ties, sparkling white shirts with cufflinks, suits and swanky sports jackets, and a lot of the younger blokes with crew cut hair styles. Many of them had tall, expensively dressed women hanging on their arms, sparkling jewellery hanging from their ears and necks. This was not a place for James, but his boss insisted that he get experience in all parts of the pub. So, on this day, he grudgingly tended bar, putting on his best manners, talking like they did at the university.

In the corner of the saloon bar which, unusual for a pub of any kind, had tables and chairs to sit on as well as the few stools drawn up to the bar, James noticed a bloke sitting at a table in the far corner, counting money, placing it in piles, a thick notebook at his elbow, in which his lady friend, dressed like a secretary, her hair coiffed high and extreme like fairy floss, wrote as he dictated to her. When he saw James looking at him, he nudged his secretary who quickly grabbed the two empty glasses in front of them and approached the bar. James kept peering at her partner who continued to count money.

“Two soda waters, please,” she asked.

“Don’t I know you?” called James, looking over her shoulder at her bloke.

“He’s my boss,” she whispered, “and he doesn’t like to be asked questions.”

“Two soda waters coming up. That’s twenty cents. I’ll bring them over to you.”

“My boss will pay you,” she said.

“Looks like he could afford it,” grinned James. He poured the soda waters and, managing just a slight limp, carried them to the table. “Here you go,” he said, “two soda waters.”

The bloke looked up briefly and said, “put it on my tab.”

“What tab is that?”

“The one they keep under the bar by the sink.”

James leaned on the table and looked more closely. “Now I remember. You’re Skeeter, aren’t you? Don’t you remember me? I used to be your runner at the old Corio Shire.”

“You got the wrong bloke, mate. Corio Shire? Never been there.”

“I was just a kid. You ran a book behind the back fence near the dunny. You taught me the hand signs. Look, I can still do them.” James stood back and waved his hands and arms, signing with fingers. “And I remember that one time when the cops chased you across the paddock and you ate the betting slips.”

The money-counter looked at him with a smirk.

“Maybe…”

James extended his hand. “Chooka they call me, I was Harry Henderson’s kid.”

“Pleased to meet you Chooka. I’m Studs Mackerel, gambler supreme.”

“You don’t remember me?”

“Not today. But maybe tomorrow,” said Studs with an air of mystery.

“Well, I remember you as Skeeter and that’s what I’m going to call you.”

“Call me what you like, so long as you have money to bet with.”

At that moment, Chooka’s boss waddled into the bar.

“G’day Slim,” called the gambler.

“Still counting your ill-gotten gains?” grinned Frank. “Have you met my new head barman?”

“We just met.”

“I used to work for him,” announced James.

“No kidding? If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have taken you on!”

“Now, now Frank. Ease up, or I’ll call in a couple of debts you owe me,” said the gambler. “Anyway, he’s mistaken. I never been anywhere near the Corio Shire pub. Been coming here for years, you know that.”

“If that’s what you say,” intervened James. No doubt you’ve got good reasons to lie about it, he thought.

“James! Meet Studs, Studs Mackerel. The best bookie in Mel­bourne and easily the finest gambler in Australia!”

“Yair. We met. I remember he was a great bookie.”

“Do you follow the ponies?” asked Frank.

“Nah, not really. I liked working for the bookie though at the old Corio Shire. Very exciting and a lot of fun outsmarting the stupid cops. I was only a kid though.”

“Tut! Tut! We don’t talk about the Queen’s finest like that around here. Never know who’s listening,” warned his boss, “isn’t that right, Studs?”

But Studs was busy dictating numbers to his secretary. Frank tilted his head in the direction of the public bar, and James followed him there, where his eyes immediately came to rest on a large, contorted frame, lounging over the bar.

“Gees, if it isn’t Swampy!” cried James.

“Haw! Haw! Ya love me so much ya followed me here to the meat market? Haw! Haw!!”

“Eddie told me you was here, haw, haw. He told me to look after you, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“You came all the way up here to do that?”

“Nah. It’s the cattle sales over at Flemington. I come here every few months.”

“Are you staying here, then, in the pub?”

“Fuck no! I wouldn’t spend one minute more than I have to in this haw, haw, noisy dump of a fuckn city. Got me truck outside. Soon as I’m done, it’s back to the farm.”

Chances were, though, that Swampy would be sleeping in his truck.

*

Swampy stood at the bar with his drinking mate, half his size, just as filthy, an oily face that oozed sweat at his temples, yellow dried saliva at the corners of his mouth, large hands a deep colour of reddish brown as though they had been baked in the sun, his face the same colour. They called him Banger for obvious reasons; he was the head slaughterer at the abattoirs. And he smelled like it too.

“Go on, Swampy, you won’t get married. You aint got wot’s need­ed to do it!” Banger grinned, pushing his glass forward. “Fill her up, and do Swampy’s too.”

James complied, expertly pouring the perfect beer, an exact quarter inch of head in a fresh glass.

“Hey, sonny, not a fresh glass, don’t you know the head’s better in a used glass?” Banger growled.

“Sorry mate, but it’s new health rules. We’re not allowed to fill used glasses. Has to be a new glass every time,” replied James as he raked in the money and went to the till.

“What’s this shit? You gotta be fuckn kidding me!” whined Banger.

“Rules is the rules,” said James with a smile, proud of his bad grammar, then to change the subject, “so what’s Swampy not got?”

“Haw! Haw!” chuckled Swampy. “Wot ya mean, aint got wot’s needed?”

“You haven’t got one. Bessy bit it orf.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Ya bastard. Haw! I got the biggest y’ever seen!”

“Bull shit, Swampy. If you’ve got one, it’s too small, I bet!”

“Yair? Who’er you to fuckn talk? Betcha ain’t got much neither.”

“Bigger’n yours, I bet.”

“Yair? Bet mine’s bigger.”

Swampy looked him up and down and reckoned he could win because Banger was short and stocky, whereas he was over six feet tall with long legs and fingers.

“Betcha?” says Banger.

“Yair. Betcha five fuckn beers.”

“Yer sure?” asked Banger, a big smirk on his face.

“Yair, c’mon, who’s got a ruler?”

James produced a ruler. Swampy licked his moustache and rubbed his leg with his toe.

“Right ya bastard, fuckn whip it out! Haw! Haw!” chuckled Swampy.

“You first. You made the bet.”

“Awright, ya bastard, if you’re fuckn scared.”

Swampy unbuttoned his fly, his fingers go in then flip it out holding it between his thumb and finger. He stretches it out as far as he can.

“There y’are, ten fuckn inches. Beat that!”

“Shit! Not bad Swampy! But you should see mine.”

Banger reached into his kit bag and pulled out a blood-stained newspaper parcel.

“Well? Haw! Haw! C’mon, let’s see it. How long?”

Banger undid his fly and then holding his parcel down near the place, suddenly flipped out a long, thick, blood-stained black thing which was that of a horse! “I win,” he bragged, prancing around, flipping it up and down like he was shaking off the drips. “Mine’s longer than yours!”

Swampy made those deep donkey noises of his and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Ya fuckn bastard! Fuckn bastards all of you!” he yelled with a big grin. He grabbed Banger by his dirty blood-stained shirt collar and pulled him towards him. Then he bent down and placed a big kiss on his cheek, his large moustache prickling Banger’s nose as he did so. Banger shrieked and pulled away, dropping his parcel. Everyone in the bar cried out in unison, “Oh fuckn shit!” And Banger added, when he had managed to compose himself, “What a fuckn prick!”

James lined up five glasses. “You want them all at once?” he asked with a grin.

*

“I hear you and Kate parted ways,” said James.

Grimesy stared at James across the wide Saloon Bar counter, an amused look on his well-scrubbed, closely shaven face and said, “I told her to fuck off.”

James was grudgingly working the Saloon bar. It looked like that was where he was going to be stuck for some time. He dis­liked it. Didn’t like the smart-ass bastards that came in there, reminded him too much of the uni. No doubt that’s why Frank wanted him in there. At least he was mostly on his own so was his own boss, except when the part-timers came in for rush hours.

“I suppose I should have warned you,” said Grimesy, sipping a beer that James pushed across to him. “But I thought you weren’t in too good a shape to take it.”

“Are you still fucking her?” asked James as he wiped off the counter.

“I asked her to marry me, would you believe it?” said Grimesy.

“Bull shit!”

“Just kidding.”

James looked up and flipped the damp wash cloth at him. “No, you’re not.”

“She was doing Pulcher all that time, in between you and me, would you believe that?”

“Not then, but now I do. That two-timing bitch.”

“Take it easy James. We did pretty well with her, didn’t we?”

“We did, I admit it. She taught me just about everything I know.”

“And you knew fuck all back then, you poor little Norlane boy!” quipped Grimesy.

“Fuckn grammar school poofda!” retorted James.

“I’ll take another pot, and put up another one as well. I’m expecting a mate to show up any minute.”

“You’ve got a mate? I thought I was your only friend.”

“Very funny. Think you’re a big man now that you’ve been to Vietnam and fucked all those Asian beauties.”

“I fought for you and the rest of you smart bastards and I’ve got the scars to prove it!”

Grimesy looked away towards the small door that opened to Geelong Road.

“By the way,” said James, “I need to talk to you about my house.”

“The one you inherited from your auntie in Yarraville?”

“Yair. I’m going to sell it.”

“Really? Did you check with Eddie first?”

“It’s none of his business, is it?”

“Why don’t you want to live there? It’s not that far from here.”

“It’s a shit-hole. Those fuckn wild scotch thistles and the lace curtains.”

“But there’ll be new houses all around there soon, so there’ll be no more thistles.”

“Anyway, I like it here. More action. More to do.”

Grimesy grabbed James’s busy hand that held the wash cloth. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

James looked Grimesy in the eye. “I just want to be my own boss,” he replied. “Don’t you want to be your own boss?”

“Are you kidding? I’m a young lawyer in a law firm! I’ve got bosses everywhere I look!”

James pulled his hand away. “Yair, I suppose so. Sorry about that. You ought to do something about it.”

“I am.”

“Like what?”

“I’m getting older and so are my bosses. Soon, they’ll be too old, and I’ll be ready to take their place. Anyway, you should hold off on your house until…”

James moved down the counter to serve other customers. He glanced up at the door and saw it open, the glare of Geelong Road hit his eyes and against that glare he saw what he could not believe, almost dropped the glass he was filling at the tap. He carefully looked down at the glass and placed it in front of the customer, grabbed the edges of the counter with both his hands to steady himself. His injured leg shot pains up into his thigh and crotch.

“James!” called Grimesy. “I told you I was meeting someone!”

And there he stood at the bar, flanked on one side by Eddie Counter, and the other by Iris. James mechanically took the customer’s money and rang it up in the till. Then he stood, gaping at Iris, both hands gripping the bar counter, his knuckles white, his arms shaking. He tried to speak but nothing came.

“Where’s the service here?” called Eddie, “three pots please!”

“Just a dry ginger for me,” whispered Iris.

“Never mind, I’ll serve them!” called a voice from behind. It was Frank swaggering in from the public bar. He looked at his pocket watch, then filled two glasses. “Go on, James, go around and say hello to your Dad and you haven’t introduced me to that lovely little thing he has in tow.”

Eddie spoke up. “G’day Frank. Meet Iris, an old friend of the family, especially James. And I believe you’re met Paul Grimes here.”

“Pleased to meet you all. How are things going down at the Corio Shire, Eddie?”

“Just the same. Getting ready for 10 o’clock closing hours. How about you?”

“Yair, going to be a bugger. They’re making it hard for us poor publicans to make a living.”

“That’s for sure.”

Iris stood mute, looking down, her hands clasped together, fingers nervously rubbing her knuckles, almost embarrassed to be there. It had taken a lot of coaxing, if not a little force, to get her here. Eddie had the window of James’s old bedroom nailed shut after she slipped in one night. Everyone had collaborated to catch her. Like chasing a rabbit. But, like a trapped animal, she had suddenly dropped all resistance, bared her throat, allowed herself to be taken, cleaned up in the bathroom by Abbie and dressed in nice new clothes that Linda had bought her. “Tell little Jimmy that I’ve missed him and I hope you bring him back home with you,” said Abbie with her big toothy smile. Iris did not answer, as was her usual way. Abbie understood. She had been with Iris when she went through her bad times and good times with Jimmy. Mr. Counter and Jimmy’s mate Grimesy had been very insistent that she not let Iris out of her sight for one second. But Iris made only one feeble effort at Jimmy’s bedroom window. Abbie suspected that Iris was not really serious about running off.

James just stared. Although still short, Iris was no longer thin and child-like. Her body had filled out, breasts full, almost buxom, a welcome feature that James had missed, having spent himself entirely on the skinny shapeless bodies of Vietcong girls. It’s true that often they reminded him of Iris, but that was when she was a girl. Now, he could see that she was a woman. Abbie had applied just a hint of rouge on her cheeks, hiding that emaciated pale face that had haunted James ever since that terrible time he searched for her all over Melbourne and Albert Park. And her lips, the seagull wings that he always adored, were touched up with a pale but strong pink.

*

James had just joined Iris at the bar when the Saloon door flew open and in walked Studs Mackerel with his entourage, his sec­retary on his arm, her hair exactly the same, coiffed to the roof.

“James, better clear Studs’s table for him,” nodded Frank. A cus­tomer sat at Studs’s table, not knowing that it was unofficially reserved. James asked him to move and bought him a beer to make up for the nuisance.

“Who wants in on the biggest deal of the century?” proclaimed Studs as he sat down at his table, his thick notebook in front ofhim, his secretary sharpening her pencil with an electric sharpener. A group of men, well dressed in sports coats, hush puppy shoes, shirts and ties gathered around him.

James sidled up beside Iris whose eyes had followed his limp­ing figure coming towards him. In rehab he had learned to cover his limp pretty well, but he had to work on it and at times like now when he was excited to see Iris, he paid it no attention. He grabbed Iris’s dry ginger and handed it to her, then took his beer and raised it high, an invitation for her to clink her glass to his. Grimesy and Eddie raised their glasses and Grimesy, never lost for words, said with a big grin, “To the happy couple!” Iris took a tiny sip and looked at James with that aggressive glint in her eyes, her mouth puckered forward and a slight frown. This wasn’t going to be easy, thought James, but then nothing with Iris ever was.

They had one round of drinks until Frank looked over and said, “James, it’s five o’clock, you better get behind here. It’s getting busy.” He turned to Iris. “Apologies young miss, but your bloke has to earn his keep.”

“Yair, I’ve been telling him that for years,” quipped Iris crack­ing her first real smile.

James was so surprised, never had he heard Iris joke in this way, that he downed his beer and slipped his arm around her, pulled her to him and kissed her square on her seagull lips. “Wel­come home, love!” he whispered. “At last I’ve found you.” Iris almost dropped her dry ginger. Memories of their childhood trysts came flooding back. Against her immediate inclination, she allowed her body to be pulled against his as she placed her dry ginger, still full, on the bar.

“Come one, James. Let’s go! The customers are waiting!” called Frank, turning to Iris, “you are welcome to stay at the Newmarket Hotel, my dear.”

“I’ll get her stuff,” said Grimesy, “where’s the accommodation entrance?”

“It’s around the corner, and up the stairs. Put her in number six, it’s the biggest room in the hotel, and the one next to James.”

Iris gently pulled herself free of James’s hug. She wanted to say, “maybe you should ask me if I want to stay,” but did not. She was in James’s hands now, in a strange place, with no idea where it was. And the room was upstairs. There’d be no climbing out the window. James returned behind the bar, watching Iris trail after Grimesy. Eddie managed to lightly grab his arm as he limped past. “I’mproud of you son,” he said, “I know this is what you’ve always wanted. Make the best of her, mate.” James paused and smiled ever so slightly, but enough to satisfy Eddie. He nodded, and moved on. The wonderful thing as far as Eddie was concerned was that James let him call him ‘son’. He waved to Frank.

“Going so soon?” called Frank.

“Got a pub to run!”

But he did not return that day to the Corio Shire pub. Eddie had decided that he would stay away when the new closing time clicked in, let Sugar deal with it all. Sugar, poor bloke, he had turned out to be a very good manager. Eddie let him run the place pretty much as he wanted. It was more important for him to accompany Iris and Grimes to Melbourne, and at last add the final touch to get James settled. James had always pined for Iris. Now he would at last get his wish. There would be no more excuses. And Iris seemed to have grown up a lot, mainly because, he suspected, she had lived with Linda in her house of business for some time now, with only occasional disappearances, and those to sneak into James’s old room, as far as he could tell from what Abbie told him.

*

James worked feverishly in the Saloon bar. It was packed full of customers celebrating the end of 6 o’clock closing. It was aus­picious that it was on this very day Iris had returned, James thought. The bar was the noisiest he had seen it in his few weeks working at the Newmarket. It wasn’t just the end of 6 o’clock closing though. It was also because Studs was up to one of his deals, had most of his clients in a kind of frenzy. And this would go on for several days, leading up to the grand final of the football between Collingwood and St. Kilda. Each of them had, today, won their semifinal match. Studs had taken bets on those games too. Both of their wins were expected, so the payouts were not all that great, Studs had no doubt made out quite well. The surprising thing was that he was already taking bets on the grand final and blokes were falling over themselves to place their bets on one or the other, this even before Studs announced the odds.

It was 9.30 and some customers were beginning to leave, having realized that 10 o’clock was a very late time to keep drinking, their money was running out, and they were very drunk as well, not having slowed down their drinking, keeping at it as though the 6 o’clock swill was now the 10 o’clock swill. Frank had approached Studs and asked him to finish up, and Studs did so.

“Gentlemen,” announced Studs, “It’s time to go home. My sec­retary here is getting tired, she needs her beauty sleep! We’ll be open for business tomorrow at lunch time. See you all then. And I’ll have odds on the Grand Final you will not be able to resist!”

“Time! Gentlemen, please!” called Frank. “We’ll see you to­morrow after 10.00 am.”

James turned to serve one last customer then all of a sudden, Iris was standing beside him. “Thought you might need some help,” she said with a tiny smile. She grabbed a dish cloth and began to wipe down the bar.

“Gees, thanks Sweetie,” whispered James, putting his head close to hers, “you know women aren’t supposed to be in the Saloon Bar or any bar really.” He glanced quickly across to Frank who was busy saying good bye to Studs.

“You think I don’t know that? You think I grew up in Toorak or something?”

“I was just joking. I love that you’re here.”

The last customer left and Frank went to lock the door. He called out to James.

“Check the bar and the Ladies Lounge will you James? Make sure they’re all locked.”

“OK Frank.” James took Iris by the hand. “Come on and I’ll introduce you to the other barmen and you can have a look at the Ladies Lounge.”

“What for?” Iris asked.

“Never know, you might want to work there, wait on the tables or something.”

To James’s surprise, Iris did not resist. But then, you could never be sure what was going on inside her head. She herself didn’t even know that.

“Who’s that Studs bloke?” she asked. “He acts like he owns this place.”

“He acts like that everywhere. I’ve known him for years. He used to be the bookie at the old Corio Shire pub. I kept nit for him and sometimes I was his runner.”

“Runner?”

“Yair. He took the bets around the back of the pub just behind the dunny. I’d collect the bets and run back and place them for the blokes. I was just a kid then.”

“So was I.”

James led the way into the public bar where a few stragglers were still trying to empty the last dregs. And to his horror, there was a cop standing in the middle of the bar, bible held aloft. He gripped Iris’s hand, and she, his.

“Shit!” murmured Iris, “is that who I think it is?”

“I’m not going in there,” said James. He squeezed Iris’s hand and pulled her back into the Saloon bar. He called to Frank. “There’s a cop in the other bar. I’m not going in there, if you don’t mind.”

Frank smiled. “Oh, that will be the Preacher. Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless.”

“Not to me he isn’t. He destroyed my life, or nearly did.”

“It’s true,” said Iris.

“Well I think you’d better tell me all about it one day. If it’s that bad, leave it and I’ll do the rounds of the bars.

“Thank you, Mr. Highlands,” said James. He poured himself a beer and one for Iris, then led the way out of the bar, upstairs and to his room. “Come on,” he said, let’s get you settled into your new home.