Having an Arts degree, it was inevitable that I’d be working in a pub.

Scene in garage:

‘Got a job for me, mate?’

‘What can ya do, chief?’

‘Analyse the major poets of the seventeenth century.’

So there I was.

I had the smallest, highest room in the building, directly above the publican and his wife. Most nights they’d start arguing about 10:30.

Leo, the publican, was a big East European with a gentle nature. He had a face like an over-ripe tomato, and always wore a crisp bowling hat – his idea of the Australian national dress.

His wife, Maewyn, was a fat woman with large breasts. During arguments, it was her voice, shrill with indignation, that cut through the floorboards. ‘Don’t bullshit me, you stupid Slav! I seen y’ go round t’ ‘er plice!’

And Leo’s dull voice rumbling in the background like a ceiling fan.

Eventually a door would thunder shut, and somewhere a piece of the roof fall into the night.

In the morning, they’d be polishing glasses together.

‘G’day Peter.’

‘G’day Leo. Be a nice day if it doesn’t rain.’

‘My oath.’

I’d help Leo bring grog up from the cellar. ‘I hope you not hear Maewyn last noight.’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Because she lovely woman, really,’ his face struggling with the English, ‘Salt of earth.’

At 10 a.m. Patrick was usually first to the bar.

‘Good morning Patrick! How are you today?’

‘Beer.’ His personality was a black hole. Conversation was sucked into his brooding silence.

He wore a peek-a-boo cardigan and a face like a crumpled paper bag. A few hairs spread evenly across his skull. He rested his sleeves in spilt beer and studied the counter.

‘What d’ y’ think of Kant’s critique of Pure Reason, Patrick?’

‘Airghhh,’ he’d sneer, obviously skeptical of its underlying premise. He was, of course, nursing some pain. Blowflies would rest on his back, causing him to slouch even more.

At midday, in cam Bob and Des and Ron. Blokes: one assortment of. Their T-shirts advertise a variety of automotive services. They call each other ‘pal’ and ‘champ’, after dog foods.

‘Three glasses and three toasted samiches, chief.’

‘What’ll y’ have in ‘em?’

‘Aspros.’

They’d settle down at the pool table, laughing with pelican mouths. Des, the oldest, has been in the front bar since 1956. His ber gut begins under his eyes.

‘Whod’y’ reckn’ll win the final?’

‘Wests.’

‘They’ll ‘ave t’ pull in their socks, pal.’

‘Home ground, matey.’

‘Listen champ, the shoes’s in the other court.’

One morning Maewyn came in, preceded by several feet of cotton frock and a belt that tied at an arbitrary point halfway down her body. She ladled her breasts onto the bar, and smiled. ‘Peter, sweet. Aim entertaining some gel-friends in the lounge. Would you try to keep the riff-raff in heah this morning?’ I noticed that she’d teased her hair up into a sort of cobweb.

‘Certainly, Maewyn.’ I smiled. She was usually terse with the bar staff, but for some reason I was singled out for treatment best described as coquettish.

She swept past the blokes, who’d been missing shots all over the table. I went into the lounge. ‘Five Pimms; deah.’ Circling one small table, like a rugby scrum, the gels were ‘playing ladies’. Fifty-year-olds painted and teased to resemble their formal selves. They made ‘bunging on side’ into a fine art.

‘Hullo darling.’

‘How’re you?’

‘Aim faine.’

They sat very cross-legged, like ladies busting for a pee. With alcohol mixed in, the conversation went personal. ‘Her?! She’s so loose bits of herself fall off simply EVERYwhere!’

A flash of tongue. ‘Cheeky bitch!’ A nervous adjustment of hair.

‘I’m wearin’ m’ sheepdog bra; rounds ‘em up and points ‘em in the right direction!’

They burst like startled chooks. ‘No, listen! ListEN!’ Glances like knives flashed around the table. Maewyn shook with embarrassed laughter.

When they’d left, she came into the bar. Her face sagged with alcohol. ‘Sweet sherry, pet.’

‘Mixing your drinks, Maewyn?’

She printed a fifty cent piece on the counter.

‘Serve the drink, sport.’

Soon after, a crowd of young people came in. Their loose Hawaiian shirts flapped like flags of liberation. Probably fellow students, all copulating on tertiary allowances. ‘Hey guys, how many bucks we got?’ They trucked over to the bar. maewyn eyed them narrowly. ‘Wow, what a really heavy energy level.’ ‘Oh. yeah.’ Their thongs flacked on the stone floor, ‘Well, listen. . .’ ‘Yeah, well . . .’ ‘Why doncha. . .’ ‘. . .y’ know?’ ‘Terrific.’

They all stood around a girl in a leopard-skin skin. She sat, playing with their attention a balloon. Eyeballs flicked over her meat. Bob and Des and Ron couldn’t get over it. A sex kitten in the front bar. They played pool like men inspired.

Suddenly Maewyn stood facing the girl. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t come in here dressed like that.’ The men all groaned and booed. Maewyn quivered, her teeth bared in a muscular face. ‘Get out.’ The girl finished her drink deliberately, daring the big woman to explode. ‘So long, fatty.’ Maewyn lunged, but was grabbed by six men. She didn’t seem to mind.

After closing, I usually wrote some poetry in my room. Maewyn or Leo would put their radio on full blast, to drown out the racket of my pencil as it roared over the page.

This night even the radio couldn’t compete. You are the sunshine of my – ‘DON’T give me that crap!’ – stay in my heart – ‘Y’ weren’t tired a minute ago!’ – my eye; that’s why you’ll always – ‘Bullshit! I seen yer. Don’t think I’m not awake up t’ what’s goin’ on!’ – you came to my rescue – ‘Y’kn bugger orf y’ dumb log!’ – Heaven; how could so much love – ‘And stuff you, dog-face! I’m orf!’ – You are the sunshine – Bang!

A couple of minutes later there was a knock on my door. It was Maewyn, one bottle and two glasses. ‘Hellow, Peter. Aye hope aye haven’t disturbed you.’ She wore a kind of chiffon tent.

‘No, that’s. .’

‘May I come in?’ She smiled. ‘What a lovely. . .’ She looked around my derelict room, ‘. . . er. . . chair.’

I opened the wine. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Cheers.’ Her hair had been frizzed to resemble a tuft of pubic hair. ‘Aim sorry if aye got you out of bed.’

‘No, I. . .’

Her face registered sorrow. ‘Aim so lonely sometimes. Though I try to keep cheerful.’ She focused hard. ‘Peter. Do you know what it’s like to grow old?’

‘Not. . .’ Much later she had finished telling me. I emptied the bottle into her glass.

‘Let’s dance!’ She jumped up and switched on the radio. A sound like a generator came on. She began to sway, holding her arms apart as if she was the centre of a tug-of-war. I jiggled about a bit. Gradually the gown came undone, layers of flab rolling into the view. she clung to my shoulders as if I was a window ledge.

I studied her eroded face. A child’s expression in an old face. ‘What are you staring at?’ Her breath singed my eyebrows.

‘I was wondering how old you are.’

She rubbed against my leg. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Please get dressed.’

‘Why?’

‘I, er, start early tomorrow.’

She strapped the gown shut. Her lips flexed.

‘I’m sorry, Maewyn.’

‘Not as sorry ‘s y’ gunna be, matey.’

‘But you’re the same age as my mother.’

She took a deep breath. ‘What the bloody diff’rence ‘s that make?!’ Her eyebrows rose to where her hair used to be. ‘People are people, mate. We’re all pink inside.’ She lurched towards the door. ‘Tell that t’ y’ bloody unitiversity!’ She tried to slam the door. It bounced on its pneumatic hinge and clipped her nose. Some of her steam started to leak.

My days were numbered. She avoided the front bar, and when we met, she did her stuffed fish imitation.

‘Peter, would you take the truck to the vineyard and collect our usual ordah?’ I rumbled out of town into ‘Little Italy’. The vineyardist with hair epaulettes had not heard of our order. He shrugged and pouted and explained in semaphore. I’ma sawry, mite. Mye hands ara tied.’ He gestured wildly.

At the pub, Leo stood in the back yard with his bowling hat at a mean angle. ‘Where you been?’

‘Maewyn sent me to the vineyard.’

Leo wrinkled his sucked lemon lips. ‘That not her story. She reckon you just took off.’

There was nothing to say. I stiffened for the bullet.

‘I’m sorry, champ, but you have to go.’ he looked at me with a helpless expression. ‘These things happen.’ They must have happened a lot. An army of barmen passing by. He seemed quite disappointed that I couldn’t do the job I’d been hired for.

 

(Published in Quadrant Monthly, Sept 1981)