preparing for my first utterance in court, defending a burglar called Ernie Kyte, a nice man but invasive.
‘Time someone raised the matter,’ I said. It came out loud. ‘Either we go with Brisbane or we go with someone else.’
In the silence, you could hear the screeching complaint of a tram braking on Smith Street, then a match scratched against a box. I was rehearsing back-down strategies when Wilbur Ong let out a long sigh that turned into a low whistle.
‘Jack’s right,’ he said.
Another long silence, Norm stared straight ahead, tugged at a hairy earlobe. I signalled to Stan for a round. He took his time over it. When the last glass was put down, Norm said, ‘Well, bloody Brisbane it’s not. Never. Nothin much against the Saints. Few things but not much. Don’t mind that little Stanley Alves, gets a bit extra out of the lads. Shoulda won the Brownlow in ’75 when they give it to that Footscray bloke.’
‘Not averse to the Sainters,’ Wilbur said. ‘Put me mind to it, I could follow the team. Not the same but I could.’
‘Jack?’ said Norm. ‘Recall your old man used to have a few crafty ales with that Bray bloke, now he was a useful player for the Saints.’
‘Pick of the bunch, the Saints,’ I said.
There was a moment of indecision, then Norm said, ‘Give us the fixtures there, Stan. Let’s have a squiz at the order in which we meet the mongrels.’
Stan went off to his office and came back with half a dozen fixture cards. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Saints. Well, well. This mean I can sell the photos?’
All eyes nailed him, slitty eyes, pitbull eyes.
‘No? That’s no, is it? It’s no.’
‘So,’ said Eric, studying his card. ‘It’s the handbags from Geelong. That’s full marks.’
In the office, the phone rang. Stan went in, came to the door, pointed at me.
With considerable trepidation, I entered the undusted, uncatalogued and unclassified museum to fifty years of pub mismanagement. Only a limited number of people called me here. I wanted it to be Linda and I didn’t.
‘Jack, it’s me.’
Linda. No leap of the heart. Nothing good was coming of this. You always know.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘the weekend isn’t going to happen, everything’s in fucking freefall here. I have to be in Queensland tomorrow, this pollie Webb who’s resigned, his wife could just possibly be persuaded to go on camera: “My reluctant threesomes with hubby and Brisbane hookers.’’’
She was speaking at twice her normal speed.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Devote yourself to it. Stories like that, it’s not an occupation, it’s a calling.’
Silence. ‘Jack. I don’t have any choice about these things.’
‘I understand. I’ll just say goodbye then. We’re pretty much falling freely around here too. Floor looming up.’
I put the receiver down, regretted it instantly, waited for her to call again, waited, waited, dialled the studio, gave the producer’s extension. A polite woman answered. Everyone was gone for the day.
Home to the old stable, no prospects but frozen food and uneasy sleep. I sat in an armchair with a glass of leftover red and thought about Linda.
I dialled the silent number. The answering service said: ‘Please leave a message. If you wish the number holder to be alerted by pager, please say that the message is urgent.’
I said, ‘The message is: The chairs in my parlour seem empty and bare. Jack.’
‘Urgent?’
‘No.’
In bed, I tried reading a novel called The Mountain from Afar brought by Linda on her last visit. Very soon, I could tell a) that it was about men and their fathers, and b) that I was at long odds to finish it.
Men and their fathers.
Had Linda been trying to tell me something by leaving this book? Was there something I should be aware of? Why was I spending time on Gary Connors? There was nothing at all in it for me. Did I identify Des with my father? Of course I did. His father had seen my father and mother meet, lust across the
‘Time someone raised the matter,’ I said. It came out loud. ‘Either we go with Brisbane or we go with someone else.’
In the silence, you could hear the screeching complaint of a tram braking on Smith Street, then a match scratched against a box. I was rehearsing back-down strategies when Wilbur Ong let out a long sigh that turned into a low whistle.
‘Jack’s right,’ he said.
Another long silence, Norm stared straight ahead, tugged at a hairy earlobe. I signalled to Stan for a round. He took his time over it. When the last glass was put down, Norm said, ‘Well, bloody Brisbane it’s not. Never. Nothin much against the Saints. Few things but not much. Don’t mind that little Stanley Alves, gets a bit extra out of the lads. Shoulda won the Brownlow in ’75 when they give it to that Footscray bloke.’
‘Not averse to the Sainters,’ Wilbur said. ‘Put me mind to it, I could follow the team. Not the same but I could.’
‘Jack?’ said Norm. ‘Recall your old man used to have a few crafty ales with that Bray bloke, now he was a useful player for the Saints.’
‘Pick of the bunch, the Saints,’ I said.
There was a moment of indecision, then Norm said, ‘Give us the fixtures there, Stan. Let’s have a squiz at the order in which we meet the mongrels.’
Stan went off to his office and came back with half a dozen fixture cards. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Saints. Well, well. This mean I can sell the photos?’
All eyes nailed him, slitty eyes, pitbull eyes.
‘No? That’s no, is it? It’s no.’
‘So,’ said Eric, studying his card. ‘It’s the handbags from Geelong. That’s full marks.’
In the office, the phone rang. Stan went in, came to the door, pointed at me.
With considerable trepidation, I entered the undusted, uncatalogued and unclassified museum to fifty years of pub mismanagement. Only a limited number of people called me here. I wanted it to be Linda and I didn’t.
‘Jack, it’s me.’
Linda. No leap of the heart. Nothing good was coming of this. You always know.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘the weekend isn’t going to happen, everything’s in fucking freefall here. I have to be in Queensland tomorrow, this pollie Webb who’s resigned, his wife could just possibly be persuaded to go on camera: “My reluctant threesomes with hubby and Brisbane hookers.’’’
She was speaking at twice her normal speed.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Devote yourself to it. Stories like that, it’s not an occupation, it’s a calling.’
Silence. ‘Jack. I don’t have any choice about these things.’
‘I understand. I’ll just say goodbye then. We’re pretty much falling freely around here too. Floor looming up.’
I put the receiver down, regretted it instantly, waited for her to call again, waited, waited, dialled the studio, gave the producer’s extension. A polite woman answered. Everyone was gone for the day.
Home to the old stable, no prospects but frozen food and uneasy sleep. I sat in an armchair with a glass of leftover red and thought about Linda.
I dialled the silent number. The answering service said: ‘Please leave a message. If you wish the number holder to be alerted by pager, please say that the message is urgent.’
I said, ‘The message is: The chairs in my parlour seem empty and bare. Jack.’
‘Urgent?’
‘No.’
In bed, I tried reading a novel called The Mountain from Afar brought by Linda on her last visit. Very soon, I could tell a) that it was about men and their fathers, and b) that I was at long odds to finish it.
Men and their fathers.
Had Linda been trying to tell me something by leaving this book? Was there something I should be aware of? Why was I spending time on Gary Connors? There was nothing at all in it for me. Did I identify Des with my father? Of course I did. His father had seen my father and mother meet, lust across the
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