Almanac Life: Conversations, in a country pub

 

 

 

 

In making my way back to the Barossa from the launch of The Furphy Anthology in the All Nations Hotel in Richmond, I caught the train to Warrnambool. It was as pleasant a trip as you can imagine, through gold and soft green, early-summer farmland a hot spell away from harvest, and along sections of the coast with views to the ocean, countryside that would stir golf course architects. After a relaxing four hours, I jumped in my car, which had been parked just metres from the platform, found The Cricket on the radio, and began the seven-hour drive. I planned have a series of breaks, and to be home just after sunset. The thermometer was about to reach its own century.

I hadn’t been through that particular land of the Gunditjmara people for years and, at Macarthur, I was reminded of the history when I saw the sign: Tidy Towns Winner 1988. I also remembered the late Billy Picken.

I’d never travelled the back roads, through Merino and into the Adam Lindsay Gordon territory of Coleraine from the south. It had been a big few days and, as the wickets fell in Perth, and the winding roads required concentration, I thought it would be a good idea to find somewhere to stay.

And so, not far beyond where the ratio of bovine to ovine starts to change, I found a little town with a pub and an old motel, unattended. I rang the number on the sign, the manager crunched a few numbers, possibly from a shared office space in Box Hill, gave me a security code, and I was in the door. Basic, but clean and more than adequate.

The TV worked. I watched wickets fall, made a couple of calls, and headed off to the pub.

A light beer while I looked at the menu and I was barely a sip in when the rump presented as the obvious choice.

A handful of post-work drinkers sat without a care at the bar.

Norm was on the Great Northern. He definitely had his own stool and, while ‘Norm’ may have been a nickname conferred on him by those who fund pubs cheery, I suspect it actually was his real name. He knew cricket. His analysis of the Australian batsmen was as amusing as it was damning. He was drinking with his boss. “I see you’ve written yourself out of the roster again next week, mate.”

Three blokes walked in straight off the nearby golf course. They had the whiff of graduate agronomists about them, maybe a young vet?

A couple of hopefuls were filling out Keno tickets, but no-one seemed interested the races from Moonee Valley. Old Mate was wearing one of the better sheep-dip T-shirts I’ve seen for a while.

The bar staff moved in and out, checking everyone was watered while focusing on families and birthday teas in the cosy dining room and on the veranda. Everyone new everyone else and it was one of those pubs where the bar was not a border, just a physical structure to serve drinks on.

The youngest woman serving was being welcomed back from uni – first year Medicine. “Five years to go,” she said. “Then six years to specialize.”

“Sucker for punishment,” said the bloke whose Saturday was going to begin at dawn, working horses.

The feature group – five old friends catching up – were building into the night, becoming louder and having to fight harder for conversation space. As I tucked into the steak, with a (relatively) local Shiraz in front of me, I could not keep the grin from my face. I was clearly listening. Their laughter filled the room.

The dominant voice belonged to a woman who seemed to be the reason they were all there. She’d been working short contracts in the Top End and then travelling wherever the spirit took her. “I’m supposed to go to Coffs after Christmas”, she said, “then Bali, but it’s all buggered because I’ve gotta work in Katherine.”

One story led to another.

“Bloody hard work up there,” she said, without offering what the job was. “Drink a lot of piss though.”

“A lot of piss?”

“A lot of piss. You work hungover. It’s so farken hot.” I could tell a story was taking form in her mind, and she was setting it up. “Wound up in hospital a few times,” she said. “Once I asked for a copy of the discharge report.”

She started to scroll through her phone, but I got the immediate impression she had no need to find the photo of it.

She began on the doctor’s summary. “Thirty-six year old white woman presented in work gear,” she said, “Overweight. Malodourous. Dizziness. Fainting. Query dehydration.”

She looked up. “Mal-farken-odorous,” she barked. “Over-farken-weight. I farken showed `em: four days in hospital: I left with an eating disorder.”

She rolled that yarn straight into her next.

“Remember that night I was drinkin’ with Critter and he was gettin’ a bit interested? Where is he tonight?”

She had a sip and continued. “I mentioned I was on the dark spirits then. Critter goes, ‘Which ones?’ I said, ‘I’m really enjoying my Wild Turkey at the moment. And Critter just goes: ‘Gobble. Gobble. Gobble.’ Anyway, I seduced him.”

“What?” says one of the other girls. “I don’t remember that.”

“I did.”

“How?”

“It’s not that hard.”

Apparently, that night, Critter wasn’t finished at the pub. “I took off. Got a pizza. He stayed,” she said. “But he was keen.”

“How’d you know?”

“Well, silly bastard’s lost his phone. He’s walked two mile to Frankie’s. No-one there. Then a mile to Spook’s. No-one there. Then Joy-Joy rings me and she drives him down to Mum’s. He’s arrived with four cans of Wild Turkey.”

“What happened?” they asked.

**

I’m not much of a desserts person but, at that point, I ordered the Churros and a cup of coffee.

The rump was a tender piece of meat, cooked exactly to order. The chips and pub salad were right up there. The sauce was peppery hot and temperature hot.

I heard a couple more yarns, while dipping the Churros in their chocolate pot, then headed into the heat of the night.

I’m home tomorrow.

 

Read more from John Harms HERE

 

 

 

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