Scrublands(13)

Martin is unsure how to respond, looks at the glass in front of him.

‘Go on, take a sip. Won’t kill you.’

Martin complies. It’s cheap port, overly sweet and cloying. He nods his appreciation, raising a wry smile from his host.

‘You asked about the Commercial across the way?’ the man asks. ‘Seen plenty others like it, right? Your quintessential Aussie pub. You could put it on a fucken postcard, send it to yer Yankee friends. List it on the National Trust. Well, not this place. This is the history that doesn’t get told.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Jesus. Bright young bloke like you. Don’t they teach you any history in those universities?’

Martin laughs.

‘What’s so funny, Hemingway?’

‘I did history at university.’

‘Jesus, ask for yer fucken money back.’ But once the old coot has chuckled he grows serious. ‘It’s like this, young fella. In the old days, when it was still a going concern, the Commercial had three bars. There was the lounge bar: you could take the family, have a meal. There was the saloon bar: ladies allowed, but blokes needed to be dressed proper. Shirt with a collar, long trousers or shorts with long socks. Extremely classy, I can tell ya. And then there was the front bar, the workers’ bar. That’s where the shearers, the silo workers and the road crews could go for a beer without needing to wash, where they could swear and get pissed and leer at the barmaid. Pretty rough places, those front bars.’

‘And what was this place?’

‘This place was for those who weren’t good enough for the front bar.’

‘You serious?’

‘’Course I’m fucken serious. Do I look like a clown?’

‘So who came here?’

‘You’re a smart fella. Know anything about post-traumatic stress disorder?’

Martin nods. He’s not about to confess the condition largely remains a mystery to him, even after a year of counselling.

‘Yeah, well, there was a time when this country was flooded with it. Flooded. Except it wasn’t called PTSD back then. It was called shell shock, if it was called anything at all. Thousands of men, tens of thousands. Back from the Western Front; later on, back from fighting Hitler and Tojo. Some missing legs, or arms, or deaf or blind. Some full of syphilis and clap and tuberculosis. Some much more fucked up than that. Ugly, violent, alcoholic men. Drifting round the countryside, swarms of ’em during the Depression, moved on from place to place like sheep sent down a stock route. Except instead of heading towards the abattoir, they were coming back from one. You seen the memorial down at the crossroads, outside the pub? Fucken joke, isn’t it? They cast ’em in bronze, raised ’em high, called ’em heroes. But some of those names, some of those very names carved on that memorial, some of them would have ended up here or in places like this. They were all over the place, these wine saloons, in the bush and in the cities. Every country town had one. It was different in those days. No Medibank, no Medicare, no cheap medicine. They self-medicated. It weren’t no table wine they served in wine saloons, it was plonk: flagon port and cooking sherry and home-stilled spirits. Nasty, cheap and effective. This is where they came, the walking ghosts who weren’t welcome in the Commercial fucken Hotel.’

‘I never knew,’ says Martin. ‘Are you a veteran, then? Vietnam?’

‘Me? Nah. Not of any war, anyway.’

‘So why come here? Why not the pub? Or the club?’

‘Because, I’m a bit like those old fellas. I’m not welcome in the front bar. Besides, I like it here. No one’s going to bother me here.’

‘Why aren’t you welcome in the front bar?’ Martin persists.

The old man takes a slug of his drink. ‘Pub’s shut. You want some more?’

‘Bit early in the day for me.’ Martin hears a scrabbling noise. Over against the wall, under a bench, a mouse moves furtively along the skirting board.

‘I’m not so popular round here,’ volunteers the man. ‘Don’t live up to the civic standards. You’re the first living person I’ve spoken more than three words to for a year.’

‘So why stay?’

‘I grew up here. This is where I’m from. So fuck ’em, I’m staying.’

‘What did you do? To get everyone so offside?’

‘Nothing, to tell you the truth. Or not much. But ask around, see what they say. They’ll tell you I’m a crook, that I’ve spent half my life in Long Bay, or Goulburn or Boggo Road. It’s bullshit, but people believe what they want to believe. Can’t say I care. That’s their problem.’

Martin regards the face, the slightly bulbous nose, veins showing, and the grizzled beard. The face is lived in, but in the muted light Martin can’t guess its age. Anywhere between forty and seventy. On the back of the man’s hands and wrists are the blurry blue lines of prison tattoos. Yet the eyes are alert; Martin feels the old tramp assessing him. ‘Well, nice to meet you. I’d better get going. What’s your name?’

‘Snouch. Harley Snouch.’

‘Martin Scarsden, Harley.’ The men don’t shake hands.

Martin turns to leave, but the old man isn’t finished. ‘The priest. Don’t believe everything you’re told. People believe what they want to believe; doesn’t mean it’s true.’