the publican was still cleaning out there from the day before. One eye was higher than the other and his nose was crooked. It gave him an unsteady wary look as he glanced up.
G‘day, mate, he said, pausing in his mopping.
G‘day, mate, Douglas said.
He hoped it didn’t sound like satire. He wished he had got in first and called out Morning, mate! in a big hearty way. He perched uneasily on a bar stool. The publican pushed the mop backwards and forwards next to his feet.
You want a drink, mate, have to wait till I’m done here.
He unhooked his bottom from the stool.
Oh, sorry, he said. Mate. Should have said. Just waiting for a bloke.
He was standing in a puddle of water. The dirty strings of the mop were flicking around his boots.
Said I’d meet him here.
Suit yourself, mate, the publican said.
His lips were pressed together as if the mop took a lot of concentration.
Douglas got back on the stool, but tentatively, one foot still on the floor. It was dark in the bar, glittering with wet tiles, and draughty, all the windows flung open. The great grey eye of the television hung over the bar and he kept glancing at it, and at the enigmatic handwritten sign on a piece of cardboard underneath it: TOUCH REGO BOWLO SAT. The publican hosed out the floor with a great blast of water, slapped over the metal counters with a lump of wet rag, stacked crates with a rattle and flourish.
The silence, under the blasts and crashes the publican was producing, had become strained.
Hot enough for you? Douglas finally said.
It came out croaky and he cleared his throat.
The publican looked up suspiciously from mopping around the cigarette machine.
Eh?
Douglas cleared his throat again.
Hot, he said clearly. Hot, isn’t it?
The publican grunted and bent back to his mopping. The quality of the silence was now something you could snap in your hand. He had to get his feet out of the way quickly as the publican threw down a rubber mat beside the bar.
The doorway filled with the darkness of a bulky man with the daylight behind him. A big cheery voice boomed out into the bar.
G‘day, Vince!
The publican straightened up from the mop.
Ah, Chook! G‘day, mate!
He sounded like someone who had just been rescued. Hearing that, you could tell that Vince had not liked having someone perched on a stool watching while he cleaned the place out.
Douglas wished, as he often wished, that he had thought a bit quicker. He was a good enough thinker, but a slow one.
He stuck out his hand blindly towards the silhouette.
G‘day, he said, I’m Douglas Cheeseman. From Head Office.
His hand was squashed in a strong meaty grip.
G‘day, Doug, Henry Henderson’s the name. Call me Chook, everyone does.
There was a short pause in which he could hear water dripping off the counter. It was getting into his boot.
Chook Henderson was only the Leading Hand, but he put himself in charge straight away.
We go in your ute, eh, he said.
It was not a question.
I’ll drive. Show you the way.
He was no older than Douglas, but he looked a lot tougher. His face, crinkled up for years against glare, was seamed like a shoe, the tufty eyebrows coarse and vigorous. He had an old felt hat, and a big round belly that pushed his pants down so they hung off his hips.
He led the way out to the street and got in the driver’s side while Douglas was still wondering how to say no.
He was a conscientious man. The ute had been issued to him. He was not supposed to let anyone else drive it. It was the insurance or something. Whenever you had a vehicle issued to you, you had to sign the Vehicle Requisition Form and the Blue Slip. You made a note of the mileage and how much petrol was in the tank. There was a place on the form for Pre-Existing Damage, too.
He had made the ute his own, driving down that morning from Sydney. They were his own browning apple cores in the ashtray, his own crumpled newspaper all over the floor, his own old brown jacket squashed up
G‘day, mate, he said, pausing in his mopping.
G‘day, mate, Douglas said.
He hoped it didn’t sound like satire. He wished he had got in first and called out Morning, mate! in a big hearty way. He perched uneasily on a bar stool. The publican pushed the mop backwards and forwards next to his feet.
You want a drink, mate, have to wait till I’m done here.
He unhooked his bottom from the stool.
Oh, sorry, he said. Mate. Should have said. Just waiting for a bloke.
He was standing in a puddle of water. The dirty strings of the mop were flicking around his boots.
Said I’d meet him here.
Suit yourself, mate, the publican said.
His lips were pressed together as if the mop took a lot of concentration.
Douglas got back on the stool, but tentatively, one foot still on the floor. It was dark in the bar, glittering with wet tiles, and draughty, all the windows flung open. The great grey eye of the television hung over the bar and he kept glancing at it, and at the enigmatic handwritten sign on a piece of cardboard underneath it: TOUCH REGO BOWLO SAT. The publican hosed out the floor with a great blast of water, slapped over the metal counters with a lump of wet rag, stacked crates with a rattle and flourish.
The silence, under the blasts and crashes the publican was producing, had become strained.
Hot enough for you? Douglas finally said.
It came out croaky and he cleared his throat.
The publican looked up suspiciously from mopping around the cigarette machine.
Eh?
Douglas cleared his throat again.
Hot, he said clearly. Hot, isn’t it?
The publican grunted and bent back to his mopping. The quality of the silence was now something you could snap in your hand. He had to get his feet out of the way quickly as the publican threw down a rubber mat beside the bar.
The doorway filled with the darkness of a bulky man with the daylight behind him. A big cheery voice boomed out into the bar.
G‘day, Vince!
The publican straightened up from the mop.
Ah, Chook! G‘day, mate!
He sounded like someone who had just been rescued. Hearing that, you could tell that Vince had not liked having someone perched on a stool watching while he cleaned the place out.
Douglas wished, as he often wished, that he had thought a bit quicker. He was a good enough thinker, but a slow one.
He stuck out his hand blindly towards the silhouette.
G‘day, he said, I’m Douglas Cheeseman. From Head Office.
His hand was squashed in a strong meaty grip.
G‘day, Doug, Henry Henderson’s the name. Call me Chook, everyone does.
There was a short pause in which he could hear water dripping off the counter. It was getting into his boot.
Chook Henderson was only the Leading Hand, but he put himself in charge straight away.
We go in your ute, eh, he said.
It was not a question.
I’ll drive. Show you the way.
He was no older than Douglas, but he looked a lot tougher. His face, crinkled up for years against glare, was seamed like a shoe, the tufty eyebrows coarse and vigorous. He had an old felt hat, and a big round belly that pushed his pants down so they hung off his hips.
He led the way out to the street and got in the driver’s side while Douglas was still wondering how to say no.
He was a conscientious man. The ute had been issued to him. He was not supposed to let anyone else drive it. It was the insurance or something. Whenever you had a vehicle issued to you, you had to sign the Vehicle Requisition Form and the Blue Slip. You made a note of the mileage and how much petrol was in the tank. There was a place on the form for Pre-Existing Damage, too.
He had made the ute his own, driving down that morning from Sydney. They were his own browning apple cores in the ashtray, his own crumpled newspaper all over the floor, his own old brown jacket squashed up
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