‘Reckon
my boss Barney is real easy-going to let those four old guys keep
coming into his pub. But he does, so it’s not my business. I
reckon they lower the tone a bit; well, a helluva lot really. So far,
no one’s objected, at least no one’s complained to me,
‘sides, what can I do about it? I’m just the
barman.
‘I
mean, look at those three blowsy dames over at that table by the
window. They’re here, same time every day, enjoying themselves and
why not? I wonder if they realise they’re sitting under that print
of Lowry’s three pie-eyed women after a night out clubbing. One
even has a similar red jacket. Makes me smile—but they all add to
the atmosphere.
‘So,
I guess no one has the heart to kick out the four old cronies? After
they’ve had a few, they’re a rowdy lot, a bunch of tough old
warriors, but they’ve been coming for years. Part of the furniture
now, I suppose you’d say.
‘Look
at Ernie, half-slumped under the table. I watch him haul himself up;
I know exactly what’s going to happen—I’ve seen it before. He
gets a grip on one of our tables here at Barney’s Bar
and as
he drags himself up, his beer belly catches the table edge. Without
his mates’ anticipation, he would over-turn the whole shooting box.
‘Perfect
timing! Len and George snatch three glasses and lift them so not a
drop is spilled. Ernie’s is empty, so no hassle there. He struggles
to his feet, and it’s my guess, he’ll order another. Through
force of habit, he pulls his shoulders back like the WW2 army
sergeant he once was, in, you know, the last century, though the old
gumboots spoil it somewhat. He adjusts his op
shop jacket and turns to Jim.
“Your
turn to get the ticket.”
‘Jim’s
thin shoulders droop in his shabby rainproof coat as he shrivels into
the corner of the window seat. His creased face, with its likeness to
a Galapagos tortoise, seems to disappear into his shirt collar. From
beneath those hooded eyes, he slowly turns his glass in both hands
and peers into the lacy froth that patterns the inside of his
schooner. You can guess what he’s thinking, but he says nothing. I
don’t think the poor old chap has two cents to rub together.
‘I
wipe a puddle of beer on the bar-top and stand several glasses in the
dishwasher. The sweet whiff of beer is everywhere and I change a
sodden towel and toss a couple of Barney’s soggy
coasters in
the bin. I replace them with fresh, and I’m thinking there’s no
way I can get away from these old codgers in the alcove. They’re
always there, they’re like a pantomime permanently set on replay,
but they’re not exactly drunk, so I have to serve them. You’re
right! I do have a few laughs, but there are times when I feel like
the proverbial on a hot tin roof, wondering how I can get them to
cool it. Barney says they’re guests and I have to
look after
them. To me, they’re a bit of a worry, but we manage.
Ernie
fetches up to the bar; “Another one; chalk it up, mate.”
“Good
to see ya’, Ernie.” I hand him the refilled glass and make a
note.
‘What
do these guys talk about? And I’ve never yet figured out what they
have in common? They don’t stop jawing even when Ernie’s banging
on. I’m not sure they agree with his nerve to assume that he’s
the only one with any brains. AlI I ever hear is a general racket of
good-natured banter.
‘A
chap on the customer side of the bar is requesting three Speights,
but
I still keep half an eye on the corner table. After years of pulling
the foamy stuff, half an eye is all I need. These fellows claim that
table as of right—bagging it as their own, always arriving on the
dot, for opening.
‘I
don’t think any of them work. They’re probably retired, but in
the
whole time I’ve been here, nothing’s changed. Jim is twisting his
glass, staring into its depths as if he hopes a genie who is
unsympathetic to the ever-boring Ernie, will eliminate him in a puff
of alcoholic mist. Ernie eases his backside into his chair and thumps
his glass on the table.
“Ticket!
I said, your turn, Jim.”
“I
got it last time,” Jim suggests mildly and his chin visibly slides
further inside his collar.
‘Bias
is written all over Ernie’s face, but with a penetrating stare at
Jim, he lets the moment pass, tilts his glass and drains it with the
clear intention of lining up another one.
‘Jim
leans back into the folds of a dark red curtain in the bay window. Is
he hoping his response will be believed and accepted? I hold a glass
to the light, give it one more polish and get to think that Jim’s
probably pulled off his entire contribution to the evening’s
conversation.
‘I’ve
never quite figured why this group is known as ‘Ernie’s.’ I do
wonder about that. Is it because he’s the brawniest and brawliest?
His long, steel-grey hair is swept straight back. He wears a black
and red check flannel shirt, a black leather jacket covered in a
spider web of ancient creases. His black track pants, complete with
saggy backside, include the ubiquitous white bands down the leg.
Usually, a navy-blue beret is stuffed into one of his
jacket’s
many-studded pockets, but I’ve never seen it on his head.
‘According
to rumour, Ernie once owned a garage and his whole
bearing,
is that of a man in charge. Having said that, he’s never the
instigator of their day-to-day mayhem. Is there a Missus Ernie? No
one knows, but judging by appearances, if she was ever a person,
she’s no longer around to straighten out her unruly husband. Come
to think of it, I’ve never seen any woman who might qualify as a
‘missus’ in the company of the quartet.
‘Over
time, I reckon it’s really Len who’s master of this noisy bunch,
‘specially
when he’s downed a few. When he gets going, Ernie’s arguments are
easily over-ridden by Len. In their choice of gear, none of them
measure up to pub expectations, but of them all, Len is the biggest
shambles.
‘Although
his grey-streaked hair was once brown, he has a full-face tatty beard
and a nose like the roadmap of his life. Bulbous and streaked with
blue veins; it should be a warning to all, ‘SLOW DOWN; take
care
on the corners. This glass is one too many.’ But he doesn’t
miss a beat … he frowns at Ernie, cocks his head back at Jim, “It’s
not his turn.” Len’s big on justice.
‘Watching
them, I have the feeling it’s usually Len’s sense of the
ridiculous that keeps them coming in for their daily dose of
conviviality. One of the regulars told me Len had been a barrister
and judging by his repartee and endless yarns, I’m not surprised. I
s’pose he’s used to being the star turn, and he sure makes the
most of it when these fellas get together.
‘Heads
turn and smiles lighten the often-glum faces of patrons as they
eavesdrop on the latest anecdote from Len. Right now, he’s on a
roll. Ernie’s crowd is far and away the rowdiest, and Len, in the
middle, is always the biggest and loudest.
‘There
are times when he leaps to his feet, “Stuff the government,” or . . .
“Who
does that president think he is? We’re all doomed!” Two mates nod
in
agreement; no argument there. Jim’s eyes are closed.
‘George
is totally different. He’s a worry. I’ve been watching him. Every
once in a while, he lifts a cigarette from a case, looks at it,
fondles it, and puts it back in its silver container… until next
time.
‘My
guess is, he knows better than anyone that he’s running out of
time. Occasionally, I hear his reedy voice blend with Len’s
oratory. He fits in his rejoinders when the ex-legal chap pauses for
breath.
‘And
it works. He snatches airtime with amazing skill, almost as if it’s
a game of chess and in even the touchiest of discussions, he appears
to have everyone in agreement, except maybe Len. But this time, in
fact, it’s the first time I’ve noticed. George, given the
opportunity, doesn’t respond to Ernie’s carping on about the
ticket.
‘I
remember years ago, Ernie telling me that George once said, with
his wartime experience, he’d made a couple of million as a
commercial pilot in and around Indonesia. For all I know, he
was
telling the truth, but time is against him now, however much lolly he
made in his flying days.
‘He’s
got that sort of assurance; would have been a good looker in a thin
sort of way. Right now, he doesn’t look too smart. His skin’s the
yellow of a sick man, malaria, yellow fever, who knows? His hair’s
patchy and from my angle, he’s quieter each time he meets his
mates, hardly a word tonight.
‘There’s
no doubt; George’s health isn’t improving. He’s an educated
chap and listening to him in this group, he’s frustrated that
despite every-thing, it all comes down to a glass of tonic and every
now and then making a point
before it’s all too late.
‘Jim
has claimed his own corner of the padded window seat. He’s not
exactly
with the group but he’s not outside it, either. He
rarely
re-fills his glass, treats it like a life-saving tree in the middle
of a raging river. Below table level and right beside him, will be
Jim’s green Bavarian Alpine hat with a feather. Mind you, it’s
not any old feather; it’s the real deal stuck in the band. I’ve
heard that hat means everything to him.
‘Len
tells me that a far-flung daughter skiing in the Tyrol, posted it
back to Jim. Seems he never sees her now. The fluffy white plume with
a tan centre is correctly placed, as he chirpily tells me, on the
left side for men.
‘Even
more intriguing is the hollow Jim presses into the crown as a resting
place for his piccolo. If the instrument ever had a case, I’ve
never seen it, but for now that small flute gleams like a Mozart
motet against the green of Jim’s hat. No one at the pub has heard
him play, but I believe he belongs to a quintet that meet twice a
week for practice in an upstairs room of the area Scout den. Local
gossip has it, he and his musical mates play over the community radio
on Sunday afternoons—all classical stuff.
‘You’ll
have realised by now that this barman’s job is pretty much full on
and I’m forever trying to figure out the workings of male bonding.
All I know is; these jokers are great mates—enjoy one another’s
company—they’re all in, boots, piccolos, rude jokes, the lot,
just there for a laugh and what’s wrong with that? If it’s okay
for Barney, it’s okay by me.
‘It’s
my job to keep an ear out for the wants and needs of the trade; in
between
times, I get cracking and polish up a fresh batch of glasses.
‘Ernie
rocks up to the bar again, and I refill his schooner. With eyes
slightly
crossed, the comic he is, plods back to the group holding the glass
as
if he’s carrying a candle to a high altar. Over the top of the pub
blather, I hear him griping his original question.
“Are
you all deaf? I said… whose turn is it to buy this week’s Lotto
ticket? Plus, believe it or not, it’s someone’s turn for the next
round.”
‘Len
gets to his feet and gathers the empty glasses. He catches the eye of
all but George. “Here’s to another round.” As usual, he has his
priorities sorted; somehow, he’s always the ready-money fella.
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