A BLOKE WALKED INTO THE PUB

By Frank Ash

It was a late winter, crystal clear evening on the West Coast with the Southern Cross shining brightly above. The sound of the waves on the Rapahoe beach seemed to be magnified through the crispness. “There’ll be a frost tonight” thought the man as he trudged down the road beside the creek heading for the pub. Cheerful lights through windows with curtains yet to be drawn and rich coal smoke belching from the stack signalled that the ingredients for the traditional friendly welcome were to be expected.

However, the man was a little nervous – he had been away from the Coast for thirty years now, ever since the end of the war and whilst he had never forgotten the Coast, it may have forgotten him. With a slight hesitation he walked through the front door and stepped inside.

The fire was roaring with the best black gold the nearby Strongman could produce with a lump the size of small ship embraced by flames licking up the side. The aroma of cigarette smoke and fried onions greeted his nostrils with such familiarity that a memory immediately transformed him back to the night before he left to fight. It was a bittersweet memory and it seemed to send life into slow motion for a while. Snapping out of it, he suddenly realised that the small crowd in the bar were staring at him and the landlord was repeating “What’ll it be mate?”

“Oh sorry – um yeah – two handles of the local stuff please” he said, as he settled onto a comfortable high stool and nodded at the other patrons.

“You got the missus coming in behind you?” asked the barman as he and the others looked at the door.

“Nah” replied the man. The second beer arrived in front of him and he relished the first taste. Passing over a note to pay, the barman exchanged the note for some change from the open till and placed the change onto the counter top where, in the tradition of the Coast, it would stay until used up. West Coast bartenders and punters alike knowing the sanctity of that pool of cash – accuracy from the bartenders side and honesty from the other punters – God help the man that stole from the counter pool and God help the bartender that tried to take too much. Men could leave the pub with their pool of money on the counter to return the next day to find the exact amount ready for him and his first beer for the night on the bar.

The man didn’t elaborate on the bartenders question – just took a drink from the first handle and bowed his head.

“Fair enough” thought the barman. Some punters didn’t want to talk and just quietly drink their ale and so the barman walked over to his locals and continued their conversation that had been briefly interrupted.

Curiosity as to who the man’s companion could be was answered when he downed the first beer and started on the second. The local punters glanced around, shrugged their shoulders and carried on.

The man was obviously not wanting to talk and after five minutes he got up bade a good night and left with an enigmatic “See you tomorrow!”

“Sure mate – see you then” the bartender replied.

The next night, around the same time and after yet another sunny, clear day, the man could be seen again walking beside the Seven Mile creek on his way to the bar. This time his musing was about the creek itself. He wondered if the whitebait still ran as good as it used to. With flounders from the sandy beach, mussels from Nine Mile bluff, shark and kahawai from the surf and whitebait from the creek – this place was the source of good kai. He thought that if the pub served food, a feed of fish and chips might go down well tonight.

This night wasn’t quite so cold as the last night – a gentle breeze off the sea had the flax bushes rustling and kept the chill away. Glancing up at the sky though, the man thought that the Barber – a cold katabatic wind that whistled down the valley as the cold land air rushed to meet the warm sea – would be chuffing by tomorrow morning.

Walking into the bar he noticed the same crowd were still there. He wondered if they had ever left! West Coast bars were notorious for their after hours drinking. He remembered one story from before where the landlord has received a call beside his bed early one Sunday morning that asked him to open up the doors. He replied that it was only nine o’clock and was too early to let them in. “Bugger that” the caller had said “unlock the doors, we’re trying to get out”

Recognising the man, the bartender raised his eyebrows in the internationally recognised “what’ll it be?” “Err – two handles of beer please mate” he announced.

“Look ‘scuse me for asking this”, the bartender offered” but it would be cheaper for you to have a jug rather than two handles”

“Yeah I know”, the man said “but there is a reason for this”

The bar quietened.

“Pour them and I’ll tell you” he reluctantly continued – knowing that their curiosity would never be satiated until he did.

The handles duly arrived and the patrons gathered around expectantly.

“Well it was like this” the man started and proceeded to tell them about his war years and his mate. The two beers were a beer for his mate and beer for him. He told them about the call up, the fighting in Crete, the desert and Italy and how his cobber always stuck by him and he stood steadfast by his mate through bullets, mud, sergeant-majors, NAAFI food and cheap foreign wine. The patrons were thrilled with his stories – remembering some of their own, but they continued to listen is awed silence. The end of the story came with the telling of the thirty year reason for drinking a separate beer for his army mate and one for himself whenever he was in a pub.

It was close to the end of the war and his mate and he were in a foxhole close to the Nazi front line. Both were a little pissed after having found a litre flask of wine in the hastily abandoned farmhouse and their incaution was further compounded when they got the smokes out. Lighting his first, the man offered the flame to his cobber and knew his mistake as the impact of the bullet and the sound arrived at the same time.

“Christ” – one of the patrons said, “now we understand - that’s terrible, I can understand your feeling of guilt – and I respect your dedication over the years for keeping his memory alive”. The bar crowd nodded sagely as the man took a pause and heaved a sigh.

“Nah” he eventually continued, “ the bullet missed us but it hit the wine flask and shattered it. We knew the end was coming soon and all we had to do was keep our heads down and not be so stupid and that night we made a pact to drink each others health whenever we had the opportunity. He retired to the outback in Oz and I’ve never seen him again since we demobbed – but he’s a good bastard”.

The exploits had taken all evening and glancing at his watch, the man bade them all a good night and returned home. The patrons carried on.

So it was for a couple of months as the man and the locals became friends and the regular downing of two handles became a legend and the respect for mateship was recognised.

Then one night, after a particularly heavy spring Nor’ west storm that had the whitebaiters licking their lips in anticipation of a good run next morning – the man walked into the bar again and was greeted by the usual cheery welcome. The bartender reached for the two handles and started to pour.

“Just the one tonight” the man sadly said. The bar went silent. Open mouthed, the bartender placed the single handle down and after a long pause said “Its bad news isn’t it?”

“Yep”

“Shit” one of the patrons asked “Your mates died?”

The man took a long draught, wiped his lips and said

“Nah – I’ve had to give up drinking”

What a good bastard.