Читать книгу Collected Short Stories Volume 6 - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 3

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A stranger staying awhile at the Travellers' Rest, which was an ancient caravansary in a remote backblock town, and seeing nobody appearing on the dull scene day after day, and only himself and a multitude of flies answering the bell for meals, might well wonder how the place paid its license, especially as there was a rival pub in the vicinity waiting with equal patience for someone to come along with a thirst.

The Travellers' Rest was kept by "our esteemed citizen and genial host, Mr. Jeremiah Grum," as the local correspondent of the Mulgaland Recorder described him on the occasion when he fell down the cellar and hurt his leg. If the stranger liked a drop, and had money to spend, Mr. Grum was certainly genial, and helped in a great variety of ways to while away the tedious hours; but if he only wanted board and lodging, he soon realised that the host was Grum in more than name. He was left to his own resources—and the main resources were to lol round and meditate on the dreariness of existence, and to watch the lifeless horizon for a chance comer, and to smack at flies, and to walk up and down when he wearied of inactivity. He couldn't read, for Mr. Grum didn't subscribe to the Recorder, and he left no literature about that customers might become absorbed in and so lose interest in cards and dice and the billiard table. Books and newspapers were injurious to business. There was a piano on the premises, but Miss Grum only played between drinks to customers who were merry; and if one wanted to do a little spooning with Miss Grum at other times he had to do it across the bar. She was a chip of the old block. She liked her admirers in mellow mood, and had no use for the teetotal stranger who wished to amuse himself cheaply and kill time without expense.

When the monotony was broken anon by the appearance of travelling cattle, and drovers spent the evening and a good part of next day there; when shearers arrived in little jovial crowds from cut-out sheds, and chucked money about as though it were as plentiful as pebbles, then the stranger began to understand things a little. He glimpsed the marvellous recuperative possibilities of a place that more than half its time had no visible means of support.

In the off-season there might be a three-months' wait for a customer; but that customer might be worth a hundred pounds to mine host, Jerry. Travellers indiscreetly pulled up to have a drink in passing; they got talking, having another, and just one more, until nothing at all mattered but "one more," and in the end they parted with everything that was negotiable, and "left a dog tied up" as well.

Jerry knew everybody within a radius of 200 miles. He knew the steady workers and the good payers, and these could get unlimited credit at the pubbery and a swag of bottled liquor to go home with. It might be six months before Jerry would see one of these debtors again, but he was quite content to wait for his money. His booking business was extensive. Every drink that had to be booked was particularised as "refreshments." There were some suspicious-minded people who generally had a hazy idea, when they came to settle up, that Jerry's book was a liar.

His bar reminded one of a spider's web, cunningly set to catch the passing fly. A man might have no intention of calling whatever. This the watchful spider observed, when he passed a certain point without turning. Then he was hailed, and the spider stepped out to inquire about a team he wasn't expecting, or an imaginary person named Smith, or the state of a waterhole that didn't concern him. Then he struck up a conversation, and insidiously lured the fly to step into his parlor. The dice-box was conspicuous on the counter, and when there was too long an interval between the jingle of sixpences it was introduced like a good old friend whose hand he must take. There were indoor quoits strewn under his feet, and various reminiscences on tap concerning them to lead to a game. There was a ring suspended from the centre of the ceiling, with a hook on the wall, doing its little part in keeping the caller on the premises, and filling in time between shouts. There were cards and draughts and chess and dominoes calling for players. There were attractive pictures, clippings and notices on the walls, preserved snakes on the shelves, which were handed down for inspection; some tricks and puzzles that he would be invited to try his hand at; and there was the billiard-table. Besides these, at times when there was likely to be a little more traffic than usual, a deadbeat was retained on the premises, whose office was to hang about and talk some conversation into the ears of unsuspecting visitors, and introduce the cards to the cheque man.

When shearing was on at any shed within ten miles or so, Jerry sent out a waggonette (known as the Lambs' Express) on Saturday afternoon, and particularly at cut-out, for the convenience of any of the men "who would like a run down for a change." It was not uncommon to see Miss Grum on a seat behind the driver, lonesome and sweet. And in the course of sundry chats with Tom, Dick and Harry she lost no opportunity of expatiating on the delights of a dance they were going to have that night. Dances and girls usually hooked a good many shearers.

According to the notice over Jerry's door, he was "Licensed to sell fermented and spirituous liquors"; but in the glorious days of lambing down, when Jerry was younger, and grew fat and independent, he dispensed some astonishing mixtures—known as tanglefoot, snake-juice, paralysers, double-distilled lightning, mulga rum and blue-murder rousers. It was customary for a man to hand his cheque over with an injunction to notify him when it was cut out. Then Bushy would proceed to paint things vermilion; every available man within coo-ee would be called up to assist in the process; and after a few stiffeners the whole lot would be spread out in various unpremeditated attitudes about the place.

Those good times lived long, and their passing was deeply regretted. Many a one came in with a pair of good horses and a first-class outfit, and a week later tramped away with a scanty swag on his back, and a head like a volcano. Travellers with big cheques, bound for "down below," sometimes called for a wet in passing, and in a few minutes were "dead to the world." Eventually, like the others, they went back to the bush on foot to make another start. Usually in such cases no statement of account was asked for or given; in fact, no accounts were kept. The life of a cheque was decreed on the highest estimate of what the company could drink in a given time.

Election day was a glorious one in those times. Candidates shouted barrels of beer, which were rolled out into the street. The crowd gathered round them, helping themselves till the soakers, of whom there was a sprinkling in every crowd, got down to it and slept off their debauch round the empty barrels like so many gorged pigs round a trough. It was common, too, on election day for free drinks to be served out to all comers at the bars. The electors refreshed themselves at the expense of one candidate at Jerry Grum's, and at the expense of the other candidate at the rival pub, thus being divided according to their political views into two big drinking contingents, each endeavoring by any means possible to capture votes from the opposition. Men were inveigled into trap houses, where drink was stored; others were openly kidnapped and, having been made blissfully drunk, they were led up like lambs to the slaughter to vote for the wrong party. There was no such thing as splitting votes in that township, as there was no pub for a third candidate.

A hard-working, hard-drinking bush contractor known as Morginty Bob struck Jerry's hotel one day in that hogging period, and the way Morginty's finances evaporated was described in immortal rhyme by the local poet (every backblock town has a local poet):

They were twenty 'ardened boozers out o' jobs,

An' though answ'rin' to such names as Jack an' Pat,

Jerry's ledger made 'em all "Morginty Bobs,"

An' it was no use o' contradictin' that!

Bob was fat—

But the leeches couldn't muster up a sprat.

In the saner time that followed the days of lambing down, the thirsty souls of Outback took more care of their hard-earned wealth. Still the old spider had many ways of catching the fat fly, and once he got him safely trapped he squeezed every drop of juice out of him.

Soft drinks were rarely to be had at Grum's pubbery. Only a few liquors of a specially-paralysing character were kept in stock. The bottlelessness of his bar-room at most times would have made a city man feel lonely. Perhaps not more than a dozen receptacles would meet the eye, and they were mostly rum and brandy, and whisky concocted of pale brandy and water. He served brandy and whisky out of the same bottle in emergencies. Rum was the most profitable tipple to Jerry. It gathered strength, and was a good patient in the doctor's hands. Every fortnight or so a strong brew of black tea was dumped into it. When it gave out, under exceptional circumstances, an imitation made from chemicals, or an extract of boiled-down casks, strengthened with pain-killer, methylated spirits or tobacco, could be substituted. Much of the wine he sold was made from chemicals; likewise the vinegar on the table was often simply sour beer from the bottom of casks. A fairly good liquor was served out to any sober man who was likely to be a judge; but as he progressed through the various stages of intoxication he went through a course of bottles containing as many grades and qualities till he was finally drinking the water the glasses were washed in.

Close to hand, the observant visitor noticed what was apparently the same blend of spirit kept in separate bottles, which were used in accordance with the condition or social standing of the customer. There were the magistrate's or the sergeant's bottle, the squatter's bottle, the boundary-rider's bottle, the drunks' bottle and the blacks' bottle. The latter contained a vile mixture composed of dregs from the glasses, perhaps a promiscuous blending of every liquor served out for a month past. The drunks' bottle contained mostly water; occasionally it was "dosed" and put the recipient to sleep, when he could be conveniently stowed away in the dead-house—minus his cheque. That was considerably diminished, if not wiped out, for him while he slept—which was a fine consideration for his health. When he came to his senses he found a horrifying array of dead marines strewn about him, including one or two under his pillow, from which he deduced that he had been having a glorious time. He would feel bad enough, anyhow, to have swallowed a distillery.

Financial drunks were shepherded with the most commendable care. If one happened to slip over to the rival pub before he had become too far shikkered to hand his money over to the barman for safe custody, someone would be sent across with the information that a telegram had just come for him, or somebody wanted to see him on urgent business. Enticed back, he was assiduously waited upon and entertained until he was well tanked. Then he was locked up in a back room, and as much grog brought in to him as he liked to ask for. If he got a few hours' sleep during the night he might feel fairly steady in the morning, and inclined for a ramble round. But his money wasn't done yet, so his boots couldn't be found, or it was necessary to send his clothes to the wash, "as he slipped into a puddle-hole last night." He had a pick-me-up—which often knocked him down, and, clothed in a misfit suit, that he didn't care to be seen abroad in, he had breakfast, after which he was wheedled into a game of cards, and so gradually worked back into the lockup and the entertaining company of fantods.

It was common knowledge that Jerry got the biggest cheque out of every shearing shed about, and from nearly every squattage. There was hardly a job of any kind that was done in the neighborhood that did not add something to his till. Naturally he was on the Progress Committee, and took an enormous interest in the development of the district, especially in the way of building culverts, making roads, putting down bores, excavating tanks and erecting schools and other public buildings—excepting public houses. All these meant an expenditure of money and the employment of many men, and the jobs were calculated to make men thirsty. He liked to see the road in a very bad condition a little way from the hotel on each side, and good and level just opposite, where teams could rest after a stiff pull over the bad parts: and of course Jerry's window, decorated with a tempting assortment of bottles and staring the heated drivers in the face, would remind them that a drink would go very well just then. Jerry spent a lot of his superabundance of spare time in devising ways and means of attracting business.

For all that, Jerry's life was not all beer and skittles. He was nominally lord of his house: but in reality his house was everybody's. He was never his own master, and had no time that he could call his own. From six in the morning till eleven at night were his legal hours, but the travelling public and the people about him didn't recognise any closing time at all. He might be just getting to sleep at midnight after a hard day when he would be roused again by late comers. Occasionally the rap-tap at the door was unheeded; then it was repeated at his bedroom window, and continued until he got out and admitted the disturber. That person might be a stranger or an old customer, he might want a bed or only a drink. Sometimes the desideratum was an oyster supper (the oysters being tinned): and not infrequently the fuming publican was called out of bed to serve a "Jimmy Woodser" which he was asked to book. And these fellows talked and talked and talked, and took offence if the impatient Grum didn't show that he was pleased to sit up and listen. Men, too, who had been drinking during the night, put in an appearance again about daylight for a reviver. He would hear himself being hailed in this fashion:

"Mr. Grum!" softly and courteously.

No answer.

"Mr. Grum!" three notes higher. Getting impatient.

No answer.

"Hey, GRUM!" loudly, and becoming discourteous.

Still no answer.

"JEREMIAH GRUM—***!***?——!!"

This would be accompanied by a fierce rapping on the window, followed by a lump of road metal bouncing violently on the roof. As business was not continuous, Jerry was his own barman, manager, butcher, stockrider and groom. Sometimes he worked for months at contracts, leaving the care of the hostelry to Mrs. and Miss Grum during the day, and taking up the duties at night. When the police were about Jerry frequently found himself between two fires. Men in various stages of intoxication insisted on gambling—and they gambled with an excess of noise and endless argument. They were keen on thumping the piano, and singing and dancing; and Jerry ran the risk of losing good customers by stopping it and of being fined by permitting it to go on. When he mildly remonstrated with the more obstreperous persons they threw beer and insults at him and some wanted to fight him. Jerry did not forget that it was whisky talking—his whisky—and he let it pass in the interests of business.

His pubbery was periodically visited by half a dozen squatters' sons. When they had imbibed more freely than wisely they rode their horses into the bar and insisted on the indignant landlord refreshing each animal with a drop out of a lemonade bottle. They rode the quadrupeds through the passage and into the billiard-room, driving the players out with stockwhips, to the accompaniment of ear-splitting yells. They carried the forms out, and had hurdle races in the street. They ornamented the tree-guards in front with bedroom furnishings in the small hours of the morning. They raided the pantry and kitchen and dragged the girls out to dance. Now and again they created a sensation by wrecking the furniture and smashing the bottles on the shelves. Mr. Grum looked on helplessly. Afterwards, when those worthies got home and recovered their sanity, they sent for the bill, which they promptly paid by cheque. One bill, for damages alone—according to Jerry's assessment—amounted to £175. He got a new piano out of that. The old one accounted as smashed beyond repair, he sold to the blacksmith.

If Jim, the rouseabout, or Sam, the charcoal-burner, started to make merry in the same way as the Squattocracy he was promptly run in. The way Jerry Grum showed his authority on such occasions, and his determination to maintain an orderly house, was a sharp lesson to everybody who hadn't plenty of money.