by Jim Haynes
Ivan reached for the next two bottles and was back to his rhythm again. Forty-five bottles, fifty, fifty-five, sixty. The impossible was being translated into reality in front of our eyes. Then came a piece of virtuosity: Ivan flipped the tops of two bottles but instead of raising his right hand, he raised both hands and poured the contents of two bottles down his throat simultaneously. It took just eight seconds. Seven hundred and fifty millilitres of beer in eight seconds to join the flood that was already coursing through his stomach, intestines, bloodstream.
Technically he had to be dead. No human tissue could withstand an assault of alcohol like that. Perhaps Ivan wasn’t human; perhaps he had never been alive. He had stopped again. He glanced around the circle of spectators.
‘Had it, Ivan?’ said one hopefully.
Ivan ignored him.
He looked to his principal, the older drinker. There was something he’d forgotten, a condition in the contract that hadn’t been spelled out.
‘Time out to leak?’ he said, a little plaintively.
‘Sure, get going,’ said his backer.
Ivan was away from the bar for five minutes, which wasn’t surprising. I wondered whether he had regurgitated some of the beer, but this didn’t seem to occur to anybody else.
At eighty bottles, Ivan stopped again. We waited expectantly for the mighty belch, but it didn’t come. He paused for about fifteen seconds and then reached for two new bottles. But there was a change of pace. The mighty fingernails fumbled slightly before the bottle tops flew off. His movements were deliberate and ponderous. Once he missed his aim and a jet of beer splashed onto his chin. I wondered whether this counted as a whole bottle but nobody raised the point. He was pausing each time he set down the bottles.
I was aware that gently, almost whispering, the whole bar was counting: ‘Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight.’
The count was slowing as Ivan’s drinking rate slowed. By now he was taking fifteen seconds a bottle, then eighteen, nineteen. At ninety-five bottles, Ivan stopped again, one half-full bottle in his left hand. He leaned forward. We waited again for the belch, but there was no sound.
Ivan shook his head from side to side. I saw his eyes. They had gone completely white, like a blind man’s.
Ivan started to sway.
‘Come on, Ivan, into ’em, boy!’
Ivan’s massive body swung around in a slow circle, his feet still firmly on the floor. But then he steadied himself and the giant hand was raised. But this time he put the bottle to his lips. It did not go down in one unbroken stream. He swallowed many times with great effort. He put the bottle on the counter and reached for two more. He couldn’t get the tops off; the barman whipped them off for him. Slowly, painfully, his eyeballs rolled deep into his head, his body swaying in ever-increasing circles, Ivan drank each bottle.
‘Ninety-nine!’ It was a roar.
Then Ivan drank the ninety-ninth bottle. By then he was spinning quickly, inclining his body at an impossible angle. Only the weight and size of his legs can have kept him upright.
Somebody had to put the hundredth bottle into his hand. Obviously he couldn’t see it, or anything else for that matter, but somehow his hand found his gyrating head and he got the bottle to his lips.
Down went the beer, slowly, terribly slowly. But down it went, all of it.
‘One hundred!’ It was a mighty animal scream. The empty bottle crashed to the floor. Ivan had drunk one hundred stubbies in just under an hour.
Three or four men tried to stop Ivan spinning and there was a general hubbub as bets were settled and fresh drinks ordered.
Then Ivan brought instant silence with a vast bellow.
‘Vodka!’ he shouted.
The word, as much as the level of Ivan’s thunderous voice, brought the silence.
He turned to the bar and thumped it.
‘Vodka!’
Dazed, the barman poured him a nip of vodka.
Ivan brushed the glass off the bar with a sweep of his hand that demolished half a dozen other drinkers’ glasses as well.
‘The bottle!’ he roared.
There was silence.
Then timidly, terrified in the presence of mystical greatness, the barman put a bottle of vodka on the counter. It was open, but Ivan broke its neck on the bar in a ritual gesture. Apparently he could see again, although his eyes were still just blank white.
He raised the vodka bottle until the jagged neck was a handspan from his mouth, then poured a gush of the clear spirit down his throat. Half the bottle gone, he slapped it down on the counter; it rolled on its side and the vodka slopped onto the floor. Nobody noticed.
Arms by his side, eyes pure white, body rigid, Ivan made for the door of the bar. A quick passage cleared for him and he went through in a stumbling rush, like a train through a forest. He crashed into the swinging door, the bright flash of late sunlight illuminating his huge frame, and plunged headfirst out into the street, hitting the dust with a thud that seemed to shake the building. Just once his head moved, and then he was a motionless heap of sweat-sodden humanity in the dust.
‘We’d better get a truck to take the poor bastard home,’ said somebody.
‘Yeah.’ And two of the drinkers, kindly men, wandered off to organise the truck.
‘He’s forgotten his money,’ said someone else.
‘I’ll keep it for him,’ said the barman. ‘He’ll be back in the morning. Probably have a head.’
‘THE ALCOHOLICS’ CREED’
ANON
Our lager
Which art in barrels
Hallowed be thy foam
Thy will be drunk
Thy pints be sunk
At home as it is in tavern.
Give us this day thy foamy head
And forgive us our spillages
As we forgive those who spill thee against us
And lead us not to incarceration
But deliver us from hangovers
For thine is the sin done, the headache, the guilt trip,
For ever and ever . . .
. . . Barmen.
Part 5
TO THE CITY
A trip to ‘the big smoke’ has become a ‘standard’ in Australian storytelling. The contrasting lifestyles and attitudes of city slickers and bush folk, and the ever-present danger of losing your true values and sense of self in the city, or finding redemption and peace in the bush, are themes that occur again and again.
The ‘city slicker’ versus the ‘country hick’ has been a constant source of inspiration for stories, verse, yarns and jokes from the earliest colonial days, through the era of gold rushes and ‘new chums’, and through to the stories of Steele Rudd and Henry Fletcher.
Many of Banjo Paterson’s most famous poems, like ‘The Man From Ironbark’, ‘Geebung Polo Club’, ‘Been There Before’ and ‘Clancy of The Overflow’, are based on contrasting city life to rural life.
The iconic figures of the gullible bushie and the confidence man, or ‘spieler’, turn up in many guises. The many ruses used by the ‘spieler’ to outwit the ‘bushie’ include some, like the ‘Uncle from Fiji’, which became stereotypes in themselves.
The opening poem by Edward Dyson (written for The Bulletin under his pen-name ‘Billy T’), in which a woman’s ingenuity proves to be more than a match for both bush caution and spieler, is one of my all-time favourites.
The story by Gavin Casey adds a different and darker dimension to the old theme of bush camaraderie and alienation in the city.
‘SIMPLE SISTER GOES
TO SYDNEY’
‘BILLY T’
(EDWARD DYSON)
When Flo resolved to go to town
From brothers three a yell went up,
Predicting ruin and distress.
Bill, in his horror, dropped a cup.
‘Gorstruth!’ he said, ‘in Sydney there,
What is a simple girl to do?
They took me down. I lost me watch
/> And seven quid. What ’ope for you?’
Ben turned on her in pale dismay.
‘Look here, me girl, ain’t you bin told
How one of them there spieler blokes
Done me for twenty pound in gold?
He was as nice a gentleman
As any in the blessed shops:
He got away with all I had,
And took a luner at the cops.”
‘Me, too,’ said Dave, ‘that time I went
To Sydney town to see the Show
One trimmed me for me bran’ new suit.
You stay where we can watch you, Flo.’
Flo packed. ‘If spieler comes at me
His finish will be sharp,’ she said;
And when the boys next heard of her
She’d got a bloke, and then was wed.
She wrote: ‘He’s rather nice, I think,
And I am putting him to work.
Next Chrissmiss we are comin’ up
To see yous people back o’ Bourke.’
And when he came he brought for Bill
A silver watch and seven quid,
For Dave a bran’ new suit of check,
A ruby tie-pin and a lid.
To Ben he handed twenty pounds,
In nice new minted sovereigns, too.
And still the brothers gaped at him,
And still their great amazement grew.
He was a natty kind of chap,
With gentle manners, small and slim.
And when they spoke ’twas as one man.
‘So ’elp me Flo’,’ they said, ‘it’s ’im!’
THE WAYBACKS GO
TO SYDNEY
HENRY FLETCH ER
CHAPTER ONE: DADS WAITS A FEW MINUTES
Everyone at Dingo Flat, and far beyond, to the Wallaby Ranges, knows the Wayback family—old settlers, corned beef and pumpkin eaters; tall, lanked, ring-barked folk; hair sun-bleached, and features contracted to a pucker in the brow in the contest with flies and vivid sunlight; true children of sun, sorrow, and scrub.
Old Ted had been going down to Sydney any time this last score years, but had never gone. When he had the money, he lacked the time, and when time hung on his hands his pockets were empty.
Ever since they could remember the children had heard of that wonderful journey ahead: ‘When we all go to Sydney!’ They had come to regard it as a visionary mirage, an instalment of Paradise only to be realised in dreams.
So that, when Old Ted, having sold his mob of fats at a fat price, suddenly said that the time had come for them all to go to town and see the Commonwealth celebrations, and join in the festivities, no one could credit it.
‘Oh, Dads!’ said Mums, ‘How can we go now? That’s just like you. Why didn’t you say so last week before I sat the three broody hens? Who will look after the chicks?’
‘Oh, hang the broody hens! Haven’t you been bothering to go this last twenty year? Said you was buried alive, and ther children ought to see life, and I don’t know what else? And now yous talk about broody hens! How was I ter know last week that Price would come along and give ten pounds a head?’
‘But we’ve got nothing to wear Dads,’ said Mums, looking fearfully at the nine children, who had paused in their eating as though petrified at the news. Jabez held a potato on a fork halfway to his mouth, Tilly had her teeth fast in a chunk of damper, Sarah Jane held a cup of tea aloft as though she were an iron drinking fountain, Euphemia had her mouth wide open, Rube held his spoonful of sugar half over the table, Delia’s lips were stuffed with pumpkin, Little Sid’s eyes had opened so wide that his forehead had vanished, Cris held his bread in mid-air like a newspaper; while Bubs, alone unaffected by the general paralysis, grasped the moment with both paws, and collected all the titbits from the plates of his brothers and sisters that were within reach or grab.
‘Nothin’ ter wear!’ said Dads. ‘Why yous not naked!’
‘That’s just like you,’ replied Mums, ‘you never takes a hit of notice as long as there is some sort o’ rags over our backs. What would people in Sydney say about us even in our Sunday things? Why Tilly wants new everything; Sarah Jane has outgrown all the tucks I’ve let out of her skirt; Euphemia’s boots have no toes in ’em; and, as for Delia, I’m fair ashamed ter see the child. Then there’s the boys’ pants; I’m just sick o’ mendin’ ’em. I believe Rube thinks his mother’s a sewing machine. I’ve patched his knickers five times this month if I . . .’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Dads, ‘if we can’t go we can’t, and there’s an end o’ it; but I thought yous wanted ter go.’
‘Now, there you are, flying off and jumping down a body’s throat before they have opened their mouth; I never saw such an unreasonable man. Who said we’s couldn’t go? The celebrations are weeks ahead yet and . . .’
‘I see by ther papers, Jane, that all ther hotels are chock a block and folks that wait will have ter camp in ther streets and eat their meals on ther kerbstone. None o’ that fer me, Jane! If we goes now, before ther rush. The last beast in ther paddick gets ther worst grass. Not me, Jane, not me!’
‘Oh! Are we really, truly going Mums?’ eight voices asked with a single shout.
‘By cripes!’ yelled Jabez, and he ran onto the verandah and threw a stone at the cat.
‘I must have a new dress now, Mums!’ cried Tilly.
‘An’ me, an’ me!’ echoed the others as they caught hands and waltzed around the room.
As for Rube, the house could not hold his delight; he had to rush into the yard and throw rocks at the dog.
Bubs had crawled over the table; his movements covered by the general riot, and now sat in the gravy while he pulled over the cruet.
Crash!
Howl!
Spank!!!
‘Oh, you wicked child, why didn’t you mind him, one of you? Now, look at that; I hope you’ll wash it up, I shan’t! I declare it’s enough to vex a saint!’
* * *
Bright and early the following morning the male Waybacks and Mums drove into Barjo in the cart, the father and the boys to fit on new suits and get their hair cut, the mother to buy much dress material.
Dads took seven in ready-mades across the shoulders and four around the waist, so that the new coat hung at the back in two gracefully draped box pleats from the shoulderblades. The storekeeper said it fitted like a glove; and, as Dads had never worn a glove, he could not well contradict him; besides, he was mighty anxious to get the job over.
‘That’s all right, Boss, fits me tip-top,’ and the suit was boxed up.
Mums had all the boys’ suits on the rack pulled down, while her lads stood in a row like railway signals, flopping their arms up and down as they tried on the coats. After all the fuss, Mums took the ones she had seen first, then she sat down in the drapery department as if she owned it and meant to camp there a week.
Seeing this, Dads went over to the Dodrop Inn to have a nip and pass the time with Sullivan. He came back in an hour.
‘Are you ready, Mums?’
‘In a few minutes, Dads.’
Dads went over and had another nip. He met Regan, from Duckhole and, of course, they both shouted.
Regan warned Dads about the confidence men down in Sydney and how a bloke he knew got took down for fifty quid. Dads, looking at the clock, saw another hour had gone by, and went over to the store.
‘Are you ready, Mums?’
‘Only just another minute, Dads.’
Dads went over for another nip and met Allsop, from Longswamp, Allcorn, from Seven Acres, and Fegan, from Cowshorn, and they all had to relate to Dads what they had ‘heard tell’ of the pitfalls of city life. Dads felt he was being posted up to worldly wisdom of the latest date and armoured against all the wiles of the wicked, and took more nips to sink the advice into his memory.
Dads did not go over to the store again. Later on, when Mums had really finished and the boys had all been harnessed up, they helped Dads into the cart, where he sat o
n the bale of drapery and sang songs all the way home.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ said Mums, ‘how a man can’t wait a few minutes without making a fool of himself!’
* * *
It was the night before the journey. For a week the house had been in the possession of the dressmaker, the sewing machine, and the fashion plates from The Young Ladies’ Journal. Snips of lining fluttered in the wind and covered the floor; the girls were always taking on and taking off the raiment, and Dads had to get his meals anyhow he could in the slab kitchen.
* * *
The train starts from Barjo at 6 a.m. Dingo Flat is two hours’ drive, so naturally the Waybacks started at 2 a.m., to leave a safe margin of time. Mums had a new hat with three ostrich feathers that the milliner at Barjo had said was ‘the very latest from Paris’. Mums said she did not care a pin what she wore, only for the sake of the family she did not want the Sydney folks to laugh at her; thus, from a strict sense of duty, she bought the hat.
Now, a two hours drive in the Bush when the dew falls is ruination to the curl of feathers; so when the Wayback family got into the two spring carts Mums had her fine new hat in a paper bag, to be carefully preserved till they got to the station. In the meantime she wore her old milking bonnet. Bubs howled all the way to Barjo, where Mums nursed him to sleep in the waiting room.
All Barjo and Dingo Flat seemed to have congregated to see the Waybacks off. Till now they had no idea how many dear friends they had; for it is when they are going to get rid of you, if only for a time, that true fellowship declares itself.
When at last the train did come in, Dads and Mums rushed to hold it as though they feared it might change its mind. In they jumped, father, mother, boys and girls, bags and parcels, packets and wraps, and then everybody that could find a place leaned out the windows and grinned at the neighbours on the platform.
Cousin Jonas was there to take the carts home, and he kept saying, ‘Now mind you take care of yourselves.’