‘Bloody disgrace,’ said Norm O’Neill, huge nose pointed roofwards under the peak of his flat cap. ‘Rot set in, there and then. Bastards never give us a fair go years after that.’
Eric Tanner caught sight of me. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘You ever hear about that ’49 scandal?’
‘Not that I can recall,’ I said.
‘Three goals in front, five minutes to go. Two of these Tiger girls get in front of Bill. He’s taken to the air, you understand, big leap. Bill had a big leap, not the biggest but big. Big enough for this lot certainly. Anyway, he’s up there, reachin, and these pussycats they’re buggerin about and they end up bangin their heads together, altogether accidental. One wobbles around whinin, the other, he’s an actor, he falls over, they have to help him off. Crebbin, that’s his name. Umpire gives the Tigers a free. Well, a few of our fellas get around him, give him a few words, next thing the kick’s bein taken plumb in front.’
‘First of three,’ said Wilbur Ong.
‘Three frees in a row,’ Eric said. ‘Roy puts a hand on these sheilas, they get a kick. Win by a point.’
‘The next week…’ said Norm O’Neill.
‘I’m tellin this story,’ said Eric. ‘The next week this actor Crebbin that got the little knock on the head, he gets married. Nice-lookin girl from the picture in the paper. And who d’ya think’s standing next to her at the altar, givin her away?’
‘Could it be her father?’
‘Her bloody father. And who’s her bloody father?’
‘Surely not?’
‘Too bloody true. The bloody ump give the game to the Tigers. How d’ya like that?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’
Stan put down his paperback and came over, scratching the surviving corkscrew hairs on his head. ‘You bin scarce,’ he said.
‘Duty called,’ I said. ‘Been out there saving a man from a cruel miscarriage of justice.’
‘Don’t have to go out. Save a man from a cruel bloody miscarriage of justice right here,’ said Stan. ‘You’re the old man’s lawyer, talk him into sellin this dump, save me wastin my whole life listenin to old farts goin on about dead footy players.’
Stan’s father, Morris, owned the pub and, at 87, showed no interest in selling it.
‘Find a suitable buyer and I’ll think about it,’ I said and ordered a round.
Stan was at the tap, drawing beers without looking, when he said loudly, ‘Speakin of dead footy players, had a bloke in here this mornin, wants to buy the pictures.’
All talk stopped.
‘The pictures?’ said Wilbur Ong. ‘What pictures?’
Stan gestured around the walls with the back of a meaty hand. ‘The photos. All this junk.’
‘Bloke,’ said Norm O’Neill, cold voice. ‘What kind of a bloke?’
Stan put down a glass, hitched his pants over his paunch. ‘Very nice bloke. Well-dressed. Blazer and grey flannels.’
‘What kind of a bloke?’ said Norm, voice now icy.
Stan drew the last beer with great concentration, held it up and inspected the head. ‘Brisbane Lions bloke,’ he said. ‘Reckons the photos’d be better off in Brisbane in this Lions clubhouse they got there, big luxury clubhouse. Carpets. Got a Lions Wall of Fame. In the bistro.’
‘In the what?’ said Eric Tanner.
Stan shook his head in sadness. ‘Italian term we in the hospitality industry use, Eric.’
In the silence, you could hear the traffic on Smith Street, hear two women talking as they walked by outside.
I looked around the pub walls. The bits you could see between the photographs were stained the colour of black tea by a hundred years of tobacco smoke. The photographs recorded Fitzroy Football Club sides and players going back to the turn of the century. On my way to the toilet through the door marked GENTS, I often paused to look at my father, big, dark Bill Irish, in the sides of the late 1940s. My grandfather was on the wall too. He had three seasons in the seniors before breaking an arm in two places against Collingwood. His team’s faded photographs were near the dartboard.
‘Lions Wall of Fame,’ said Eric Tanner, head tilted, eyes slits. ‘What Lions would those be?’
‘The way he put it,’ Stan said. ‘Fitzroy Football Club’s in Brisbane now, photos should be there too.’
The silence was absolute.
Norm O’Neill’s nose seemed to grow larger, now much more than a prominent feature on a facial landscape, now it was the landscape, a nose and glasses with a face attached. He cleared his throat.
‘Stanley,’ he said, ‘Stanley, you’re missin somethin.’ He was speaking slowly and clearly, leaning forward, knuckles on the bar. ‘Fitzroy Football Club’s not in Brisbane, Stanley. Fitzroy Football Club can never be in Brisbane. Nobody can take the Lions to Brisbane. Why is that, Stanley? Because Fitzroy Football Club can only be in Fitzroy.’
Norm paused, looked around the room. Then he said, ‘Well, bloody Brisbane can put a lion on their jumpers but that doesn’t mean the Lions are now in that bloody tropical hellhole. The Lions are here, in this bloody pub. And they’re not yours to sell. Grasp that, can you?’
Silence, all eyes on Stan.
Stan picked up a beer glass, held it to the light. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘Pretty good price offered. Never thought the old photos’d be worth anything.’
‘You talk to Morris about this?’ asked Wilbur.
‘Don’t need to talk to anyone,’ said Stan. ‘I’m the manager. He’s sittin in the sun in Queensland with all the other ancient buggers got any brains. This pub, I decide what happens.’
‘I remember you when you were two bricks and a pisspot high, your mum made a little Roys jumper for you,’ said Wilbur.
‘Given it a lot of thought,’ said Stan. ‘Bloke gets an answer tomorrow.’
Without even glancing at one another, Norm, Wilbur and Eric stood up. Charlie rose from his barstool. Wearily, I got up, put on a menacing look.
‘And what, Stanley,’ asked Norm, ‘and I want you to think hard about this. What is the answer?’
There was a long silence. Stan looked at each of us in turn, little smile on his face, put the glass down, turned and set off back to his paperback. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Given it a lot of thought.’
He picked up the book and looked down the counter at us.
We waited.
‘Reckon I’ll tell him to piss off,’ said Stan.
We all sat down and went back to drinking beer.
At 6.30, a car hooted outside. Three hoots. I said my goodbyes, went out with Charlie. His granddaughter Augustine’s car was at the door. She leaned over and opened the passenger door.
‘What did trade unions do to deserve this striking woman?’ I asked. Gus was a rising star in the union movement. She looked like Lauren Bacall with brains, a sight to soothe any old worker’s eye.
‘What did Taub’s Cabinetmaking do to deserve the most fetching man ever to mate two pieces of wood?’ said Gus.
‘They are both the undeserving,’ I said. ‘We are the deserving. Can we be brought together?’
‘Listen,’ said Charlie, fighting with the seatbelt. ‘In Kooyong, the library. You remember.’
‘I thought you made that up.’
‘People who look for criminals, they make up. Yesterday, this wife rings up. The man, he’s gone. But she wants it still. Measure up next week.’
‘I’ve got tables to finish. Little tables. Day’s work for a man who actually works. More for someone like me.’
‘Next week.’
‘Take him away, Gus,’ I said. ‘He’s ruined a spiritual moment.’
‘It’s a gift,’ she said. ‘The whole family has it.’
