"Not at the moment."
"Two beers coming up." The barman draws the jug. "Nice to have someone in the bar this time of day. It'd make a man cry, the quiet of it normally."
"No afternoon regulars?"
"Not for half an hour or so yet."
Simon slides in round the door, and stands just inside.
"I thought," Joe begins, but the barman grins. "Yours?" he asks, thumb to Kerewin.
"Mine," says Joe. "I'll throw him out eh?"
"Nah, no way. Wanna raspberry drink, ummm?" The barman hisses to them, "Is it a boy or a girl?"
Kerewin guffaws.
"He's a boy," and Joe waits resignedly for a crack about the length of the child's hair.
"Nice kiddie," says the barman. "Got one of me own about his size. What's your name?" he asks Simon.
The boy edges closer, his eyes flicking around their faces.
"Bit shy eh?"
The barman's beaming fondly. He obviously dotes on children.
"I wouldn't call him shy," says Joe. "He can't talk though."
"O hell," the man is blushing as though he should have known about it, "jeez, I really put my foot in it, didn't I?"
"I'm sorry," he says loudly, then drops his voice to whisper level "Is he ahhh backward? He don't look it."
"A little too forward if anything," says Joe. "Come on Haimona, don't skulk."
"Looks like you're allowed in after all," Kerewin turns to the barman for confirmation.
"Yeah yeah, sure, nobody minds. Lotsa them bring their kids in on the weekend. Gives the place a real nice feel if you know what I mean."
"Civilised drinking?"
He agrees heartily. "No fights or swearing or nothing. Even the rough blokes mind their manners… what'd you call him, mate?"
"Haimona. Maori for Simon."
"Well, glad to meet you Hymornah ehh Simon… my name's Dave, by the way."
"Kerewin;" says Kerewin, and Joe says, "I'm Joe."
"Great," says Dave. "Now, what'll you have, Simon? What does he drink?" to Joe.
"He'll tell you," he says, and lifts his child onto a bar stool. Simon writes PIA on his pad.
"No way," says Joe firmly, and the barman cranes in for a look. "You write good and neat," he says to Simon, "izzat Maori?" The boy nods and prints BEER beside it.
Dave laughs. "Hey neat!" He taps the jug. "But I can't give you any, sorry, Simon… the cops wouldn't like it. I'll look the other way if your Dad gives you a sip of his, though." He winks at them all.
"He won't get any of mine… though it's good to meet a barman like yourself who doesn't treat children as though they're some kind of exotic germ."
"Aw well, this is a bit different from the cities eh?" his quick look at them conveys, With gear like that, you're not country people. "Nobody minds a kiddie being in the bar provided someone's looking after it. Better that than leave them at home uncared for, or stuck out by themselves in a car, isn't it?"
"O yes," say Kerewin and Joe in unison, and when Joe pours the beer out, he avoids Simon's eyes.
"We'll get you a coke or something, okay?" and the boy writes O YES. "Ah smartass," and pushes the beerjug out of his reach.
"Have one with us, Dave?" asks Kerewin.
"I wouldn't say no," pouring himself a seven ounce from their jug, "that's very kind of you, I'll shout the next one, cheers."
Swallow, swallow, swallow.
"Ah look, we've forgotten Simon… did he decide on a drink, Joe?"
"Make it a coke, eh."
"On the house," says Dave, and winks again. "Wouldn't get it like that in the cities, now would you?"
"Not even in the best pubs," Kerewin says solemnly, while Joe thinks of Whangaroa, Population 4000 give or take a dog or two, and gives the man his widest whitest smile.
The regulars trickle in. They say Gidday to Dave, grin to the boy, nod to her and Joe, and settle down at their accustomed tables.
Motley bunch, she thinks. Fishermen. Farmhands. The odd truckie. And barflies… like that one there.
A big man, face purple, belly protruding, legs thick with oedema, delivering words in a permanent alcoholic slur.
Sad. One in every bar. Widowed or unmarried, gone beyond taking care. I should be warned maybe.
But the jug gets less: the glass is full again. Down and drown it goes. Our third to date, and he's grinning happily as he gets us another.
Sim's still with the toothrot, but cannily lining his vulnerable gut with potato chips. Neat kid, taking a single crisp at a time and eating it as though it's a communion bread. Sip of softdrink. Then licking the salt off his fingers. Grinning to me, and then back he. swings to his da, corroborating all he says with showoff gestures.
Me, still morose, although the beer is beginning to help me deny it.
Dave serving a new one, bang the angostura, swish a glass… pink gins coming up. The recipient has a high and tenor laugh and a midbaritone belch, and he swishes too.
Motley the locals may be, they're a helluva lot more tolerant than some other small country pubs I've known. There he goes, bending down to his friend, eyelashes fluttering before he sits. Right on, fella….
Did I say tolerant? Next door to them is a fat fellow with a carpenter's folded rule stuck in his rear pocket. Sour and sneering, getting up obviously and pushing rudely past them to the bar. He bears tattoos on his arm muscles like they're emblems of the brave, and he's got a paunch like a sponge pregnancy, overhanging the double ledge of his hips, overlapping his belt in a full flabby fall. Yech. And you can quit trying to sneer on me, mate.
She looks away, hearing Dave, "Wait your hurry now, wait your hurry, I'll get to you in a minute."
Joe's in conversation with a trio, all taking fish and prices and weather flat tack. And they've got Sim deep in the chat with them. Ho hum… what was that about comfort? Ah hell, the drink'll bring it, and they seem happy enough.
Talk seethes round her, coming in peculiar snatches.
"He's gone queer and he always was a queer bastard. Now he's absolutely queer, and even his housekeeper's left him…"
"… and her with muscles like a chicken's instep, not to mention tits like nothing at all, eh. So I-"
"Hey George! Glad to see you're still in the land of the living you old…" mumble mumble mumble.
"Who's the crutches?"
"Him? He just came outa hospital falling outa — "
"Hur hur! Ter hur hur hur!"
That's a laugh? Debate, debate, relate, relate, all around the bar-
Dave comes past and fidgets with a sloppy cloth, wiping up the spill.
"Enjoying yourself, Kerewin?"
"In a quiet way, Dave."
"Your mates are cards, eh?"
"They're good company."
"Jeez, I can imagine! They've got themselves quite an audience."
"Mmmm."
He passes on to his next customer, whistling,
They have, too. Barstools ranged round them in a semicircle, the man and his boy in the middle. Joe grinning like a hyena, and Simon showing off. Handsome Joe, brilliant sunburst shirt and maroon suit, strong hands bracing the child against the pitch of his knees, protective and gentle. Really so… and the brat leans against them, sure of his perch, happy child pretty as a picture. And who'd believe, under the flowery silk and fresh blue denim, the fine skin is keloid scars and seams from welt laid on welt? Them?
mentally thumbing the grinning chattering crowd,
They probably think this is the normal routine-
She sweeps up the rest of Simon's chips and eats them sourly.
I think I'll go home soon. I can drink by myself in as good company as here.
"See y'gain." "Hooray." "Chalk it up will ya, Dave?" "Rightio then." "O David," the willowy man, back again with his two pink gins. He smiles briefly at her, and goes on arranging his change in graduating rows on the bar-top.