There would be restrictive outcomes flowing from ‘joining the dots’, and despite several hours spent considering our options, none of them made sense! Church and promised salvation versus a slaked thirst. There would be considerable inconveniences, … and well, bugger it, the arguments went so far up our nostrils that we were finding it difficult to sneeze! We weren’t going to be pushed into something so devilishly evil.
The circling discussion echoed off the old cream tiles, as the mob got down to some serious choogling of the frothy amber liquid. “What about joining those fuckin’ dots? Fuckin bullshit. Bloody irrelevant, if yas arsks me,” proffered Bluey, his beer resting on the beermat as he battled with wet papers, sticky fingers, a damp lighter and a growing frustration with his inability to get the smoke lit.
Bluey had the floor. “That bloody Jack Kane, the DLP-stooge wants to continue the prohibition on Sunday trading. We working blokes gotta stand together. No more of this junk, we gotta back John Cain and the Sunday openin’ push. The missus and kids can still go to church.” The assembled heads nodded in agreement. Someone gave Florence the nod “nother round, please Flo”, as the bloody dots’ conundrum continued to circulate around the bar stools.
Florence knew ‘em all, had been serving them drinks for a decade or more: knew that Bluey liked a dash; Johnno had a splash of raspberry, and Bill only ever drank his beer in a pony. Their swearing came with the job: she practised giving as good as she got, and she emptied the bar with the rule that the last person out wasn’t served for the next week. Clearing out was never a problem!
A young sheila helped Flo at the bar from 5 o’clock. The furniture factory down the road regularly delivered forty or so thirsty throats, eager to breast the bar right up to the ‘last drinks’ call.
As the clock ticked down towards six, Flo came into her own; able to pour and deliver six pots quicker than a speeding ticket! The youngster was learning, but a cheer went up as she dropped four pots onto the deck!
The hose came in at six thirty every night, just after the local coppers had been in for their nightly ‘complimentaries’. No matter how much water was delivered, the combination of stale smoke, sweaty armpits and the sulphureous aroma of old piss created its own, possibly lethal funk. The young sheila gagged when she first started, but Flo sailed through with nary a snuffle.
Flo was back opening the bar at ten the following morning, Dettol a recent, tell-tale addition to the efforts to freshen the space.