It was a hot day — a bloody hot day, in fact! We had been working the whole day on the mate’s extensions — digging, levelling the dirt and mixing and pouring a tonne of concrete. Hot work. Thirsty work. It was getting late; the sun was well over the yardarm.
Mine host was a well-known tippler and so we had no fears that we would not be suitably rewarded for our sterling efforts on that day. Finally, it was time to down tools, stick our heads under the tap and hold out our hands in the time-honoured manner.
There is nothing like the expectation of an icy cold beer at the end of a long, hot day — and did we deserve it! (Has someone already said that?)
Our mate went to get the beers.
The minutes dragged on.
We’d heard the fridge open and close in the shed. What was he up to, slamming doors and that?
Then suddenly we heard curses, and the blue heeler, who’d been holed up in the cool of the shed, ran out yelping, followed by a cursing, spitting, red-faced bloke with murder in his eyes.
‘Well, she’s bloody done it this time!’
Dismayed, we listened and heard the sorry tale of last night’s blue and his cringing appeasement that ‘he really would give it up this time — no sweat’.
Of course, he didn’t mean it, and had said the same thing many times, but nothing had ever come of it — who would take something like that seriously? The woman was obviously stark raving mad to empty a fridge full of grog on the one day when she knew he would need it and to replace it with bottles of water.
And to think we’d all said ‘Bye’ to her nicely when she drove off a few hours ago.
In a cupboard behind some motoring magazines he’d found a six-pack of fancy beer, left behind by some smarty at the big Hawaiian do we’d had a while ago (had a volcano at that one!). Even his teenage son — a chip off the old block if ever there was one — wouldn’t come at it, so it had just sat there, gathering dust.
One of the blokes (he was a boy scout) chucked the water bottles onto the ground and shoved the six-pack into the remaining ice in the Esky, to take with us on the trip to the next house where, we were assured, there was a fridge full of grog just waiting for us.
Now, we are talking back in the bad old days here, when Sundays were as dry as a mother-inlaw’s kiss. The pubs were all shut.
Full of anticipation, we drove off chatting and laughing and hanging out for that cold one. We pulled up and strode confidently into his shed. He yanked the door open, talking over his shoulder to us, and I’ll never forget his face when he saw the look on our faces as we saw inside. Shaking, he turned around and picked up the note from inside the empty fridge.
‘She said you would come here. He needs help with his drinking, and so do you!’
A bit cheeky that, I thought.
So we piled back into the car and headed off to my place. The journey was made in grim silence. It was with a cold and sinking heart that I stopped in my drive. It was getting late by then and the house was shuttered and dark.
There was a faint glow from the shed at the back. We staggered like shipwrecked sailors towards the light.
She’d left the fridge door open and it wasn’t until I’d wiped the tears from my eyes that I realised the note didn’t say ‘Up yours too’ but ‘You do too’.
Funny what a man’s mind will do in extremis, isn’t it?
Silently, Scout (we call him Scout now because of that night) went back to the car and handed us each a bottle of the foreign muck. The only word we could read on the label was ‘Bier’ and we had half an idea what that translated to.
We sat huddled in front of the open fridge, like worshippers of some ancient cargo cult, and sipped the semi-warm liquid. Had it been nectar of the gods, it would have been as ashes in our mouths.
But the last word goes to Baghdad (as in Baghdad — bombed all night).
‘Well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It certainly is a long way to Tipperary!’