Rita, still sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of stringed beans and a small pot of tea, has not forgotten about the previous night, the dance and the spontaneous act of affection. But, and she doesn’t know what prompted this except for the uneasy feeling that Vic has been away longer than it takes to do the afternoon shopping, this is also one of those moments when she’s remembering the bad times: afternoons and nights that saw Vic standing for hours at the public bar of The Railway with Paddy Ryan and the rest of that bunch who call themselves mates. Paddy, the father Vic never had, whom he looks up to just a bit too much for Rita’s liking because apart from being the master of the smooth ride, Paddy has nothing else worth looking up to.
As much as she’d rather be dwelling on the memory of Vic the previous night, that three or four minutes that gave her the best of Vic, she’s remembering the worst of him. The Vic who slumps into the chair in front of her after The Railway, closes his glazed eyes and snores half the night away. And, as much as she doesn’t want to dwell on these things, they come back, clear, almost real. Until he is there, in front of her, and she’s looking over the bowl of stringed beans directly at him.
In fact, at this moment, he is just stepping from the butcher’s, pausing on the footpath to shake the sawdust from his shoes. In front of him is The Railway. And the thought of a beer is tempting. But not really. He is driving tonight, and never drinks before driving. None of the drivers do. So he contents himself with the thought of a beer. At first Vic didn’t like beer. But he only drinks beer now. No wine or spirits. And he takes pride in that. Others might hit the serious stuff but not Vic. Just beer. Even if he didn’t like the taste of it at first. Then, one hot day, the memory of that first beer came back to him and this time he liked it, or, at least, the memory of it. Then he liked it too much. Although Vic would never say too much, for Vic has no idea of the Concept of Too Much. Someone need only say ‘One more’ and Vic will agree. And it’s not for the flavour. After hours of drinking, neither Vic nor anybody else could taste the beer any more. Yet, without thinking, he will always agree to one more. For just as the taste of beer did not come naturally to Vic (it was something he had to learn to like), so too Vic has learnt how to drink. More correctly, Vic has learnt a way of drinking. A way of drinking that he has learnt from Paddy Ryan, and from the other drivers, the older drivers, who pass their ways on to the younger drivers. They pass them on so that their ways will not be lost and so that this way of drinking will remain a tradition. For when something becomes a tradition it becomes irresistible. It acquires weight. It acquires History. This, it says, is the way things are done because this is the way they have always been done. Beyond questioning. And, in this manner, Paddy not only passes on the art of engine driving but his world and the traditions that define it, ensuring that a little bit of Paddy goes out there into the future and the tradition that was passed on to him will be passed down the line and beyond. In this way he will not suffer the indignity of being the one who allowed a tradition to be lost. And so long as these ways remain tradition, something greater than the circle of drinkers gathered at the public bar, they will also remain unquestioned.
Vic turns away from The Railway and enters the greengrocer’s, as Rita rises from the chair and rinses the stringed beans. His fingers are drumming, tum-ta-tum, briefly on the counter as he hums a tune and contemplates the mid-winter fruits — and those ways of drinking handed down by Paddy and all the Paddys that went before, until they became a tradition. And central to this tradition — and its rules — is the Concept of Too Much. For the very suggestion of too much is an unwanted intrusion. The Concept of Too Much does not wear the overalls of the engine driver. It wears the clothes of some snooty type who doesn’t belong because he doesn’t understand.
His Gladstone bag filled with shopping (the same bag he uses for work), Vic turns towards the refinery that looms over the houses for the brief walk home, the sun breaking through the clouds, the streets suddenly sparkling, Vic whistling.
But the rules of this tradition of drinking do not come as naturally as his whistle. To some, such as the snooty types who don’t understand, it doesn’t come at all. There will, inevitably, be those who will say at first, no, they have had enough, and, thereby, allow into their circle of drinkers the Concept of Too Much. They have, in saying this, committed a fundamental error — such as braking too quickly at a platform and snapping a train in half, or over-heating a furnace — and it is Paddy’s job to correct these errors, be it on the job or at the bar. The circle must not be broken, and as long as anybody within that circle calls for one more — Vic, or Paddy himself — the circle stays closed. Moreover, it is an insult to the remaining drinkers, for the Concept of Too Much, when it speaks, assumes a degree of sober reflection that, it is implied, the others in the circle don’t possess. The Concept of Too Much is not, it proclaims, a pub drunk, but the rest are. Inevitably there will be those who will continue to say ‘No more’. In such cases one of two things will happen. They will be banished from the circle or they will cease to say no. And they will agree, thereafter, to one more, without thinking.
And so Vic slumps into chairs after closing time, unable to rise, because over the years he has learnt a way of drinking. And one day, just like Paddy, he may become a custodian of that tradition, so that its ways will be passed on. Just as, one day, he may inherit the Spirit of Progress.
So Rita, settling back into the kitchen chair (sipping her tea, the beans draining by the sink), loathes the name of Paddy Ryan and won’t let him into the house. As much as she knows that Paddy learnt these ways from some other distant drunk who passed them on to him, she blames Paddy all the same.
Her eyes are still lingering on the apparition of Vic before her when she hears the front door open. The vision fades, the reality is home. This afternoon it is the best of Vic who is back. The best of Vic who places the shopping on the kitchen table. The best of Vic who fills the room with his whistling (pitch perfect). And as much as she’s read about hearts leaping in books, she’s never felt such a thing until now. She could jump up and tell him that her heart is leaping but she’d have to explain why. Besides, there’s no energy to go leaping about, so she leaves the leaping for her heart to do.