At the pub on Friday nights after payday, we kids were allowed in the beer garden for a lemon squash if we behaved ourselves. Banjo and I were sitting at a table near Dad and his friends when Mr Palmer limped through the pub and out onto the verandah where we sat, his walking stick tap-tap-tapping on the paving. He had on his best pin-striped suit and a starched collar. Under his arm he held a large manila envelope. He walked up to the men’s table.
‘Mr Paterson,’ he began quietly.
Banjo’s dad looked at him in surprise and nearly knocked over his schooner. The conversation and laughter stopped instantly and the place fell completely silent. Everyone turned to watch and listen. They sensed something was up.
Every single person on the island had heard of Mr Palmer’s argument with Mr Paterson and John Steinbeck’s part in it, though none of them knew who John Steinbeck was. They thought he must’ve been a German with a name like that. And hitting a defenceless boy in the face with a book was exactly the sort of thing a vicious German would do.
‘Mr Paterson,’ Mr Palmer repeated. ‘I am a patient man, as you well know, and I am a gentle man, but you, Mr Paterson, have behaved badly and you have stretched the limits of my patience.’
Mr Paterson looked dumbfounded. This was the last thing he expected on a Friday night at the pub.
Mr Palmer continued. ‘In my hand I have the application papers for a scholarship for your boy to attend Perth Modern School, one of the most respected institutions in the entire country. And, Mr Paterson, your son has the brains and the character to win one of these scholarships, with a little hard work. And I’ll be damned—damned, I tell you—before I will let you stand in the way of such a fine mind. A criminal waste of a God-given talent cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. Mr Paterson, you will sit down here and you will sign these papers.’
He leaned forward and looked directly into Mr Paterson’s eyes. He lowered his voice very quietly. ‘Or I will quite literally beat you to within an inch of your life. Do you hear me?’ He paused for a moment. ‘I am not a man of violence, but...’
Not a man of violence? Tell that to the back of my legs.
‘I saw far too much brutality at Gallipoli and at the Somme to be a violent man. But Mr Paterson, you are giving me no choice. You will sign these papers here and now or I will not be responsible for my actions.’ He suddenly slammed his walking stick down on the table. ‘Do I make myself clear? I will not allow one man’s pig-headed stubborn pride to stand in the way of—’
‘I hear you, Mr Palmer,’ answered Mr Paterson. ‘I hear you.’ He looked about for support but every person in the garden avoided his eyes. It seemed to me that in spite of Mr Paterson being their workmate, this time everyone in the pub was on Mr Palmer’s side. A boy being able to attend Perth Modern School was an achievement almost beyond their understanding.
Mr Paterson sensed he was beaten and looked for a way to save face. ‘Do you want to sit down and we’ll discuss it like civilised men? Over a beer,’ he added nervously.
‘Yes, Mr Paterson, that is an excellent idea.’ Mr Palmer was clearly relieved. I don’t think he really wanted to tear Mr Paterson apart, though in the state he was in it looked like he might’ve done it easily, limb by limb.
‘We can discuss it at length and then you will sign the papers and I will buy everyone a beer just as soon as you have done so,’ said Mr Palmer.
Mr Paterson might not have liked teachers and books and learning but he admired courage. And he’d just been taught a lesson in real courage. Some of the men nodded and gave each other knowing looks. They too recognised real courage when they saw it. Mr Paterson was twice Mr Palmer’s size, but our teacher had stood up to him like Gentleman Jim Corbett against John L Sullivan for the Heavyweight Championship. He had done a brave and fine thing that evening.
Mr Palmer unscrewed his fountain pen. Mr Paterson signed the form and some of the men then started clapping, slowly at first and then everyone joined in enthusiastically. The applause soon turned to cheering and it wasn’t just the thought of a free beer, it was the knowledge that one of their own might escape from the sheer physical drudgery of their lives.
‘That’s enough flaming discussion then, Pat. My flaming glass is just about flaming empty,’ laughed Mr Carter at the end of the table.