Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

1 Kerry Greenwood
‘What I mean to say is the rotten cow shouldn’t ha’ sacked me
just like that,’ declared the drinker, sharing his grievance with
the pub at large. ‘Just because I lost his flamin’ dustcoat. It was
an old rag anyway. It’s going against the dignity of the working
man to make him wear a dustcoat.’
‘That was six months ago,’ said the barman resignedly. ‘You
gotta get over this, Jack.’
‘I ain’t had a job that lasted more than a few days since,’
complained Jack. ‘This country’s going down the gurgler, that’s
where it’s going. Things ain’t been the same since the war—that’s
what done for us fighting men.’
‘You weren’t in the Great War,’ said a nearby drinker. ‘You
spent your whole time in the bloody pay corps while we was
sweatin’ blood at Poziéres.’
‘About now,’ said Bert to Cec, and ordered another beer.
‘How will it go?’ asked Cec. Bert was never wrong about the
progress of a fight.
‘He’ll scream at the digger that he was too in the fighting,’
predicted Bert.
‘I fought all right!’ yelled Jack.
‘Then some other coot will put his oar in…’ said Bert.
‘No, you bloody wasn’t. Anyway, Alderton, what’s happened
to all that money you was flashing around? Lost it on the gees?’
asked another drinker, evidently devoid of the sense of selfpreservation
so essential in tête-à-têtes in Australian hotels, or
else fancying his chances.
‘Then Alderton will stand up and offer to fight everyone…’
said Bert.
‘I’ll fight any man in this pub!’ howled Black Jack Alderton,
pulling off his coat.
‘And then someone will king-hit him,’ said Bert.
The soldier from Poziéres rose to the challenge. He was small,
with a gamecock walk and big hands, so pale that the inexperienced
might have thought that he was afraid. But Bert knew
that he was flooded with cold rage. His dad had always told
him that the red-faced were blusterers, not to be taken seriously.