“Here, fill ’em up again!” he ordered the barman.
Darky and Ernie Lyle always dropped into the Royal Hotel on their way home. Lately, they’d been working at the open-cut coal mine on the outskirts of the town. They’d washed before leaving the mine but coal dust still persisted around their ears, eyes and finger nails and was caked on their eye lashes.
These two were mates now — at least Ernie would have claimed they were. Darky would express no view on that subject; he’d had a lot of mates in his time and acknowledged none of them. It wasn’t in Darky to call a man his mate; his feelings were buried deep somewhere so you just had to guess at them,
Their pots replenished, Ernie ventured to comment: “I’m not say-in’ you’re not as good as ever you were, Darky — but Younger’s as big as you are and, well, he’s younger. He’s only twenty two and you’re, well, you’re over forty, Darky.”
The expression, that clouded Darky’s face intimidated Ernie, who added with a hollow laugh: “He’s younger by name and younger by nature...”
“Listen, Ernie! Younger’s a bludger and a scab,” Darky said. “Yes, he’s a scab all right. The Trade Union fella from the city went out to the timber mill and Younger wouldn’t join. Anyhow, I got to fight him now. It’s been coming a long time and now it’s here.”
Darky drank his beer without taking the pot from his lips. Beer trickled down his chin into the hair on his chest. “Here, drink up, Ernie, we’ll have one for the road.”
“Not for me, Darky. Three’s enough for me. You’ve had six pots already — you generally only have three yerself.”
“Ah, that coal dust needs washin’ down... Have a pony to keep me company.”
“All right, I’ll have a pony.”
“Here, Dan, fill my pot, and a pony for Ernie.”
The drinks served, Ernie poured the beer from the small glass into his half-empty pot and gazed reflectively at the linoleum on the bar counter: “I still think you shouldn’t fight him, Darky. It’s what he wants. He’s beat every one in the town...”
“Every one in the town,” Darky interrupted, “except this Darky here!” He tapped his chest with his right forefinger, making a deep sound like a distant drum.
“Yeh,” Ernie persisted. “But that’s his ambition. He’s been itch-in’ to have a go at you for years — and he can fight, Darky. He beat the pro’ pug in Sharman’s troupe last year, you know that...”
At that moment Younger plunged through the old-fashioned swinging doors, scattering a group of drinkers, beer splashing their clothes. He stood arms stretched sideways holding the doors open, his feet placed wide apart.
The talk in the long bar ceased as if it had been coming through a radio speaker and been switched off. A hundred men in various stages of intoxication turned towards the door, beer glasses neglected in their hands and on the soggy counter top. The publican, Danny O’Connell, stood suspended, four empty glasses balanced in his left hand. His blonde wife sat on a high stool grasping the cash register in front of her, eyes wide with fear. The two employed barmen also ceased work and watched. A group of men playing hookey in a far corner of the bar ceased their sport. One of them stood, right arm outstretched with a rubber hook held between his thumb and forefinger as if posing for a camera.
Jimmy Younger went up to the bar and ordered his beer then turned to face Darky and stood with his right heel resting on the bar rail, his right elbow on the bar itself. His left fist clenched instinctively. The nostrils of his wide nose dilated. The small glass of beer stood on the bar at his elbow, golden bubbles rising in it. Younger blinked his eyes and shook his head once, as though he was a little the worse for alcohol.
Darky stood as if his legs, like steel bands under his grey trousers, were flexed to catapult him onto his opponent. It was a magnificent gesture, worthy of the occasion. But Darky’s inner feelings belied his manner. His heart seemed to be beating unevenly and his knees felt weak. Good as ever I was? These words formed a question mark to beat at his temples. Well, we’ll soon find out. Anyway, they won’t let us fight for long in here — and we can’t fight in the dark outside...
Suddenly, Darky dropped his hands to his sides and walked deliberately towards Younger. Drinkers moved aside to clear a path. He swaggered, his fists held wide apart from his thighs as if the great muscles at his armpits would not allow his arms to hang by his sides.
As Darky came within a few feet of Younger, a shrill scream, emanating from Mrs. O’Connell, ripped the air. She leapt from her stool by the till and ran from the bar yelling: “I’ll ring the police!”
Her husband followed her calling: “Don’t ring the police, Margo. It’s no use, anyway. They’re all at the Dillingley Carnival.” In the back of his mind were thoughts of several convictions against his licence for illegal betting and after hours trading, which had been chalked up in spite of largesse. He wanted to avoid calling the police.
O’Connell returned to the bar. Finding Darky standing beside Younger, he took up a position opposite them behind the counter.
Jimmy Younger did not move except to relax his muscles a little.
Darky threw a two shilling piece on the counter. “Give us a pot of beer,” he demanded in a husky voice.
O’Connell looked at the clock above the door. It showed three minutes past six o’clock, closing time; “Sorry, Darky,” he said, “the beers orf.”
Darky looked at the clock in his turn. “It’s only six o’clock,” he said, “Your clock’s always fast. Yer never stop serving till harf past six, as a rule.”
The argument over time and beer; the tension heightened by the very incongruousness of the debate; the menacing air of impending violence; the nervous onlookers at the same time repulsed and attracted by the scene.
Younger’s cronies gathered close round him. Quickly assessing the situation Ernie Lyle moved close behind Darky.
“Break it up, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said, hoarsely and without conviction.
The elements existed for an all in brawl. But it wasn’t the kind of fight that would start with a direct challenge. It would arise somehow out of the situation.
The more timorous souls amongst the drinkers took the opportunity to beat a retreat out onto the footpath.
“I’m thirsty!” Darky shouted foolishly, but he was findin confidence in the not unfamiliar air of impending fisticuffs. Good as ever I was! Younger has his right elbow on the counter. If he hits, he must throw a left lead. If I can slip it, I might end the fight in one punch — my only hope! His eyes met those of Younger. Each knew this moment had to come. Each welcomed yet feared it. Neither dared flinch from it now.
Acting on a strange impulse, Darky said: “This beer’ll do me!” He picked up Younger’s glass of beer and drank it down in one gulp. His fears and doubts were gone. His eyes didn’t leave Younger’s face. And his thoughts ran clear: if I can get him to lead, I might end it in one punch.
Before Younger could react, Darky replaced the glass on the counter. Intimidated mentally by Darky’s reputation and apparent confidence, Younger merely snorted and said: “Yer’ll buy me another beer!”
“Not me!” Darky replied quietly.
“Well, yer’ll give me fivepence.”
“I’ll give yer nothin’.”
Because it was a real life fight in the making, it was developing unlike a fight in a book or a film. But a fight it would be and those nearest the antagonists stepped away a little.
“Yer’ll give me fivepence, I said,” Younger repeated.
“I’ll give you nothin’!” Darky insisted. And he raised himself slightly into the balls of his feet as he found the words that would provoke Younger to punch. “I got no money to give a bludger and a scab.”