Lane Boy - Chapter 3 - Stale Beer

Stale Beer

Stan scraped his chair backwards, closing the newspaper tent, crunching it flat and patting it carefully for later use. A waft of stale dead beer floated past Peter, and he knew it was time to make himself scarce. They all knew this was a precarious time. The space was tight between happy drunk Stan and the returning grumpy sober one, with a hangover to boot. There was no guarantee how much ‘happy Stan’ was left by this time of the morning. Peter put his plate away and grabbed his school bag. It was still too early to leave, but he needed to get out now. 

Peter knew the stink of warm, stale flat beer well. Now and again, he helped his mother clean out the drain trays at the cricket club pavilion. That same sour stagnant slop had frothed and bubbled like miracle juice the night before when it squirted out of the beer gun into the big pint glasses.  The men at the cricket club, were rewarded with ritual beer, after practice two times a week and of course to celebrate or commiserate following the Saturday game. The club was not a hobby. It was a commitment, a loyalty; a devotion of sorts. Stan had created it and was a man of his word, Stan the Man. No one was left behind, including loyal Joy and of course the kids who had to tag along compulsorily. If you did not like it, your life was made into hell, and you would be dragged along anyway. There was no ticket out. It was not a choice. The best thing to do - was to embrace it and accept the fate along with its rewards, which included guaranteed fitness and good batting scores. These two things gave the best chance of gaining Stans favour. It was a fair playing field, whether you were a player or a son of Stan. North Caulfield Cricket Club was a country, a nation, an army of faithfulness. It was a brotherhood, (with wives and daughters included) built by Stan to, inspire, coach and of course catch any one who fell down on the battle field inside or outside of it. Men of every race, fitness level, and occupation were hypnotised by the warm glow radiating out of the ugly bessa block fortress on the hill - the Pavilion. At night, the bright green cricket ovals surrounding the headquarters on every side, became an ocean of darkness that separated them all from the busy roads, circling around it. To be on the inside of this was to be on the right side of life.

With Stan sitting there, he was not going to be able to get out the back gate to check the back lane. Was she still there? If she was there, and he reported it, perhaps they would ask, why were you looking out there Peter? You have never looked out the back lane in the morning before school before. He knew he must be careful, or he would incriminate himself in the whole nasty affair. He broke into Snowy’s backyard, and that was that. 

You could not use the back gate to go to school, as it had to be locked on the inside. No, he must keep suspicion away from himself, no matter how much he wanted to look.  He had to go out the front door in the usual fashion. Surely someone has found her. What about the Milky? He goes around there every day. He had not heard any sirens this morning, or voices when he went to the outhouse earlier. 

“Mum, is it okay if I go now? I want to be early so I can get in some running practice on the oval before sports start?” He knew it was was best to create the right story, not some tosh such as going to the library to study, which would have evoked a fit of rage from Stan about the pathetic education system not being able to teach kids anything of use - and that they should all just get jobs now to save the waste of time.

Joy, still standing there holding the rose bush by the throat, looked at Stan. He was the boss, and that was that. Despite them all knowing that he was, the kids still always asked Joy, as if she was a kind of sieve through which the messages would have to go, to stem his constantly suspicious pot of boiling thoughts, if they asked directly. Unless he was drinking of course, where things were all the other way around. 

Stan grunted, as he headed in the direction of the dunny. Joy watched him go, then turned to Peter, nodding while winking, with her pointer finger at her pouting lips. 

There was one thing on his mind, and it was not library books. 

As he charged up the hall, sleepy Alan nearly ran into him as he came out of their room. Peter called back at him as he opened the front door - “She threw it back, without a scratch”. Alans jaw dropped as he watched him slam the door behind him.  He hoofed it through the front gate and down to the first lane. Nothing, no cars, no flashing blue lights. He got to the back lane, and turned hard right. Mary’s fence, their fence, and then he was standing opposite the scene of terror from the night before.

***

There was no lump of woman, just a large black cat rolling around in the rubbish. Frowning, he walked over to look more closely. The cat sat up, and watched him intensely, not moving from his spot. Nothing but cigarette butts, bottle tops, dead weeds, an ice cream wrapper, and a piece of a cardboard box. He kicked the ground at the base of the fence and looked up to the third lane that curled back around to Moore street at the other end. Maybe she wasn’t dead. She might be up there or down the other way, but then the milky would have seen her and the police would be here. Suddenly a tiny lightness washed over his mind. She woke up! She woke up. She’s okay! She must have been knocked out, and just got up and went home. He took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief. He was so early, he would walk the long way.