around it. Talk? To each other? They’d done enough of that for now. Most folks nearby were carting meals to tables from the open kitchen servery. Sunburned children ran up and down the swirly, carnival-coloured carpet and threw paper serviettes. Annie got to her feet and beckoned Meredith and Nina to follow her around the corner.
The brightly lit bar was crowded and lorded over by three animated television screens. The walls sported lawn bowls and fishing club paraphernalia—trophies, ribbons, team photographs—so that the blokes gathered there might understand they were in some sort of shrine to all things male and conduct themselves accordingly. With all due respect. The low-ceilinged room was humming with conversation—that particular low and resonant drone punctuated by loud oaths and hearty guffaws that Nina knew so well from the bars Brad inhabited at the football club.
However, there was one indication that Nina was far from Tigerland. One TV was broadcasting a game of Rugby League—the enemy football code. On the field were two teams Nina had never heard of—the Manly Sea Eagles and the Brisbane Broncos. Their jerseys were garish stripes of burgundy and gold; maroon and white, combinations that Nina thought were more suited to Melbourne Cup jockeys than football players. As she tuned in to the game, she saw the action was horrifyingly brutal.
Annie ordered drinks at the bar and returned with three glasses of white wine. Nina took hers with a mimed ‘thanks’ and then, mesmerised, found herself an empty seat at a table where she could see the screen. The two blokes she was sitting with were wearing red-and-green banded footy jumpers. They were oddly quiet during the game. They drank their beers steadily while wincing and muttering the odd ‘fuck off’ or ‘fuck him’ or ‘fuck that’. The language didn’t bother Nina—it hardly registered with her. During half-time she found the chance to introduce herself to . . . Johnno and Robbie, as it turned out.
‘You’re not enjoying the game much?’ she ventured.
‘Fucken Manly,’ spat Johnno.
‘Bronco deadshits,’ added Robbie.
Again Nina wasn’t fazed. The world of blokes held few surprises for her. ‘So, I like your jumpers,’ she said. ‘Red and green. I don’t know the team.’
‘The colours are cardinal and myrtle. We go for the Rabbitohs,’ Johnno grudgingly replied.
‘Rabbits? They named a team after some rabbits?’ The comment was out of Nina’s mouth before she’d thought about it.
‘Rabbit-ohs!’ Robbie was clearly offended. ‘After the blokes who used to sell rabbits in the streets of Redfern during the Depression.’
‘Oh, that’s . . . interesting,’ was Nina’s hopeless response. ‘Actually, I’m married to a football player—Brad Brown.’
They both looked at her, clueless.
‘Brad Brown. “BB”. “Kingie”,’ she offered.
Still no response. Obviously more information was required.
‘He used to play with the Tigers,’ said Nina.
‘Balmain or Wests?’ asked Robbie.
‘Pardon?’
‘Balmain Tigers or Wests Tigers?’ asked Johnno slowly, as if Nina was mentally challenged.
‘The Richmond Tigers. AFL,’ she said proudly.
‘Fucken shit game,’ said Robbie.
‘Never heard of him,’ added Johnno.
They both took their beers, got up from the table and walked outside to the balcony, where Nina saw them laugh as they puffed on their smokes.
Nina was thrilled by this casual exchange, utterly thrilled. It was the first time in almost two decades that she had been with people who hadn’t heard of her husband! This called for another drink. She downed her wine and headed for the bar. Over in a corner she spied Meredith in the middle of a knot of men. Responding to Nina’s wave, Meredith indicated that, yes, she would like a refill.
When Nina scooped up the fresh supplies off the bar and edged her way through the patrons to where Meredith was surrounded by admirers, she wasn’t surprised to find the conversation was about fish. Meredith took the proffered drink, smiled at Nina and again bent her head to listen. Nina had nothing to add, so she left Meredith to it and went off to find Annie.
‘. . . about ten snapper, a few morwong, a couple of samson—and all a decent size too,’ a tall red-headed man was saying. ‘And—you won’t credit this—but a pearl perch, I reckon close on three and a half kilo.’
‘Bulltwang! They don’t grow that big. You’re full of it, Meggsy!’ roared his offsider. He squeezed Meredith’s upper arm and leaned to whisper in her ear: ‘Don’t listen to him, love, he’s a total crap artist.’
At the closeness of his lips to her ear and the smell of his beery breath, Meredith felt a rush of . . .