Boredom
A series of short pieces by Ms Alisha
He sat in the warm snug, nursing a fresh pint of Guinness, and listened to the lilting tones of the locals. He'd gone there to escape the boredom of his office - the Mid-Week point, when the blackness often set in.
The stout was rich and smooth, its black depths in stark contrast to the creamy foam that topped it. "The Priest's Collar" he's heard it called - after the next biggest Irish export. Why did such a troubled and divided land generate so many Men of God, he wondered? If their words were truly headed - if Moses' tablets truly honoured - then the schism that had cleaved the green and pleasant land would be long ago healed.
It'd been a long time since he'd had a few pints - especially in a pub such as this. Usually he drank in the sterile bars in the City's heart - filled with corporate couples, in their own distinct uniforms. Here a different uniform abounded - jeans, overalls, and above all work boots.
He'd changed at the office - discarding his usual outfit of blazer and slacks, collar and tie - in favour of a pair of worn Levi's, and a battered denim jacket. Camouflage to blend in with the locals....
He knew that Alisha would not be welcome here - and nor would she want to go to such a place. She had shed the roughness of her youth, in favour of an air of semi-refinement.
No - here she would stand out by her very difference. But he liked to occasionally slip into pubs such as these, just to see what he had missed.
The pub had atmosphere - a fire burned in the large hearth, around which clustered a group of older men. Some of them, he knew, were veterans of the Second World War. They nursed their pints with a type of world-weariness that only survivors of many dangers did - as if every drop was to be savoured. That was the way to live life - to the full, as if each second could be one's last.
His own brushes with death had taught him that. He'd left the service with a new outlook on life - one that he'd come to share with Alisha - to live without fear, without shame. To not hide their love - no matter what was said of them.
He took his pint, and found a chair close to the fire. The mallee roots burned with a brilliant yellow flame, which licked up the side of the gnarled gray logs. As he sat there, a young red-haired bar maid used the long tongs by the hearth to stoke the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. She heaved another split piece on to the pyre, the sudden burst of flame outlining her crisp features, her short cropped hair.
He asked for a pint of Newcastle Brown, and she took his empty glass. His grandfather had described it as "Pommy Holy Water" - and told him that this was all the more reason to avoid it. His maternal grandfather - to whom he had always been closest - had lived on the stuff in his youth. Among the few things he remembered of his beloved Pop was that he'd always encouraged him to " have a pint, and think of me." Words that were like Holy Writ to a five year old.
He'd watch stoke after stroke kill his Pop - crippling him, blinding him, finally robbing him of all recognition of his grandson. The memory haunted him to this day, and he'd never forgotten those words.
One of the grizzled old men crossed to a battered upright piano, and began to play. He'd expected the patriotic tunes of fifty years ago, but to his surprise the man softly picked out "Cavatina".
The quiet notes chilled him - images of "The Deer Hunter" rose in his mind. It'd been the signature tune of his unit, a piece selected to convey their silent stealth.
He missed the camaraderie of those days, the close companionship of those he'd trained with. The selection boards, Singleton, jump school - they seemed a lifetime ago.
It'd been three years since his unit had been disbanded, after the disastrous campaign in Papua. A coup had threatened to allow Indonesia to annex the territory, and Australian troops had been deployed to add backbone to the raw Papuan brigades.
He'd spent three long weeks on the border, ambushing patrols which crossed into his area of control. The radio operator, and the spare comms gear, had been lost in a counter ambush, and they'd never heard the announcement that their government had withdrawn from the conflict. Economic reasons, they later said - and control of the lucrative Timor oil fields.
The platoon was finally captured after a fortnight, and a savage firefight. A company was deployed as a hammer to crush them on a battalion sized anvil - killing two thirds of his men. The remainder were forced to surrender, after expending their final rounds in a vain attempt to fight their way out.
They'd been returned to Australia, under a D-notice. The media had been banned from even hinting at their existence, and they were officially denied by the DOD. Each member was given a small redundancy package, and their commissions terminated.
He was 23 at the time - and had known no other life than a soldier's. He soon learnt that the degree he'd earned during his officer training was next to worthless - but that he did have one marketable skill - his writing.
He'd first sold a piece to a local rag - a review of a new beer. So impressed with the reaction to the article, the paper had taken him on as a regular writer. He'd been given a free hand to look at whatever had taken his fancy.
From there he'd won a job in media relations - and met Ms Alisha. In the space of two years he'd started to live - and earn - like a corporate player. His clothes changed, and his drinking tastes. He moved from ales to champagnes - from denims to wool.
Looking back, he missed the days of his youth. There had never been any boredom then....