Some people are so poor, they only have money

Some people are so poor they only have money

The pub looked in better shape than when I lived there as a child. It had probably been painted a dozen times since and still proclaimed itself the “Grand Hotel”. The broad upstairs verandah shaded a few bedrooms from the western sun while downstairs the weatherboard exterior surrounded the main public bar. It was well placed on the street corner offering easy access and designed to tempt anyone walking past to duck in for a quick ale.

I had meant to drive past, a flight of nostalgia, but suddenly found myself parked on the other side of the road weighing up the idea of looking in. Perhaps I would recognize some of the old characters from Howard, coal miners from a bygone age or maybe an old school mate. Letting my memories flood back, I could not resist a smile of those innocent times. A time when work was hard and wages low.

I first met Hodgey after decimal currency was introduced in 1966. He sat at the far end of the bar, which is to say he drank alone. My mother politely described him as ‘’enjoying his own company”.   I guess he was about 40, single and drank a 5 ounce beer (that is just over half a tea cup) which cost him 7c. He was probably my first customer because, although I could reach the beer tap, a special stool was left at the end of the bar for me to climb up and hand over the glass. All the money was left on the bar and as I scanned along it, I could see the one and two dollar bills weighted down with coins, as the other miners enjoyed a shout with mates. My other job was ash trays. Collecting them to empty out a few butts before they looked disgusting, washing them and putting them back near the dollar bills.

The ashtrays were a status statement. Heavy crystal bowls with cut angular sides. Very different to the rusted spittoons at the pub down the road, I called it the “swinging arms” on account of how few fights we had at the Grand. Where the spittoons were meant to be at the foot of the bar there was a galvanized rail. A “gentleman’s bar” would have a chrome foot rail but the boots of a miner did not rest well on polish, they nestled in mud.

He called me “young fella” which in social etiquete gave me licence to call him “Hodgey”, although it never occurred to me to call him Mr Hodges, and I still don’t know his first name. He was a steady drinker, arriving around 5pm most days and staying till about 8. By then the bar was quiet and I entertained myself with other tasks such as decanting rum. It arrived on Tuesday afternoons in a 2 gallon clay pot from Bundaberg. A wicker cane basket kept it from breaking and the cork was firmly sealed with red wax.  Hodgey watched me lever out the cork with a kitchen knife and then line up last weeks empty bottles to funnel the honey brown liquid out of the pot. Most of the miners had gone home by then and Hodgey was spending the last of his five dollar note.

He was paid every week in five dollar bills. They were separated into the pages of his pocket diary, few miners could afford a wallet and this was the best way to put money aside for bread, milk, meat and the only other commodity, beer. Saving was a curious concept that few entertained. My job was to get more of those five dollar bills into the till – now days called a cash register – or called nothing if you are using a swipe card. Anyway, Hodgey was sorely tempted by rum. Especially over proof rum that I somehow managed to spill on the counter and he would strike a match to set it off in flames. That was a good way to sell a few nips of the fiery liquor and it often boosted sales on a quiet night. No wonder the teacher complained about my homework!

After Moura opened up most of the miners started work there and came home every month or so. It devasted the pub trade but they had a great time at the newly established mine camps. Not only was the accommodation free but so were all of their meals. Many a teary eyed miner returned to the Grand to report “I can’t drink everything I earn”.  By this time I was in my teens.  Hodgey was home for a spell and we were spending a quiet evening down his end of the bar when I showed him my Commonwealth Bank Savings book. They were a robust publication with a stiff grey fibre cover and ruled pages for the entry of deposits. The school was introducing them as a student saver scheme. Hodgey thought it a marvelous idea, not for the school, but for himself.

About now the story takes a turn. Or, the world got in the road. I left the Grand and moved to Brisbane for University. There was little time to think of Tuesday’s rum. It was some years later, after I had graduated, that I was visiting the family home when my mother announced

“Hodgey is coming for smoko” looking at me knowingly.  She still called morning tea by the bush term “smoko”.

This was a statement that made no sense. He had never been to her house. He had not seen me for more than a decade. I had no idea what she was dodging but I sensed that I was getting lined up.

The next day Hodgey parked the Holden Kingswood out the front of the house and removed a small port, not much bigger than a briefcase, from the boot. He walked slightly stooped and during the obligatory shaking of hands declared,

“Ï am retired young fella”

I grinned back commenting

“Ät least you got rid of your old bicycle”

Smoko was served as black tea and buttered scones and then we got down to business.

“Remember these?” he pulled a faded grey bankbook from his pocket.

“Have a look”

I felt rude but took the time to flip through the pages, each line stamped with a resounding thump. $500 as regular as clockwork every week.

“Looks good” I mumbled

He snorted “Except the last page”

“Hmmm seems to be in order …. Do you think there is a mistake?”

“No” he said  “The bloody thing is full”

I blinked at him “Sooo?”

“How do you get the money out?”

“ Ahhh they have a withdrawal form”

He looked at me wide eyed “ They have two forms?”

“Yep …sure do”

“Stone me roan!!!” I noted he took the option not to swear in front of a lady.

“I went and opened another account”

I looked at him buttering a scone, trying to understand where this was going.

There was over ten thousand dollars in that bankbook. Not enough to retire on, and I began to worry he hadn’t saved much at all. Holding my cup of tea in front of me, I blew on the hot brew and felt the steam rise around my cheeks.

“So you didn’t fill up the other account?”

He reached for the port that sat beside his chair and placed it across his knees. Flipping the catches, he lifted out a neat stack of a dozen bank books tied in a bundle with string. The next stack was smaller, maybe 20 in total.

Composing himself he asked “Do I have to fill out a form to empty every one of these?”

At the time I said yes. But sitting here in my car now I wonder if that was poor advice. Perhaps I understand for the first time he was looking for a different answer. One that involved a young fella pouring beer in small glasses and collecting the money from the counter so he did not have to count it. An answer that involved few words, but a recognition that sometimes you sit at the end of the bar and let the babble wash over you . How a pile of grey bankbooks gave you worries, when a five dollar bill could give you the world.