The Story of Danny Dunn Read Online Free PDF Page B

serge police uniform, seemed to express all their thoughts – well, those of the males present, anyway – when he ventured darkly, ‘Ah, a truly blessed union, Fred and Dulcie, a tribute to the town.’ He paused and raised his beer in memory. ‘But, I’ll give it to you straight. The boy has turned out to be a bloody no-hoper. If it weren’t for that splendid young lass he married there’d be no pub and he’d be in the gutter, mark my words, a regular in my overnight lock-up. She keeps him out of harm’s way, though gawd knows why, the useless bastard!’
    But this tribute to Brenda didn’t go unchallenged. The chemist’s wife, Nancy Tittmoth, sailed in for her tuppence worth, her fourth glass of sweet sherry turning to pure acid as it touched her lips. ‘Don’t believe everything you see, Bob. Bog Irish, that one! Still eat with their fingers. The only way her kind can get out of the gutter is to land with their bum in the butter! That girlie has lots to answer for. Little hussy housemaid gets herself pregnant to the publican’s son, both Roman Catholics, so they have to marry. Then her keeping the boy in a state of permanent intoxication so she can rule the roost. The hotel is in his name, of course, but as long as she hangs on to him, well . . .’ she smiled primly, ‘. . . the little tart and her son with the girly hair can enjoy all the benefits of a fortunate marriage.’
    Bob Barrett held his tongue. Everyone in town knew that Nancy had earmarked Mike Dunn for her eldest daughter, Enid, a sweet enough girl, though very tall, exceedingly plain and rather dull.
    With the death of his parents, Mick and Brenda now had the total income from the pub and expectations of a further inheritance that might mean they could afford not only Mick’s enduring thirst but Danny’s education as well. To Mick’s consternation and lasting bitterness, when the will was read, the Randwick property, Fred’s half-share in two racehorses stabled at the racecourse and a not inconsiderable sum of money in the Bank of New South Wales had been left to Dulcie’s two older sisters, both nuns approaching retirement.
    It never occurred to Brenda that she could now afford to be a lady of leisure; she had always worked and she would continue to do so. But now she was no longer beholden to her parents-in-law, Brenda decided she’d had a gutful of running a country pub. Mick was all piss and wind and contributed little, either as a husband or a worker, besides his gift of the gab. She’d had her fill of commercial travellers stealing towels or jacking off in bed and leaving sperm stains on the sheets; she was sick of locals defaulting on their monthly beer tab, of drunks fighting or throwing up on the pavement outside. And Sergeant Bob Barrett, older than her father, the dirty old sod, propping up the bar most nights for an hour after closing when she was exhausted, ogling her as he downed a couple of complimentary schooners and a plate of ham sandwiches. She was sick of it all. The final straw came when one morning she’d gone out to feed Happy and found him dead. The ageing verandah dog hadn’t shown any signs of being poorly. He’d simply passed away in his sleep. Brenda shed a quiet tear, sorry that she hadn’t been present to say goodbye and to whisper into his tattered ear that she loved him. She decided she wanted a bigger world, and it was time her bright young son was educated in the city.
    Brenda felt she’d fulfilled her duty to her own family. She’d put the twins through convent and paid for courses in shorthand and typing. While she still helped financially with the farm, good rains had fallen and the saltbush was coming back. She’d even noticed a gleam of hope occasionally in her mother’s pale-blue eyes. Confident she would survive in the big smoke, they sold the pub to