Mark Roberts #29 Slide 28 The Last Beer: The New Ivanhoe Hotel, Blackheath, October 1995

the last beer

My father put off his heart surgery for a month

so he could attend Mildred’s funeral. There had

been an issue with his heart value for two decades

but it had recently become worse. The doctor

advised against delay while also saying  there was

no great risk. He drove up on the Wednesday.

I couldn’t get off work until Thursday, the day

of the funeral. An afternoon funeral I caught

the train that had once been called the Central

West Express but was now just called the Dubbo

train. It was running almost an hour late by the time

it got to Orange and I had to get a taxi straight to the

church. Dad was already in the front row looking tired.

I sat with him and talked quietly for ten minutes. He hadn’t

slept well - ate something that didn’t agree with him.

The funeral marked the last connection with his parents,

his mother’s sister, the farm that was his second home

growing up. I could sense his grief, silent but consuming.

Through the service he followed the process, familiar

as the drive over the mountains. Afterwards we went

to Carol’s for tea and cake. Dad and a few of the men

had a few scotches. I talked to Carol about how I remember

coming to their old orchard as a kid and watching the apples

being packed in the large old shed. There were always

fresh crisp apples back then - another time.

.......................................**

The next day we leave the motel early, after a big continental

breakfast. Dad drives the first leg down the Mitchell Highway

to Bathurst. We drive past the Lucknow Pub, no need to stop

these days. Out of habit I count the number of times we cross

Rocks Creek - the new road has cut the number by two.  We

don’t stop at Bathurst but Dad does turn right and does the obligatory 

ap of the race trace. For the first time I remember he keeps

to the speed limit over the top of the mountain. We stop

at Lithgow for fuel and he keeps driving. Up Mount Victoria, the car

struggling, I begin thinking in metaphors - one mountain too many.

I suggest I take over the driving, soon he say, we’ll stop for a drink.   

Finally he pulls into the car-park at the The New Ivanhoe Hotel.

Of all the pubs between Sydney and Orange this is probably

the only one I can’t remember stopping at with him. But today

he is out of the car and stretching and waiting for me so he can

lock up. Inside the bar is smoky and he orders a scotch for himself

and a beer for me. He asks for the water, measures a little

into glass and settles back on the stool. I sip my beer slowly,

he finishes his scotch and looks at my still almost full glass

and says he might might join me in a beer. We clink glasses,

to you health I toast and we finish our beer. I won’t be the same

now he says looking around as we turn to leave the pub. I get

in the driver’s seat and drive down the mountains into Sydney.

.......................................**

A month later he goes into hospital for his operation. I walk

next to the trolley as he is wheeled into theatre. The last words

I say to him when I am told I can go no further is that I will

buy the next round of beers. He does not regain consciousness

after the operation and dies two days later.