AT the end of the day, bravado is nothing more than self-delusion.
All his mates were about at ‘The Springy’, enjoying the meaningless banter that characterises pubs with no pokies. Even at the real prospects of Greengrass going into the pink palace for his umpteenth drink-driving charge, didn’t strike a serious note with anybody, not even he, the victim.
Sadly he had believed in the image that he had created for himself out of the popular TV series. The embodiment of devilry and mischief was this aging recidivist. The coppers had caught him at the bridge and told him to pack a toothbrush.
“Say gidday to some of me mates,” called Bacteria Bill, laughing to the ceiling with a set of teeth worse than the picture on the ‘Springy’ cigarette machine.
“I’ll catch up with some of me own,” replied Greengrass, tipping up a ten.
And so it goes on. Laughter, booze and camaraderie, the perfect mix for good Aussie bravado. When she came in to extract him, his wife was the only one not laughing. Her face sullen and tired, but lifting to a smile at the sight of this childish man she had adored since her marriage to him 45 years ago. A real bloke doesn’t stand up and leave when his wife comes to the pub to get him. There is a mandatory waiting period of fifteen minutes. She sat on a wall bench-stool and waited. Amazingly, the banter came to an end. Nobody joked about Greengrass’s imminent gaol term.
Bagged sheep-shit
I moved across to her, having bagged sheep-shit with her and Greengrass at a Lions day outing where I suggested that a mitigation statement could easily be prepared for the magistrate.
Greengrass was dead broke and could not afford to engage a lawyer. I had contacted the legal aid department who wanted to help, but pride was the barrier between the victim and justice. They had both read the prepared statement and had agreed to hand it up to the prosecution and the magistrate tomorrow. Greengrass saw me talking to her and he joined us.
“You going tomorrow?”
“No she’s not. No way. I’m not bloody waving to her as I go down and leaving her on her own.”
Well, here’s a breakthrough in the concrete dam. A distinct crack in the voice. Tremulous even. There’s a modicum of remorse here. Just what a good magistrate wants to see.
Well Greengrass, you selfish rat, why didn’t you think of that when you continuously thumb your nose at the law. It’s a small community sure, and the coppers live here and know us and even have a beer with us off duty, but don’t take liberties. Don’t stretch it.
“Your Lion’s mates are going with you to be with her in case you go down. She really should be in the court. The statement says that she’s the victim, not you.”
“What good will it do for her to be there?”
I’ll do the time
“The magistrate is human. The law relates to humanity. Nobody wants to send anybody to gaol.”
“I’ve done the crime, I’ll do the time.”
“We’re helping for your wife … not you.”
“It’s too late. I’ve fucked up. That’s it.”
“The law wants to see that you are remorseful about this. That you’re sorry. Genuinely sorry. The magistrate has got to see it in your face. He’s got to see suffering and hope in the face of the real victims … they’re mostly in the gallery.
“How will he know she’s even there?”
“They know.”
“They scan the public gallery pal, believe me. They search the faces. You’ve got your written mitigating plea to explain your stupidity. You’ve got a suffering wife in the public gallery.”
“I’ve never been so sorry.”
And I’ve never seen Greengrass tears before. Together they leave. Tomorrow, will they be together?
Two good mates went along to comfort his wife and bring her home, should justice remove the prisoner from the dock and take him down. I went to the house after dark. It had been their longest day. Greengrass sits with a stubbie. He keeps rubbing his wife’s cheek.
Bravado is absent
“I didn’t go down. Thank Christ he didn’t send me down.”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“Bullshit, I didn’t. I was scared shitless.”
The banter goes on for a long time, but bravado is absent.
“You were right,” his wife says, “he looked up into … what do you call it where we sit?”
“The public gallery.”
“He looked up. Just glanced. But I think he knew that I was his wife.”
“They know.They don’t miss anything.”
A week later, Greengrass returns for the denouement of his day in court. A long suspension. Community work orders. No prison. I have never seen such affection pass between them, touching and smiling.
“I love your hair,” says my wife.
“Thank you. I don’t know when I had it done last.”
In the paddock alongside his house, an old green van sits impatiently for its owner. But it will have a long wait.
“I will never drive that old bastard again. Never.”
I think he means it. This is not the same Greengrass we all laughed at in the pub.
