Her doors are all open to the warm breeze in true Queensland fashion. There’s a pair of crossed cane knives etched into her doorstep. She’s been around a while and she’s seen the cane grow higher than high, year after year. This is sugar country and she’s a sugar pub. And inside it’s as dark as molasses.
The publican’s missus moves easily behind the bar pulling beers and quickly shoving the glasses into stubby holders to keep them cold. She’s cooking chips for a road worker, “the bridge is out you know”. And lunch for an old geezer at the bar. He’d be as old as us and that’s old, had his first beer in this pub when he was 16 “why would you drink anywhere else?”
A ‘Tight Arsed Tuesday’ breaks the easy ambiance, dashes into the bar asking for a camp for the night, out the back, where the back packers are sunning themselves. “Ten bucks with power” says the publican’s missus. “Melbourne, I’m from Melbourne” he says as if the price will go up if he doesn’t speak fast. “Had a devil of a time finding this place.”
“Yeah…” Chorus the old geezer and the publican’s missus “The bridge is out.”