The Volunteer

It was July 2022. I remember it well, like it was yesterday. The world was emerging from Covid. I emerged from the safety of my home, and made a beeline to the village pub; my first visit to this place of communal gathering for more than two years.

Our village nestles in the Dandenong Ranges, approximately thirty kilometres east of Melbourne in the state of Victoria in Australia. Luscious green rolling hills full of enormous ferns and eucalypts adorn the landscape as far as the eye can see. At dusk, the moon emerges from behind the mountains that rise behind the village, and gum trees hug the buildings like a dark velvet blanket, making us feel safe in times of despair. A small number of local shops sit either side of the railway line, with an old-fashioned boom gate allowing vehicles and pedestrians to cross safely from one side to the other.

It was early Thursday evening. A full moon was already smiling down at me as I made my way through the car parks on either side of the railway station. I swear the moon winked at me. The car parks were deserted; not a single vehicle waited for workers to return from the city. I remember thinking that before Covid these car parks would have been full at that time on a Thursday.

Mulligan’s was, and still is, the only drinking establishment in the village. I doubt it has any connection to the famous 18th century pub I visited in Dublin many years ago. Students of James Joyce frequented that one; our Mulligan’s had live music on a Thursday evening. Both of them have a good pint of Guinness.

After a brisk ten-minute walk in the cold dry air, I arrived outside the worn, uninviting entrance, and hesitated. It didn’t look any different to how I remembered it. No, the pub hadn’t changed from the outside, but plenty had changed, especially the patrons.

As I made my way cautiously to the bar, I was surprised to see every table occupied. It’s only a small place, but it was barely 6pm. I noticed that it was mainly men on the wrong side of fifty, like me, with a lonely individual at each small round table. Perhaps they were keeping 1.5 metres apart, as had been drilled into all of us over the previous two years.

There were no free tables, but there was a spare seat opposite a man in his thirties or forties, near the corner where the musician would stand. He had dark wavy shoulder-length hair and wore a black T-shirt with red robot eyes in the image on the front. He was eating a steak pie with flaky pastry as large as the plate, which was hiding a significant number of chunky chips and some peas. The only thing he had to drink was a small glass of water. After introductory pleasantries, I asked whether he would like a drink from the bar.

‘I don’t drink,’ he said, looking deep into my soul. ‘I tell people it’s for health reasons, but it’s really for the health of my marriage.’

It didn’t seem appropriate to delve deeper at that stage. I introduced myself, and he told me his name was Elzeario Arbre. We didn’t shake hands, but we bumped elbows, as was customary in the immediate aftermath of the pandemic. He was forty-seven years of age, a little older than I initially thought, and married with two school-age children.

Over the course of a hearty pub meal, I learned that he was born in Lugano in Switzerland to a French father and Italian mother. They moved to Australia when he was eight years old, yet he retained fond memories of the beautiful lakes and mountains surrounding his birthplace. He described the scenery in such great detail and with such amazing clarity, it was clear to me that nature was extremely important to him. And, as it turned out, so was escapism.

As soon as the empty plates were cleared away from the table, Elzeario collected a guitar from behind the bar, stood by the microphone in the corner of the room, and started to sing his gentle folk songs. One Guinness turned into two, then three, as I watched him perform, utterly mesmerised.

At the conclusion of his set he sat back down at our table, and I couldn’t help asking if playing at the local Irish pub paid well. ‘No,’ he replied, with those piercing brown eyes. ‘This is voluntary. I play here because I enjoy it, and they need all the help they can get after the last two years.’ He paused, then added with a charming smile, ‘Although it does come with a free meal.’

I regretted asking such a stupid question. Why didn’t I ask him about the songs? I thought about this encounter for weeks, until, quite by chance, I bumped into him again.

A good friend of mine was turning sixty, and he’s a big fan of obscure French music, so I decided to look through vinyl collections in local charity shops to see if I could procure a suitable gift. After all, you never know what you might find in these places. I found lots of ubiquitous pop and MOR staples, and once-loved classical albums. I was struggling to find anything of interest, so I went looking for help, and there was Elzeario, sorting through donations in a little room at the back of the store. We bumped elbows again and had a good chat about music. He found a great gift for my friend.

A few more weeks passed, until I was sitting in my local cafe on a Friday lunchtime sipping a large cappuccino and browsing the local community newspaper. I was surprised to read an article by Elzeario about walking in the surrounding hills, and on the inside page he was listed as member of the voluntary editorial team. Later that day I looked on the newspaper website, and discovered he had been on the team for at least five years.

As the months passed we met on a regular basis, and our friendship grew. As well as the local pub and community newspaper, he also volunteered for the local fire service, at a nearby specialist school and at the community bank serving our area. He never missed a school drop-off or pick-up, and spent time with his family most afternoons, evenings and weekends.

I couldn’t help wondering how he could do so much voluntary work and how he managed to pay the bills. ‘How much money do you need?’ he asked me when I probed a little further. I blurted something about needing a few million dollars to retire. ‘Nonsense,’ he said sternly, but with a disarming smile. ‘That’s what you want, not what you need.’

He went on to explain that he had worked in well-paid roles in financial services in the city for many years, often running large teams and projects. By the time he left his last city role, he and his wife had saved enough money to pay for a simple life in the outer suburbs. I once asked him about success. ‘My biggest success,’ he said without emotion, ‘was not being missed when I had gone.’

Along with his family from near and far, hundreds of local residents and ex-colleagues attended his untimely funeral in late 2025, and they all miss him. He often told me of his desire to find balance, and I believe he found it. I also believe this remarkable, unassuming man chose community value over shareholder value. Now he is buried in a plot with a fine view of the mountains, surrounded by his enduring legacy.