And De Fun Don't Done (47 page)

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' she beamed, as if she was playing a packed Sands at Las Vegas instead of twenty mildly interested American tourists and one drunk, stoned, but very enthusiastic Australian, ‘I'd like to welcome you to the Rose Point Resort at Montego Bay on my beautiful island of Jamaica.' Melanni then went into her spiel about how wonderful it was to be here and entertain you, and how one visit to Jamaica wasn't enough and everybody always came back, etc, etc. Then she nodded to the band and cut into some song about Montego Bay, palm trees, beaches and love. She sounded good.

Les sat back and enjoyed the show and tried to think who the girl reminded him of. A whippy Dionne Warwick; she sang and held the notes almost exactly like her. It was a typical resort type show; fairly laid-back and don't excite the guests too much. But no matter what,
Melanni could warble like there was no tomorrow. The way she delivered the songs and held the notes almost brought tears to Norton's eyes. Any thoughts Les had about Dionne Warwick were justified when Melanni cut into ‘Always Something There To Remind Me'. If the other songs almost brought tears to Norton's eyes, this one actually did. The big Queenslander couldn't help it. The high notes seemed to cut into him like a knife and he brimmed over. She did ‘The More I See You', ‘The Look of Love', ‘Easy Skankin'', and more. All middle of the road stuff, but Les clapped like mad, dragging the other guests along with him. She finished the night then came on for an encore with ‘No Woman No Cry' and brought the small house down. Les was a shot duck after that.

The band played a few more numbers but nobody got up and danced, and outside the night wasn't doing much except starting to drizzle. Les stared out into the night and at the lights flickering above the beach through the raindrops. Just like the rain, everything started to come down around him too. Les was stuffed. But what a night it had been. What a day, for that matter. That morning he'd been in America, now he was in Jamaica. And it was time he put his head down. He finished his last drink and left some money on the table. He was going to ring for a taxi but decided to walk home, it wasn't all that far. Norton weaved his way through the tables and back to his room.

The room wasn't quite spinning when he walked in, but it was certainly changing directions a bit. He climbed out of his clothes then poured himself a 7-Up and ice and took it out on the balcony; there wasn't much to see except light rain and darkness so he went back inside. The radio was starting to crackle and fade, Les decided to switch it off, along with the lights, and throw the towel in. He climbed into bed, pulled a sheet over him and lay back with his eyes closed staring into nothing except what looked like coloured, hexagonal snowflake patterns bursting over mountains behind his eyelids as he drifted off into the cosmos. Well, here I am, thought Les.
Jamaica. I've found my spiritual roots. Nirvana. I've finally reached a higher plain of consciousness. I am the bloody Dalai Lama. Norton thought for a moment. Shit! What would I do if I
was
the Dalai Lama? He yawned and burrowed his head further into the pillow. Probably walk into the nearest Pizza Hut and say ‘make me one with everything'. Buggered if I know.

Norton didn't feel all that bad when he surfaced the following morning. He didn't feel all that good either; but at least the face staring at him in the bathroom mirror didn't look like a supernova this time round. Christ! What a landing that was, mused Les, wiping a towel over his face. Talk about ‘work all night on a drink of rum'. Reckon. And what about that Bob Hope? I think I'll be keeping that in the bottom drawer for special occasions only. He got a glass of water and went out onto the balcony. It was grey and overcast outside with the same blustery wind blowing, but still as oppressively hot and humid as ever. Les went back inside into the cool, sipped his water and plotted what he was going to do. Norton had given up on the idea of leaving the air-conditioners off by now. Heat was heat. But this humidity was almost enough to drown you, and whether or not air- conditioning gave you the flu, pneumonia or legionnaires' disease, it was staying on. He didn't have to pay the power bill anyway. Well, a swim in the pool would be okay. Or even better, a snorkel round that reef in the warm, blue Caribbean. Then breakfast. And if it's not too early in the day I might even make another decision later on. I'm a live wire.

Feeling in a pretty good mood Les climbed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and cleaned up last night's evidence, in case the cleaner should come in. Still whistling softly to himself Les got his snorkeling gear, and with his sunnies on his face and a towel under his arm headed for the hotel beach.

Part of the previous night's entertainment area had been converted into a breakfast buffet. An elderly lady in
a black maid's uniform opened the door for Les and he stepped out to where about ten yanks and a couple of Japanese were sitting around eating. It all looked good and it certainly smelled good. Don't worry gang, smiled Les, his stomach starting to rumble as he walked down the stairs to the pool area. I'll be back shortly. With a vengeance. He walked past the pool and down the sandstone steps onto the beach. There were barely half a dozen guests there, and about as many staff, standing around a few catamarans and windsurfers, their flags and cables fluttering or rattling in the on-shore breeze. A row of banana lounges went off to the left, Les had a quick look around and trudged off in that direction. The tide was right up and what sand there was seemed gritty and coarse. The water swirling round his ankles felt warm and looked like weak Lime Kooler after someone had tipped milk into it. The choppy windswell, washing over the reef about two hundred yards out, looked murky and chund- erous also. Definitely not an inspiring sight. So much for the sparkling blue Caribbean, grimaced Norton. Still, it was raining fairly steadily last night. Anyway, I'm here now. A few more metres past the last banana lounge, he got into his snorkeling gear and plunged in.

The ocean temperature was the same as in Florida, but the water absolutely filthy; you could barely see five feet because of the run-off from the rain. Les swam on, bumping into rocks and lumps of dull brown coral; the water was hardly a metre deep in parts, but you wouldn't know how deep it was till you swam into something. Les put his head down and ground on till he finished up washing against the granite headland at one end. So far he'd seen absolutely nothing except murky, swirling water; he didn't even see the headland until he banged into it. Ohh fuck this, he cursed, pushing himself away from the rocks. It's like a shithouse. Somewhat disgruntled, he swam straight in, walked back along the beach and picked up his gear, then went back to the hotel.

Except for a couple of Japanese and a few kids, there was hardly anybody in the pool; Les dumped his stuff on
a nearby banana lounge and dived straight in. After the salty, choppy mess on the beach it was delightful. He did a few laps, swam into the deep end and duck dived up and down, even lay on his back and spurted water up in the air like a whale. It wasn't hard to take and Les flopped around for quite a while, thinking he'd definitely spent worse mornings. His spirits restored and his hunger starting to mount, Les finally climbed out, towelled himself off and went back to his room to tidy up.

The same smiling woman, old enough to be Norton's mother, opened the door for him when he returned, making Les feel a little self-conscious; he felt like telling her he was big and ugly enough to open a door without some poor old lady opening it for him. But it was probably her job and even if it didn't feel right he just smiled back and said nothing. There was a new scrum of about ten diners now, all yanks, stuffing themselves with the glurpiest food they could find while their loud, whiny accents seemed to ricochet from table to table. It was punishing, but Les was that hungry now he wouldn't have been distracted from his food even if he'd landed in the middle of a Hitler youth rally. He went up to the girl on the till, showed her his key and signed the chit.

‘So what do I do now, miss?' asked Les, looking at the tables full of food. ‘Start here and just work my way along?'

‘That's right, sir. Just help yourself.'

‘Thank you,' smiled Les.

He picked up a plate then changed his mind and got a bowl, thinking he might go for a big feed of fresh fruit first washed down with chilled juice. By the time Les sat down his bowl was overflowing with sliced melon, pink banana, mango, star fruit and anything else that was peeled and colourful, along with two large glasses of guava and orange juice. There was that much fruit he had to get another two glasses of juice to wash it down. Next, Les got a plate and found the Jamaican spicy sausages, the scrambled eggs with gungo peas and shallots, fried tomatoes and heaps of other tasty little morsels. Les
ripped into this with more fruit juice and finished off with three bammie cakes and two strong cups of Jamaican coffee thick enough to bog a duck. Well, thought Les, belching delicately into his serviette, I think that might do me for the time being. One certainly can't complain. He left some money on the table for the waiter who'd been clearing away his mess, then strolled over to the balcony and gazed contentedly out over the ocean. He was only standing there a few moments when a bit of a rumble went through his stomach. Mmmhh. Those gungo peas don't take long to get moving. S'pose I may as well leave another tip for someone before I go. As Les walked past a table of four, revoltingly dressed seppos doing their utmost to let everyone in the hotel know they were from Pocatello, Idaho, he dropped his key. When he bent down to pick it up, Norton silently and discreetly, like a true gentleman, slid out a long, withering fart that could only be described as inhumane. As the elderly lady opened the door for him again, Les smiled and stopped. That's funny, he thought. Am I getting another sense of déjà vu? He turned round to where the team from Pocatello, Idaho, were choking and gagging into their hash browns and pancakes as if a mustard gas shell had burst next to their table. I wonder how my old mate Peregrine's going? He'd be enjoying his breakfast this morning, a bit better than those seppos, I'd reckon.

Back in his room Les poured himself a glass of 7-Up, took it out onto the balcony and stared out over the countryside, thinking what he should do. There was no reggae coming down from the radio, only church music. That's right. It's bloody Sunday. I almost forgot. Praise the Lord or jah rastafarai, as the locals might say. More church music played, causing Les to think. Yes, if I was any sort of a decent bloke I'd go to church on a Sunday myself. But I'm not a decent bloke and I don't know where I'd find a church. But I think I know where there's something close to a church. A manse. According to that book, the Nortons have got one not far from here. He got the book on Jamaica and his map and spread them out on
the bed. According to the map Dredmouth was about thirty or so kilometres along that same coast road in a kind of bay. And the book told you just about exactly where the manse was; down the end of Holding Street, past the post office, west of the town square fountain. Les stared at the book and map for a moment then clapped his hands together. That's what I'll do. I'll go check out the Norton Manse. Let's make a move.

He got his backpack, threw his camera in it, plus a few other things, and walked out the door. After leaving his key at the desk, the same bloke in the pith helmet got his car for him and brought it round the front. Les tipped him, squeezed in behind the wheel of the Honda then drove through the boomgates and swung left towards Dredmouth. The drive out was easy enough, the road, though narrow and in need of repair, was flat and fairly straight, with the same scrubby bush on either side. A low, stone wall ran along part of the ocean side of the road where, considering how overcast it was, the water over the seemingly endless reefs running out to sea was now a deep, iridescent blue. The same crazy-quilt houses dotted the countryside along with a few bigger ones. There were more resorts, golf clubs, light traffic and people jumping out at the car, hoping to get a lift, to keep you occupied. Les drove steadily on past some rundown- looking zoo where a sign said, ‘Scenes From James Bond Movie Shot Here'. Might have a look in there one day before I go back and take some photos, mused Les as the road turned inland and the sign disappeared in the rear vision mirror.

A smattering of ramshackle houses, semis, the odd shop and several narrow streets running off the road he was on appeared out of the scrub now, telling Les he was approaching town. If he was right, this road should lead right into the village square. More people began to appear, walking or standing around, the houses got more congested till they became two-storey jobs or shops with rickety wooden balconies sitting on splintery wooden poles set into concrete footpaths crumbling away
beneath. Everything looked old and rundown with the predominant colour either dull brown or faded dark blue. A sign above one balcony said, ‘Red Stripe Beer — Club 500'. Lounging about underneath was a group of shabbily dressed, morose-looking men with odd-looking eyes and dreadlocks either tumbling all over the place or tucked up under huge, coloured beanies. They all gave Norton a heavy perusal as he drove past, some started yelling things out at him. Hello, thought Les, the natives are friendly. Yeah, too fuckin' friendly if you ask me, and despite the heat Les wound both front windows up. A bit further on he passed a corner with what looked like a small supermarket on it that said William Lee Shung and he was in the village square.

A dirt-stained, bone dry fountain with a few pieces of rusting, wrought-iron around it sat in the middle and the surrounding area looked like scenes Les had seen on TV in documentaries from places like Haiti or Guatemala. Old Japanese rust buckets parked or spluttering around, ramshackle wooden shops, men and women strolling about or lounging beneath the balconies trying to escape the heat. Dogs and goats wandering around among the dirt, smoke and dust, and if everyone was wearing their Sunday best, Sunday was definitely too far away. An old, faded, blue wooden building on the left had Post Office painted on it in white and not far from that a sign said Holding Street; Les swung a quick left, almost clipping several people, an old car and a couple of two-strokes that were a bit slow, and headed west. The road was fairly wide and considering the number of people in the village square quite deserted. On the left were a few old wooden houses and vacant blocks of scrubby land. On the right just open land dotted with palm trees and a few others and the blue-green ocean lapping the shore about two hundred yards away. A little further on were several rows of thick, somewhat strange-looking sandstone walls, very much the worse for wear. The road went for another couple of hundred yards past a couple more old houses and another vacant block of land and there it was, facing
the ocean on a corner where Holding Street ended in an old sandstone wall that angled into another street running off to the left.