And De Fun Don't Done (51 page)

‘I'm… alright, Dad,' hesitated Les. ‘What about you? Is everything okay?'

‘Where are you ringing from, Les?'

‘Jamaica. Dad, is everything alright?'

‘I'm okay, Les. But there's been a bit of an accident.'

‘Ohh shit!' Les knew it. ‘Christ, Dad. What's happened?'

‘Aunty Daisy's been killed and Mum's in hospital.' ‘Ohh, Christ almighty!'

Les felt as if someone had just ripped his stomach out and filled it with cold, wet sand. Aunty Daisy lived in Adelaide where she was married to a builder. She was Mum's sister and looked just like her; same brown hair, same bony face. She was the life of the party and everybody in the family used to call her Crazy Daisy. She used to like to drive up from Adelaide two or three times a year to see the family and it was always a big event, especially if Uncle Stan came with her. Now she was dead and Mum was in hospital. Les couldn't hide the grief in his voice.

‘Shit Dad. What happened? How's Mum? Is she alright?'

‘You needn't worry too much, mate. Lil's okay. But poor old Dais' is gone.'

Joe went on to say how Daisy had driven up on her own from Adelaide to see the family. She and Lil had gone out to see Murray and on the way back the car hit a wild pig of all things and rolled. Daisy was killed instantly, Lil broke her arm and got a fair bit of bruising. The pig got up and walked away. Mum was okay, but the whole family was in shock. The whole town, for that matter, because Daisy originally came from Dirran- bandi. Mum would be out of hospital by Thursday, the funeral was on Sunday. Naturally the funeral and wake would be a monster turn-out. The Nortons were a big family on both sides so there'd be a giant gathering of the clan as well as almost the entire district. Les didn't need his father to tell him that if you were kin you got there no matter where you were. Jamaica, Tibet or living in a plastic bubble on the moon. And in your Sunday best too.

‘I'll get the first plane out tomorrow morning, Dad. I reckon I should be there Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.'

‘Good on you, Les. Jeez, it's a proper bastard ain't it, mate?'

‘Yeah, is it what. But at least Mum's… well, you know.'

‘Yeah. I s'pose that's one way of looking at it. You know it's funny, Les. It's gettin' on for eleven, Murray's comin' round soon and we're all goin' out to see Mum. And I was just thinkin' about you when you rang.'

‘Yeah,' answered Les. ‘It's funny alright, ain't it?'

They talked for a little while longer, but there wasn't a great deal either could say over the phone. Les didn't say anything about what he'd found in Jamaica or what happened in Florida. It wasn't the time or place. It was just a bummer all round. Eventually it was time to hang up.

‘Alright, Dad. Well, I'll see you by the weekend. You look after yourself. And say hello to Mum and everyone for me till I get there.'

‘I'll do that, Les. See you when you get here, mate.'

Norton stared at the phone in bitter disbelief. What a bastard of a thing to happen. And right in the middle of the best part of the trip. Suddenly Les found himself caught in a rotten bind. It was bad enough getting the awful news from home. Lovable Aunty Daisy was gone and his mother was banged up in hospital lucky to be alive. On the other hand, it couldn't have come at a worse time. He'd just found the manse and figured out there was a definite earn there, as well as all the fun finding it. He was staying in a top hotel, he had a bag of unbelievable pot, a giant pocketful of chops and the best rum he'd ever drunk in his life was about six bucks a bottle. Not counting all the grouse food and snorkeling he was going to get into. But blood was thicker than any holiday and Jamaica would always be here if he wanted to come back.

Les poured himself another rum and took it out on the balcony. He took a solid sip then let out a loud sigh of exasperation and had a look around. Well, here it is, my last night in Jamaica. Wasn't that bloody quick? Still, maybe it's all for the best in a way. It's stinken bloody hot, I'm sick of seppos, I wouldn't say the natives here are the friendliest in the world and there's something building up in the air here besides humidity. I keep getting this feeling that something I said when I was drunk is going to come back to haunt me. What's that old saying? Many a true word said in jest. Yeah, it'll be good to get back home. Catch up with the family and all that. Despite his blues Les had to smile into his drink. Aunty Daisy might be gone but I reckon there'll be a few yarns about Crazy Daisy at the wake. Christ! What about the time she put the cane toad down the front of Mum's draws at Murray's wedding anniversary? Silly old bastard.

Les went inside and made himself another rum. Seeing as he was leaving first thing in the morning he figured it wasn't much good sitting around moping; the only thing
coming out of the radio was gospel music and that wasn't helping things. He switched it off and got his arse into gear. He rang the desk and said he'd be booking out at 7 a.m. could they have his bill ready. Certainly, sir. No problems. He had three attempts at ringing the airport, but each time the line was engaged. No big deal there, though. They probably took the phone off the hook on Sunday night. Just lob down in the morning and get on the next flight out. He started getting his travel documents together and packing his bags, including the books on Jamaica and the one of Elizabeth Norton Blackmore's poems. Guess I won't be needing these any more. S'pose they'll make good souvenirs though. This gave Les the shits a bit. Packing and unpacking was a drag at any time. Especially when you've just settled into some place and next thing you're leaving again. He looked at the Glad- Wrap foils of dacca and his machine. No, I don't think I'll be needing that tonight. Roaming around, zonked off my head the mood I'm in. He took the foils into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. Christ! Imagine what some of those heads I know in Bondi would give for that, thought Les, as he watched them disappear. They'll cry when I tell them what I did. No, just a few drinks and a feed'll do me tonight. He picked up his camera; there were six shots left. May as well take my camera with me, take a few photos of the band or whatever and burn them up. Before long Les had everything packed except for a pair of brown shorts and a black Midnight Oil T-shirt he'd wear that night and on the plane in the morning. Satisfied, but not all that happy, he had one more drink and with his camera over his shoulder walked down to the outdoor banquet.

The band had started when Les got there. It was a seven-piece calypso outfit, banging away on varioussized instruments made from cut-down, forty-four-gallon drums. The reverberating notes seemed to hang melodiously in the night air and beneath the palm trees with a small bank of spotlights over them and the Caribbean as a backdrop they certainly looked and sounded the part.
There was room for a dancefloor and with the rows of tables set up on the grass seating for about a hundred, although there wouldn't have been thirty there and most of these looked like Jamaicans on a freebie. There was a bar to the side, waiters and waitresses, and the food, opposite where Les was standing, was a help-yourself smorgasbord of hot and cold dishes with a chef standing behind a carvery at one end. Les propped for a few moments, figuring which way to jump, when the two security guards from the previous night walked past. They recognised Les and smiled and despite it all Les winked and smiled back. Oddly enough Norton wasn't all that hungry. The news from Australia had sunk in a bit more and he now found himself feeling tired and empty. Still, it was no good letting it get you down. It was Norton's last night in Montego Bay so he'd have a couple of beers, a feed, listen to the band for a while then hit the sack. He threaded his way around the seats and tables, paid the girl and had a look at what was on offer.

It was fairly standard buffet food. A dozen or so different salads, corn on the cob, vegetables, fruit, rice dishes, etc. There were cold meats and sausages, some kind of chicken goulash stews, curries, plus the carvery. Les piled some salad and rice onto his plate and went for the carvery, getting mainly the hot smoked ham. There was no shortage of room. Les found a spot near where he'd been standing, ordered a beer and started eating. The food was quite nice, the salads were crisp and fresh, the ham lovely and tender. But Les picked more than he ate and when he finished he didn't bother to back up. Normally at a smorgasbord Les would wear a path through the carpet he'd back up that many times, and George Brennan reckoned he had rubber pockets for stealing soup. But tonight the big Queenslander's heart wasn't quite in it. Still, it was nice enough sitting out in the open with the sweet sound of the metal drums ringing in the air. He ordered another beer and was sipping it quietly when who should lob and sit almost in front of him but Muscles from the pool and Miss Prizzy.

The big seppo had squeezed himself into a skimpy white singlet, a couple of sizes too small to show off the muscles in his back, and a pair of red, rayon, jogging shorts, also a couple of sizes too small to show off his cut lunch, bulging out in the front like a big bunch of Waltham Cross grapes. Miss Prizzy had a red mu-mu draped over her sensational body and looked like the inside of a thermometer. Muscles sat down with his back to Les in a great grunting and farting and snapping of fingers for service. Miss Prizzy was a little more subdued, but Muscles was talking loud enough to let the staff and the world know that Captain America and his glamour had arrived. Muscles ordered two beers for himself and some fluffy green drink full of paper umbrellas and lumps of fruit for his girl. He knocked the beers off pretty smartly, belched loud enough to momentarily drown out the band then swaggered over to the smorgasbord. Miss Prizzy was a picker and Les might have gone easy, but Muscles made up for both of them.

He came back with two plates in his hands, stacked with that much food you couldn't have so much as fitted a business card on either one. Watching him eat fascinated Les almost as much as it repulsed him. Muscles didn't eat his food, he seemed to grind his way through it like some kind of human tree-mulcher. Bits of rice or lettuce would fall from his mouth onto the table and he'd grind away remorselessly, Miss Prizzy even cut up some of his food for him and pushed it in his mouth. He demolished the first two plates then came back with two more, plus bread rolls and four pieces of corn on the cob, and away he went again. Chomp, grind, snort, slurp; washing it down with another two beers. Les noticed some of the staff watching Muscles with looks of amused satisfaction. They saw Les looking at them and had to turn away when Les nodded towards Muscles and started scratching under his arms like a gorilla. Captain America snapped his fingers for more beers. One of the waiters brought them over and it was all the poor bloke could do to keep a straight face with Les looking at him and bobbing up and down on his
seat making more monkey gestures. It was funny enough for a while then just as quickly the whole scene began to turn Norton off. It just didn't seem right. Les was no socialist or communist, but here at this luxury resort everybody was pigging into all this food till it was coming out their ears — what they didn't eat would probably get tossed in the garbage — and just outside the front gates people were living in little more than boxes made out of driftwood. Some poor, battling little kid was working seven days a week to make about four bucks picking up bottles, and two fifteen-year-old girls were selling their bodies for about another five bucks each. Yeah, it's a funny old world alright, thought Les. He had another mouthful of Red Stripe, left his camera case on the table and walked down to take some photos of the band.

There were one or two Jamaican couples dancing and it was quite pleasant down the front with the breeze coming in off the sea. Les took a couple of photos from directly in front, fiddled around with the zoom lens and took a couple from the side and another from behind a palm tree. He hung down the front for a while, enjoying the breeze, then went back to his table.

Les was sitting there, quietly sipping his beer and looking at his camera. There were three shots left and three black American girls sitting a couple of tables away. They were wearing baggy shorts and college T-shirts and baseball caps round the wrong way, and even though they were all horribly overweight they somehow reminded Les of three fat Supremes. They were definitely worth a photo and maybe Les'd take one of the staff. The zoom lens brought the three girls into focus and Norton fired off two photos. The girls didn't seem to notice Les taking photos. But Muscles did. He had more plates of food in front of him and was at them while he slurped more beer. He turned around at the flash.

‘Hey buddy! What are you doin' there?' he bellowed

‘Just taking a couple of photos,' replied Les, a little reservedly.

‘Hey! You want some tourist photos?' slobbered Muscles. ‘Take a photo of me and my gal.'

Les shook his head. ‘No. I only got a couple of shots left and I want to get some more of the band.'

‘Screw the band. Take a photo of me and Lori.'

Les winced, hardly able to believe what he'd just heard. ‘No thanks, mate.'

Muscles scowled at Les. ‘What's this, “no thanks — mite”? Come on, limey. Take a photo.'

Norton shook his head slowly, impassively and looked directly at Muscles. ‘No.'

Captain America's chest started to rise. He looked at his girl then glared at Norton. ‘Who do you think you are, you limey sonofabitch. Ain't we good enough for you to take our photo?'

‘That's right,' nodded Les. ‘You're too ugly. Especially your rotten skinny sheila. She looks liked a baked rabbit and I wouldn't waste the film on her.'

Miss Prizzy's jaw dropped. No one had ever spoken to her like that; especially not in front of her boyfriend. Muscles was absolutely outraged. His face coloured and his chest rose. No one had ever spoken to him like that either. Not since he started pumping iron and especially not at the hotel where all the Jamaicans were forced to kiss his big yank arse. He grunted something then lumbered to his feet and charged round the table up to Les.