And De Fun Don't Done (54 page)

‘Excuse me, mate,' called out Les, pointing to the plate glass front. ‘Is the office up there?'

The man slowed down and walked over, a cautious yet at the same time amused expression on his face. ‘You wouldn't happen to be Mr Norton, would you?'

‘Yeah. How…?

‘Oh we get a few Australian golfers in here at times. Mate.'

‘Oh. I slipped one out, did I?'

The man returned Norton's smile. ‘I'm Millwood Downie.'

‘Les Norton. Pleased to meet you, Mr Downie.'

‘Call me Mill. Everybody else does.'

‘Les suits me too, Mill.'

Millwood had a good handshake and smile, was about five-seven, slim, with short hair in a kind of angular crew cut. He had high cheekbones on a thin, yet thoughtful face and two mercurial brown eyes that seemed to radiate life. He was wearing grey trousers and a white shirt with the name of the resort above the front pocket in red. Despite himself Les found he was being reminded of someone in the movies again.

‘So you're out here looking up your long lost relations, Les? The Norton family tree, so to speak.'

‘Yeah. Particularly Father Eduardo and the manse over at Dredmouth. That's why I'm hoping you might be able to help me.'

‘I'll certainly do what I can. But you must remember this is more like a hobby with me. I'm not like Professor Eyres.'

Les thought it might be an idea to swing the conversation around for the moment before he started sounding too avaricious by honing straight in on the manse. Besides, he'd taken an instant liking to Millwood and was impressed not only by his genial nature, but the timbre in his voice and the precise way he spoke.

‘Mr Glover told me you're a teacher and you only work here part time?'

‘Part-time teaching and work here all the time would be more like it,' said Millwood. ‘What the government pays me as a teacher would scarcely feed a budgerigar. And I give nearly all of it back to the children and the school. This is my bread and butter. And I wouldn't go so far as to describe the owners of the place as being generous to a fault.'

‘Whereabouts is your school?'

Millwood pointed to the wooded slopes behind the golf club. ‘Up there on the Hill of Zion. It's small, it's old, it's rundown. And we call it Spring Water Primary.'

Les smiled. ‘Sounds nice. And it sounds like you've certainly got your work cut out for you.'

‘You can say that again.' Millwood looked at his watch almost apologetically. ‘And, to be honest, Les, you couldn't have called at a worse time. I've got a resort half full of whingeing seppos who can't make up their minds whether to go back to America or ride this goddamn hurricane out. Yee — hah!'

‘You do get a few Australians in here, Mill,' chuckled Les.

‘Yes. Most of them are pretty good — better than the chucky boys,' Millwood added with a wink. ‘In the meantime, I'm going to be flat out all day with these gum- chewing rednecks. And I have to teach tonight.'

‘Yeah. And I imagine you'll be busy again all day tomorrow?' said Les. ‘What about tomorrow night?'

‘I'm not doing anything tomorrow night.'

‘Okay. How about I shout you a nice dinner in Mo' Bay tomorrow night? We'll have a few drinks and you might be able to fill me in on a few things. And if you want to bring your wife or your girlfriend along, that's alright.'

‘No. My fiance's over at Port Antonio visiting her family. I'll just bring some documents and that.'

‘Terrific. Well, I'll ring you here at, say, ten tomorrow morning, and make arrangements?'

‘That would be excellent. In the meantime, Les, may I suggest you go and have a look at Rose Hill Great House? It's not far from here.'

‘Yeah. But I was thinking more of having a look at Sweet Ginger Hill. Where Eduardo and Elizabeth were born.'

‘I doubt if you'll get in there, Les. It's privately owned now.'

‘That's right. It is too.'

‘Anyway, Les, I must get going. I'll hear from you tomorrow morning.'

‘For sure,' nodded Les. ‘Before you go though, Mill. Would you mind coming over to the car for a minute?'

‘Okay,' shrugged Millwood.

Les stood near the door and, rather than make a big display on the steps, discreetly slipped $300 US out of his pocket and handed it to Millwood Downie.

‘Take that, Mill. My family back in Australia aren't short and your school sounds like it could do with some help. And please don't take it the wrong way, either. It's just my way of showing… the family's appreciation. And that we're fair dinkum. I think you know what that means, Mill.'

Millwood looked at the money, shook his head for a moment then put it in his pocket. ‘Thank you very much Les. You're very generous. To a fault, I suppose you could say.'

‘Don't worry about that,' winked Les. ‘There's worse people around than us Nortons.'

‘I'll hear from you tomorrow morning, Les.'

‘Till tomorrow, Millwood.'

They shook hands once more then Les watched Millwood slowly walk towards the office; it was obvious he'd been moved. At the bottom of the steps he jumped slightly in the air, clicked his heels together and ran up them. It was an awkward, knock-kneed kind of run with his elbows all out of plumb. That was when Les knew what movie star Millwood reminded him of and which movie. It was Jerry Lewis in
The King of Comedy
. When he was running down the street trying to get away from Robert de Niro and his ugly ratbag girlfriend. Les shook his head and got in the car. I'm gonna have to turn this up. Equating everyone I see with either some cartoon or a movie. A schoolteacher and an historian becomes Jerry Lewis a comedian? This is madness. They'll finish up putting me in the rathouse. He started the car, slowly motored back down the white gravel driveway and through the sandstone gates. At the A1 he stopped and looked at his watch. It was too early to go back to the hotel. Why not take another look at the manse? See what turns up. Les hung a right and headed towards Dredmouth.

On the way to the manse Les mulled a few things over in his head about Millwood Downie and what he'd just done. Like giving three hundred bucks to some bloke he'd only just met. It was questionable if he could help him anyway and leaving it until Tuesday night was cutting it a bit fine also. But there was something about the skinny Jamaican teacher Les liked. He was genuine; and you didn't often see that in people these days. As for the lousy three hundred bucks, Les wouldn't even miss it, and it would go to a good cause anyway. Spring Water Primary. It had a nice sound to it. Les also couldn't help but think Millwood Downie, with his funny Jerry Lewis run, had another string to his bow besides teaching and a part-time interest in Jamaican history.

Les spent the rest of the afternoon at the manse. He walked all over it, banged his fist against walls looking for
hollow spots, had a good look upstairs just in case, stubbing his toe on a big bolt half sticking out of the crossbeam. He waded through the weeds and shrubs in the backyard, checked the remains of the old sundial and the stables. He paced out the old building's measurements front and sides and around the cobblestones, took notes, even checked the alignments of the manse with the sun. After a while he found a spot in the shade across the road and went through Elizabeth Norton Blackmore's book of poems looking for clues.

There were references to a manse in four of her poems, one containing something even more obscure about an old fruit tree. Treasure was mentioned in six poems and gold and diamonds bobbed up in a couple of others. And to Les it was all gibberish. Ye olde seventeenth-century English speak, with its thees and thous and doths and dothn'ts, didn't go down well at all with the big Queenslander. In the end Norton was half convinced that whatever was there, if there
was
anything there, was either hidden in among the sandstone blocks or buried under the cobblestones out the front. That's where Les would have put it if he owned the joint. And if it was there, how was he going to get it out if he found it? Les gazed from the book of poems across to the manse and shook his head. Father Eduardo and his sister Elizabeth had certainly left him, and everybody else, a puzzle alright. The hot Jamaican sun had sizzled down into the blue waters of the Caribbean and it was quite dark when Les got back to the Badminton Club.

Well, didn't the day go quick, Les thought, as he stood under the dribbling, lukewarm water of the shower and washed away the dirt and dust he'd gathered crawling around and over the manse. I knew this was a good idea and it would keep my mind off things. Better than sitting around picking your arse and feeling sorry for yourself. The heat takes the edge off your appetite too; especially after that monster breakfast this morning. Though I'm a bit peckish now. I'll grab a bit of something down at the Mardi Gras. Hope to Christ it's not only fairycakes and
queen pudding that they're selling. Mardi Gras in Montego Bay, Les chuckled to himself as he towelled off in front of the balcony. And I simply haven't got a thing to wear. Not long after, he was in his blue shorts, green Wallabies T-shirt and Nikes, and in the Honda heading down towards the waterfront.

Les knew that skinny hairpin bend coming up from town looked out over the harbour and the park next to where Gloucester Avenue began; he stopped about two- thirds of the way down, did a U-turn and parked facing back up. A few shifty-looking types were standing around talking or smoking cigarettes, Les locked the car, ignored them and started walking down. There were no buildings, only a low fence on the right side of the road and everything was spread out below him. Traffic and taxis were flowing towards town, it looked like some kind of reggae band was playing in the park and across the road behind the park were the inky-blue waters of the bay. More traffic was slowly moving down the road alongside the park, and to the right, barricades, cops and crowds of people swarming in that direction said the Mardi Gras was in full swing. Les got to the bottom of the hill, ducked across the traffic to the corner where the park met the intersection and the short road down to Gloucester Avenue. There were plenty of people around, all Jamaican men and women. A couple of blokes tried to sell him something, some women higglers selling drinks along the footpath called out to him. Les ignored them and stopped to look at the crowded park.

It was circular in shape with trees here and there, about a hundred metres across and built like an amphitheatre with tiers of seats facing down. The rows of seats were packed with people of all ages, the women in long dresses wearing red, gold and green belts, sandals and coconut shell earrings. The men mainly in jeans and T-shirts, with great mops of dreadlocks tumbling out all over the place and all looking gaunt and stringy. They were all avidly watching a stage set up below where a bunch of men were lounging around in front of two banks of speakers, out of
which was coming this deep, slow beat from a bass and drum. In the middle of the stage some wild-looking bloke appeared to be preaching into a hand-held microphone. He had the mike and a clipboard in one hand and in the other a joint about as big as a Darwin Stubbie, which he was attacking with relish. Norton's reggae band in the park was a full-on Rastafarian meeting. Jah Rastafarai, mon. All the straight and righteous waiting it out away from the immoral peel-heads. Les was fascinated. More than a few punters along the footpath were giving him odd looks. But Les was expecting that, being one of the few honkys walking around. He also wasn't expecting any favours either, so he'd left everything at home, except some of his money, which he'd spread into all the pockets of his shorts so if he did get a tickle they wouldn't get the lot in one go. The street sloped down past the park towards Gloucester Avenue, Les followed the footpath to the end of the park and moved in among the crowd standing in front of the stage for a better look at the boys in the band.

Midnight Oil it wasn't. There were about a dozen stringy-looking dreads lolling about near the speakers. A couple of yabbahs were going around, glowing in the dark, some bloke was plunking out two notes on an electric bass and some other bloke was thumping out one monotonous note on a drum. Les arrived just in time to see the head rasta with the mike pull a massive toke on his spliff that made almost the top half of his body disappear in a cloud of thick blue smoke. Shit a brick, thought Les. I had three small tokes of that shit last night and I thought I was rollerblading through the rings around Saturn with Elle Macpherson. That ratbag just burnt off enough to jam a reaper and binder. Where must his head be? The rasta let some more smoke out and started crooning into the mike with this strong, melodious voice that crackled through the speakers in a rich vibrant bass. It was John Laws eat your heart out; about five octaves lower and twice as rich. The head rasta was in the middle of some giant spiel about Haile Selassie.

‘Ire mon,' he crooned into the microphone. ‘In nineteen tirty-tree, Haile Selassie broke de drought in Africa, stopped de war in de homeland and gave all de banks back to de people. Did you know dahhhhttt?'

Behind and around Les the crowd clapped and cheered. ‘Ire mon. Jah rastafah!' they all yelled, in between toking on their spliffs.

‘Ay. Jah Rastafarai,' echoed the rasta on stage. ‘And in nineteen tirty-seven,' he continued, ‘Haile Selassie saved all de peoples from starveershun, stopped de exploiteer- shun of children and gave women de vote. Did you know dahhhttt?'

‘Ya woo! Ire mon. Jah Rastafah. Jah Rastafah,' howled the crowd, as another half a ton of ganja went up in smoke and hung over the park.

‘Ire. Jah Rastafarai. Jah Rastafarai,' repeated the dread with the mike, and took another horrifying toke on his spliff that would have made a Nimbin hippy buy a grey flannel suit and get a job flogging life insurance in Melbourne. ‘And in nineteen tirty-nine,' he crooned, ‘Haile Selassie built twenty new dams, gave edjookeer- shun and' lectricity to de peoples and beat de forces of imperialism. Did you know dahhhttt?'