And De Fun Don't Done (63 page)

‘Yeah. Well, that's real good, Millwood,' said Les. ‘Thanks very much for all the trouble you've gone to, considering me just bowling in out of the blue like this.'

‘I did what I could on such short notice, Les.' Millwood shrugged and took a sip of beer. It's unfortunate you have to leave so soon, because if you went over to Kingston and spoke to Professor Eyres, I know you'd find a lot more.'

‘Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I would.' Les glanced across the two pages then looked at the teacher. ‘What about you, Millwood? You must have come across a few things about Eduardo and Elizabeth, rumours, anecdotes, old tales. What do you know yourself?'

Millwood stared back at Les over his bottle. ‘You're very interested in those two, aren't you, Les?'

‘Well… in a curious sort of way, yes. Mainly for my brother Edward back home who's a priest. And… cousin Judy. She's a schoolteacher too.'

A tiny smile seemed to flicker around the corners of Millwood's eyes. ‘I do know a couple of things about them. There's references in Edith Nettleford's book. But I think I should tell you back at the hotel, over a few drinks.'

‘What's wrong with now?'

‘It'll be better back there. We'll have more time.'

Les was about to say something when the food arrived; and it looked and smelled good.

Norton's conch chowder was thick and spicy, tasted a little like abalone or Tasmanian scallops and had just enough chilli in it to make him sweat. Millwood's fish looked alright and it must have been okay because he was chomping away like there was no tomorrow. He'd smack his lips, take a sip of beer then look around him every now and again as if Scotty had beamed him down to the wrong
planet. Even though he was paying for it, Les was rapt the little schoolteacher was enjoying the spoil and at times it was hard for Norton not to burst out laughing. They just had time to finish the entrees, wipe their chins and order more beer when the mains arrived. Norton's prawns were fat and juicy and there was plenty of them in a rich, peppery sauce. Millwood had to wrestle four medium- size crabs to death. But fortunately they were all drowned in a delicious garlic, ackee and red onion sauce and the shells were that soft he could bite straight through them. It was no contest. The only thing left on Millwood's plate at the end of the bout was the pattern. Neither felt like sweets, but they had a Jamaican coffee each to finish that almost blew the top of Norton's skull off. Despite all the booze they'd consumed so far, Millwood seemed keen to get back to the hotel and attack a few more Jackies; which suited Les. He paid the bill, left the girl a nice tip then they headed back to the Biltmore. As they stepped out of the restaurant, Millwood stopped to tie his shoelaces. Les hoped the posse wasn't around; he wasn't in the mood for any more shit and he wasn't in the mood for any heroics either. If it came to a pinch he'd grab Millwood and they could sprint back to the hotel in a few seconds; it wasn't far.

Les was strolling casually along. It was quite dark now, what street lights there were just worked and there weren't many people about. Between Calico Jack's and Willie's was a wide, angular set of steps running up off the road about fifty feet to some buildings above. Les noticed a movement about halfway up the steps on his left, and this pest, about twenty, in a pair of raggy army pants and a Bob Marley T-shirt with a cotton sling bag over his shoulder spotted Les the mug tourist on his own and came charging down the stairs.

‘Hey mon, hey, mon!' he yelled. ‘Hey wait deh, mon. I got sometin' for yu, mon.'

Ohh no, Norton groaned to himself. Not again. Does it ever fuckin' end? He was definitely going to tell this one to piss off and shove whatever he was hustling fair up his
arse. However, the poor higgler was that frantic to get to Les he missed his footing and tumbled down the last dozen steps arse over head, landing on the footpath almost at Norton's feet grabbing at his ankle and yelping with pain; even through the bloke's filthy trainers Les could see he'd completely stuffed it. Being a good bloke, Norton immediately did the right thing. He stood there and burst out laughing. It was the best thing he'd seen since he got off the plane. Millwood stood up and walked over to Les who was almost in tears with the bloke lying on the footpath rolling around in agony.

‘Good Lord! Les. What happened?'

‘What happened? This prick just tried to mug me with a knife. But he fell over.'

‘Right here on the main street?! My God! What's the town coming to?'

‘Yeah. It's a dangerous place alright. Especially if you're a poor bloody white.'

‘I can't believe it.' The schoolteacher was visibly shocked.

‘No. Neither can I.' Les gave Millwood a quick once up and down. ‘Millwood. Would you excuse me for a second?'

‘Sure Les…?'

Norton turned around to where the higgler was lying on the ground in a foetal position, whimpering and clutching at his throbbing ankle. Les drew back his foot and booted the bloke right up the backside: hard. The higgler yelped with more pain and let go of his ankle with one hand to grab his arse.

‘Thanks, Millwood.' Les draped a bit of an Arthur Daley arm round the schoolteacher's shoulders. ‘I don't quite know how to explain this to you, Millwood, but Jesus that felt good.' Taking their time, they strolled on to the Biltmore.

Apart from two other Jamaicans at the bar they had the place to themselves. They sat at the same table and Les got his tab going again. Manuel said he'd have to close at twelve. That suited Les and seeing as it was quiet
he asked Manuel if he'd mind bringing the drinks over? No problem, mon. Les got the same shout as before and placed them on the table. They had a good slurp each, commented on the nice meal, for which Millwood thanked Les again, then Les went to his room and returned with his backpack. He handed Millwood the photos, placed his book of poems on the table, plus the one he had on Jamaica, and flicked through the books Millwood had brought along. Millwood commended Les on the photos; he appeared to have a flair for photography. It was truly sad the way the old manse was slowly deteriorating, truly a shame. But didn't Sweet Ginger Hill look great? He laughed out loud at the photos of Les and the kids and the one of him standing with Joshua. He pointed to some of the kids and told Les their names and how old they were. It was hard to believe Joshua was close to eighty and had eleven kids himself and just as many grandchildren. Joshua was a very good boxer when he was young too. Millwood picked up Norton's book on Jamaica then the book of Elizabeth Norton Blackmore's poems. He flicked through them, then it seemed as if he was laughing at some private joke. Again Les had this feeling that the skinny schoolteacher was holding something back. He waved to Manuel and primed them up again then decided to get things going.

‘Okay, Millwood. What's these stories about Eduardo and his sister you were going to tell me? I'm keen to hear them.'

‘Father Eduardo Xavier Norton.' Millwood smiled at Les over the top of his latest Jack Daniel's. ‘Man of the cloth.' Millwood smiled boozily again. ‘Well, your dearly departed ancestor might have been a priest, Les, but he was also… a bit of a dropkick. Is that the expression you Australians like to use?'

‘Careful there, Millwood,' said Les evenly. ‘We're talking family here, son.'

‘Exactly, I think,' replied Millwood, giving Les a quick once up and down. ‘As well as preaching absolute rubbish on very rare occasions, Father Eduardo made a fortune
slave trading, smuggling and doing a lot of business with pirates. When he wasn't doing that he was having a high old time and threw some of the best parties on the island back at the manse, until he vanished in that storm off Dredmouth in… the date's on one of those pages you put in your bag.'

‘Father Eduardo a slave trader and a shonk.' Les shook his head and tried to look shocked. ‘Poor Edward back home will be shattered. I suppose that was what caused the break-up in the family?' Les nodded to his book on Jamaica.

‘That… amongst other things.'

‘Mmmhh.' Les stared at Millwood. ‘And when did Elizabeth go back to England?'

‘About five years before Eduardo drowned. Which wasn't long after he completed building the manse. The date's there with the others.'

‘Yeah, right.' Les matched Millwood's eyes for a moment then decided it was time to get to the nitty gritty, while the schoolteacher could still talk. ‘So what's this story about buried treasure, Millwood? And Elizabeth leaving the clues to where it is in one of her poems or whatever? Is there any…?'

Millwood threw back his head and laughed. ‘That old chestnut. God! That's been going around for years.' He took another healthy slurp of Jack Daniel's. ‘There's no treasure, Les.'

‘There isn't?'

‘No. They've been over the great house. The manse. All the Norton homes. It doesn't exist. Elizabeth never left any clues about buried treasure in her poems. She left a lot of little allegorical and paradoxical messages in her poems about different things. A bit like Nostradamus. But most of the messages were about something else.'

‘Something else, Millwood? Like what?'

‘The relationship between her and her brother. They were very close.'

‘Close?'

‘Yes. Possibly because unlike most families in those
days there was just one brother and sister, when there would usually be up to a dozen. So they were… close.'

Les looked evenly at the teacher. ‘Exactly what are you trying to say, Millwood?'

‘Oh alright, Les.' Millwood tried not to smile drunkenly. ‘Eduardo and Elizabeth were getting it off together.'

‘Getting it off?'

‘Yes, Les. Jiggy-jig. You know. Humbo bumbo.' Norton shook his head. ‘Elizabeth and Eduardo were screwing each other like mad.'

The way the schoolteacher said it, it seemed like it only happened yesterday, instead of hundreds of years ago. Les was a little astonished.

‘Incest in my family? You're kidding, Millwood. I'm shocked.'

‘Sorry, Les.'

‘Christ! I come over here, I get ripped off, almost get mugged, have racial slurs slung at me. I find out we've got a slave trader and crook in the family. Now this. Bloody hell! What am I gonna tell the folks back home?'

Millwood shrugged. ‘I'm sorry, Les. But it's all there in Edith Nettleford's book. Okay, she was a bit of an old gossip, but it's been the best-kept secret going around for years.

‘Shit!'

‘I'll quote you Elizabeth's poem “Love at the Manse”. That's the one. Professor Eyres has gone over it a hundred times. I've been over it time and again myself.' Millwood put his drink down and picked up Norton's book of poems, then thumbed through it till he found what he was looking for. ‘Here it is, Les. I'll read it to you as best I can in my state and explain what she meant.' Millwood took at slurp of Jackies to moisten his vocal chords and began reciting.

How do I love thee? Let me count four ways
.

Confronting you directly, my beloved, I see all four at once
,

Yet 'tis for this very reason I canst see the ten
.

Norton shook his head.

‘See, what she means there, Les, by let me count four ways, is they made love in four different places. Rose Hill Great House. Sweet Ginger Hill. The manse. And Pear River Great House, their Uncle Bigmore Moulton Norton's place, which you didn't see.'

Norton continued to shake his head.

‘Then she says, “Confronting you directly, my beloved, I see all four at once, etc, etc. Yet I canst see the ten.” That means they were doing it for ten years. Before she went to England.'

Les sipped his rum and stared at Millwood.

‘Then she says, “A heartbeat to the left or right and I see all four again. Though the last love may be obscured.” See, you must remember, Les, she was writing about affairs of the heart from memory and the memory is obscure. As with the passage of time. You with me, Les?' Norton nodded slowly. ‘Sort of.'

‘And the last bit. “And 'tis indeed the last love I treasure most, my dearest. This is love we both did share and shall ever treasure. Our laboured love. The last love at the manse.” The best loving they had was at the manse before he died. And “laboured love”, Les, meant she was pregnant. The last screwing at the manse was good, but she got pregnant. So she went back to England to have the baby, where she met Davidson Blackmore the poet and married him almost as soon as she got there. He was penniless, she was rich and she supported him. They had three children altogether. But she died not long after she found out the news about Eduardo. Some say it was pneumonia. But Elizabeth died of a broken heart. She thought of coming back to Jamaica, but they never found Eduardo's body so there was little point. So she spent what was left of her life writing poetry.'

‘What about the kid?'

‘Ginger Loudivine Edwaina Norton Blackmore. Evidently she turned out looking just like her mother. But died when she was twenty. In a storm at sea, of all things.'

Les took a sip of rum and stared impassively across his glass at Millwood. ‘Shit! This is bloody sad in a way.'

‘Oh Les, it's tragic. Elizabeth was a tragic sort of woman. Read her poems. It's just that not many people know that she and her brother took sex off the streets in Montego Bay all those years ago. And kept it in the family where it belonged.'

‘Tastefully put, Millwood.'

‘I'm sorry, Les. But I have had a fair bit to drink.'

‘Yeah.' Les continued to stare at Millwood Downie. Eduardo and his sister getting it on together? It just didn't seem right. And it didn't make sense. Why? Though they were very close. Too close maybe? But why would he bother? Eduardo had the pick of hundreds of young female slaves. He had heaps of money and he'd be the darling of the social set with all his parties. Still, stranger things happened in those days. Especially in a place like Jamaica. And there was that poem. Millwood and Professor Eyres had lived there all their lives, who was Les to dispute two experts? One an academic. Maybe Les was a little close because it was family and the booze had muddled his thinking. But something didn't seem right. ‘Well, I suppose what you say makes sense, Millwood. Especially going by that poem. But do you think you might have interpreted it wrong? Sometimes you can't see the forest for the trees. She might have meant something else with her poems.'