The Godson (35 page)

In the time it took Les to place the salad on the table Madden almost tore the door off the fridge, ripped the top off a can and poured most of it down his throat. By the time Les took the meat and rice across to the barbecue, he'd finished that and was halfway through another.

‘I got something I want to show you, Ron,' said Les. He went to his room and came back with the Harcourt interviews; the caretaker had finished can number two and was well into number three. ‘Have a look at these.'

While Les got the fire going, Ronnie flicked through the pages. ‘Yeah, that's him all right. Old Daniel J. Funny bloke.'

‘And this was where he was going to fight World War III from?' said Les.

‘Yeah,' replied Ronnie. ‘I guess that's what he had in mind.'

‘They would have had some fun getting him out of here, Ron,' said Peregrine.

‘Yeah,' replied the little caretaker, absently flicking through the photocopies. ‘And they'd have lost a lot of good men before they did. Then I reckon he would've retreated up into the
hills and picked them off one at a time. Even if it took him twenty years.'

Les and Peregrine stared at Madden curiously from across their drinks. As if he was suddenly conscious of their stares he stood up from the table and let out a wheezy laugh. ‘But he's gone now and I'm the caretaker.' He drained his can of Fourex. ‘You gonna have another beer, Les?'

‘Yeah righto.'

‘Hey, I heard you were down the pub again on Sunday.'

‘Ohh, yeah. We had a bit of another set to in the joint.'

‘That's not what I heard.' Ronnie handed Les a can. ‘I heard you just about wrecked the place.'

‘Yeah. We didn't do it much good. We're barred too.' Norton gestured towards Peregrine with his can. ‘It was his nibs' fault again. He bloody caused it.'

The caretaker let go another wheezy laugh. ‘Yeah, I heard that too.'

‘Oh God!' cried Peregrine. ‘Not this again.'

Once again the steaks and rice were cooked to perfection and the three of them proceeded to get full of food and drink. Ronnie wobbled off on his pushbike around six leaving Les and Peregrine to continue drinking. Les started to attack the bourbon around seven-thirty and at eight they went down to feed Bunter. Peregrine was roaring with laughter at the antics of the three owls, though somehow he seemed to be drinking and roaring with laughter more than usual all night. Buggered if I know, hiccupped Les. At nine o'clock they both literally crawled into bed.

P
EREGRINE WAS AWAKE
but not up when Les walked into the kitchen around seven the following morning. Laying back against the pillows, his hands behind his head, he was gazing at the painting of the old Chinaman now on the wall at the foot of his bed.

‘Good morning, Les. How are you?' he called cheerily.

‘All right. A bit seedy though,' replied Norton. ‘Christ! We ended up putting a few away last night!'

‘Yes. I'm a bit that way myself. It's that Ronnie — I think he's a bad influence.'

‘You still want to go for a walk?'

‘My word.'

Norton made his coffee then walked to the door. ‘I'll see you downstairs.'

Peregrine made some coffee himself then wearing his fatigues and boots joined Les in the barbecue area. Norton was leaning against the fridge, a very worried look on his face. He stared at Peregrine without saying a word. The Englishman could sense something was definitely amiss.

‘Something wrong is there, Les?' he asked.

Norton stared impassively at Peregrine. ‘We're out of Fourex.'

‘What was that?'

‘Ronnie's drank every can of piss in the joint. We're out of Fourex.'

‘Oh my God!' Peregrine screwed up his face and wrenched at his hair. ‘Did you say — out of Fourex?' He fell to his knees and cried out to the surrounding hills. ‘Did you hear that, Lord? Did you? We're out of Fourex. Oh God! How could you let this happen?'

‘Hey. Don't joke, mate,' intoned Norton. ‘This is serious.'

‘Joke? How could you joke about something like this? This is a disaster of Orwellian proportions.'

‘And we're barred from the local pub too.'

‘Out of Fourex and barred from the pub too! Oh God!' shrieked Peregrine. ‘Is there no end to this man's suffering?'

‘So, I've been thinking,' said Les firmly. ‘It looks like we take a trip into Murwillumbah. In fact this could be a very nice day for you, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III. How would you like to see a living, breathing Australian beach?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I'll tell you about it while we're walking.'

While they were striding out around Cedar Glen Les explained to Peregrine that according to his map in the car, about forty kilometres or so on the other side of Murwillumbah was the coast. There were literally miles of beaches but handiest for them were Pottsville, Hastings Point and Cabarita or Kingscliffe. There would have to be a pub or a good restaurant somewhere; they could make a day of it and it would be a break from the farm. Peregrine couldn't get into any trouble sitting on a beach. They could pick up the booze on the way back and Les could ring Sydney. Peregrine replied that sounded like an absolutely splendid idea, he had heard about the Australian beaches, it was a lovely day and he was more than keen.

They finished their walk, did some exercises and topped them off with a swim in the front billabong, then Les cooked them another monster breakfast. By around ten-thirty they'd
cleaned up, tossed the two banana-chairs and a few other things in the station wagon and with Peregrine's Pet Shop Boys tape playing, were on their way to the coast.

It didn't take long to get through Murwillumbah, where Les turned south following the highway as it rose and fell through the hills, canefields and small banana farms built up on either side of the road.

‘We turn off here,' said Norton, as they came into the small town of Mooball. He swung the car left at the railway crossing and over Burringbar Creek.

Peregrine pointed to the old country hotel behind them. ‘I like the name of the pub,' he said. The Victory. That was the name of Nelson's flagship when we went in and sorted out the smelly French — for about the umpteenth time.'

‘Whatever,' replied Les.

Another twenty kilometres or so on bitumen and they were in Pottsville.

Pottsville was a few motels, a garage, some houses and a couple of shops nestled around where the shallow creek ran into a granite breakwater built out into the ocean. It wasn't all that impressive and Les was about to give it a big miss when Peregrine started pointing excitedly.

‘Quick, Les,' he said. ‘Stop the car.'

Norton looked around thinking the Englishman must have spotted a couple of hot sorts in bikinis. ‘What's …?'

‘There's an antique shop just there. Let's have a look.'

Norton pulled up outside a milkbar. By the time he'd got out of the car Peregrine was across the road and inside the Pottsville Antiques and Art Gallery. A buzzer sounded when Les entered and he found himself in two or three rooms full of old butter churners, cedar chairs and tables, porcelain wash basins and other old bric-a-brac and old paintings. Peregrine was studying a black and white watercolour of an old battleship when Les caught up with him.

‘I thought we were going to the beach?' he said.

‘We are, dear boy,' replied Peregrine. ‘I'd just like to have a browse around for a few minutes — that's all. Sometimes these out of the way galleries can be quite interesting.'

Les had another quick glance around. ‘Yeah, terrific,' he muttered. ‘I'll see you back at the car. I'm gonna get an orange juice.'

‘As you wish.'

Sitting on the bonnet of the car, Les had finished his orange
juice and was halfway through a Cornetto when Peregrine came walking across the street.

‘You didn't buy anything?'

Peregrine shook his head. ‘No. Nothing in there really worth purchasing.'

‘What were you hoping to find? A Ming vase?'

The Englishman's face suddenly lit up. ‘Sometimes Les, you never know what you might find. You just never know.'

‘Yeah, righto.' Les finished his ice cream. ‘Anyway, there's another beach further up, Hastings Point. Let's go and have a look.'

Hastings Point was pretty much like Pottsville. The same number of houses, shops and motels only with a nicer headland and a couple of tiny islands where Cudgera Creek emptied into the ocean. But still no pub.

‘What do you reckon, Pezz?' said Norton, as they rattled over the narrow wooden bridge.

‘It looks nice. Do you wish to stop?'

Norton screwed up his face. ‘No, let's go further up. See what Cabarita's got to offer.'

‘You're the driver.'

They travelled on another twenty or so kilometres along the coast road; unfortunately the beach was hidden by a strip of thick scrub. Les spotted a bush track, pulled up, did a quick U-turn and stopped in front of it.

‘What are you doing?' asked Peregrine.

‘Let's have a quick look at the beach. Come on.'

They followed the trail about twenty metres where it came out onto a deserted stretch of white beach with a small swell rolling in from the clear, blue Pacific Ocean. To their right the beach curved into a headland so far in the distance it was barely discernible. To the left it did the same; you could just make out the pine trees and high-rises of Tweed Heads. There was a light offshore breeze blowing and not a soul around for miles.

‘I say,' said Peregrine. ‘This is really lovely.'

‘I told you, didn't I?'

‘And what about this sand? It's so white.' Peregrine scooped up a handful and let it run through his fingers.

‘Yeah,' nodded Les. ‘The local council digs it up twice a year and has it all steam-cleaned.'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. Bastard of a job. But it's worth it.'

‘I say. It must take them ages.'

‘They only do the top couple of feet.'

‘Oh.'

‘Come on. Let's see what else there is.'

They found what they were looking for a few kilometres further up the highway. The road rose up beside a rocky point overlooking a smallish white beach with a stream running into it. Further on, a smaller point started an expanse of white sand that ran all the way up to Kingscliff and Tweed Heads. Les swung the car into a parking area above the first beach. It was about the same size as Bronte except for the two uneven granite headlands dotted with stunted palm trees and clumps of jagged granite rocks strewn across the beach. A nice even swell was rolling in — about half a dozen surfboard riders were taking advantage of it. It was all very picturesque but what Les was looking for was built onto the beach not far past the smaller headland. The Cabarita Hotel Motel. A couple of minutes later he pulled up right outside the TAB next door.

‘What do you reckon, Peregrine? This might do us, old mate.'

‘I couldn't agree more. Why don't we have a look around?'

The large hotel was quite modern and clean with a bistro at the rear full of open-air furniture next to a park leading down to the beach. There were maybe a couple of dozen people seated around drinking and eating, seemingly oblivious to a number of birds picking at the scraps on the tables. There was a surf club on the opposite side of the road built over some old shops. The boys walked over and through a corner window Les could see a gym with a heavy bag, speedball and weights. At the rear, a couple of fair-haired clubbies were patching up some racing skis; Les gave them a wink and a smile and he and Peregrine got a couple of friendly ‘G'days' in return. There was the standard Estate Agency, a fish shop and several more shops plus a garage called the Boganbar Auto Centre. The scene was very touristy and laid-back. Several cars swished past and a number of elderly people wearing straw hats came and went taking their own sweet time as they did.

‘Do we need to go any further?' asked Norton.

Peregrine shook his head. ‘This suits me admirably. It's beautiful.'

They found a table with an umbrella in the beer garden and Les got two middies of New. Carole King singing ‘Far Away' was playing on the pub radio system and it wasn't long before they'd sunk four middies sitting there watching the ocean on the balmy August day.

‘You hungry, Pezz?' asked Les.

‘Those few beers have put a bit of an edge on my appetite.'

‘Let's check the bistro out then.'

The menu was fairly extensive, mainly seafood. Peregrine went for the calamari and bream fillets; Les decided on the seafood basket. He got their tickets plus another two middies. They finished those just as the girl called their number; they collected their food plus two more middies. The food was delicious: nice crisp chips, fresh coleslaw and plenty of lemon wedges. By the time they'd got through that they each had six middies under their belts plus a stack of food and both Les and Peregrine were bloated.

‘How are you feeling?' smiled Norton.

‘Full as a boot,' replied Peregrine. ‘And a little sozzled.'

‘Yeah, me too. Those six beers sure hit the spot. I've got Tasmanian scallops and chips coming out my ears.'

‘I wouldn't mind a walk.'

‘Not a bad idea,' agreed Les. ‘I might just duck into the TAB and put a couple of bets on first. You want to have a flutter?'

‘No. I'll wait here.'

Norton strolled into the TAB five minutes before the third at Warwick Farm. He couldn't see any of Price's horses in the race, but he knew a horse from Wyong called Malley Boy had to be a good thing at 12/1. Les had twenty dollars each way. Some horse cast a plate at the barrier so the race was held up. However Malley Boy, even after a check in the straight, still managed to fall into third place and pay $3.50. Norton was thirty dollars in front. While he was listening to the race he didn't notice Peregrine go to the car and get his towel.