The Godson (37 page)

‘There was one more thing.' Patrick let his eyes fall back to the notepad. ‘They get here eight-thirty Saturday morning, British Airways flight 438. And they'll be bringing the Guinness.'

Robert and Brendan exchanged glances.

‘Did you say they'll be bringing the Guinness?' said Brendan.

‘That I did,' replied Patrick.

‘Then it's surely on.'

‘Aye,' nodded Patrick. ‘It surely is indeed.'

L
ES CALLED INTO
the Yurriki butcher shop on the way to Murwillumbah. The local butcher either didn't recognise him or didn't want to. Norton was able to order twenty T-bones, sausages, cutlets and some pork chops. He told the butcher he'd call back in a couple of hours or so. The local butcher said that suited him, he'd see him then. In Murwillumbah Les found a parking spot opposite the police station outside a tiny coffee shop next to a hotel. Peregrine appeared to have tidied up for the occasion; silk shirt, cravat, tailored brown tweed trousers and expensive shoes plus an alligator skin sling wallet. Les walked to the ANZ bank with him. The Englishman said he might be a good half hour or so, Les could come in and wait if he wished. Norton said he'd see him back at the car.

He got a Sydney paper and went to the little coffee shop; which sold good coffee and excellent pumpkin scones with jam and cream. Les caught up on the football while he waited for Peregrine. There was a pub next door and he could have got the beer while he waited but Les thought he'd get it on the way back — that way it would be colder when they got home. Forty minutes later he saw Peregrine get into the front seat of the station wagon. Les drained his second cup of coffee and joined him.

‘Get everything done?' he asked, climbing behind the wheel.

‘Yes. Everything.'

‘What did you have to do, anyway?'

‘Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Nothing really.'

‘Fair enough.' Les slipped on his seat belt and started the engine. ‘Okay, next stop Cabarita.'

‘If you would be so kind.'

Norton pulled up in almost the same parking spot as the day before. The TAB had just opened but there didn't seem to be as many people about as on Wednesday. The two surfskis were back on the grass at the rear of the surf club but as Les and Peregrine crossed the street they could only see one clubbie working on them; the shorter, fair-haired one who helped to save Peregrine. Engrossed in his work and with his back turned he didn't notice the boys until Les spoke.

‘G'day, mate. How are you goin' there?'

The clubbie turned around and with a hand shading his eyes looked up at Les. It took him a moment or two to recognise who it was.

‘Ohh, G'day mate,' he answered. ‘How's things?'

‘Not too bad. Remember my mate here?'

The clubbie nodded at Peregrine. ‘Yeah. How are you feeling now, mate?'

Peregrine stared at the clubbie. ‘How am I feeling? I feel fine. Only because of you and your friend.'

The clubbie shrugged a noncommittal reply and continued sanding the surf-ski.

‘Where is your mate, anyway?' asked Les.

‘At home. The doctor at the hospital told him to stay off his leg for a few days.'

‘How bad is it?'

‘They ended up putting twenty stitches in it.'

‘Twenty stitches!' Peregrine had to look away for a moment. ‘You mean to tell me, that my … my stupidity cost your friend twenty stitches in his leg?'

‘Yeah, and his job. He just got a start last week at the pub as a cleaner. He couldn't turn up this morning so the boss put another bloke on.' The clubbie smiled at the look on Peregrine's face. ‘But don't worry about it, mate. That's just the way things go.'

Peregrine stared at the clubbie who ignored him as he continued to sandpaper the surf-ski.

‘What's your name?' asked Peregrine.

‘Mine? Geoff,' replied the lifesaver.

‘No. Your full name.'

‘Geoffrey. Geoffrey Nottage.'

‘And your friend's?'

‘Brian — Byrne.'

‘Excellent. Thank you, Geoffrey.'

Peregrine stepped into the surf club garage cum storeroom and found an old table covered in lifesaving equipment. He placed his sling wallet on top, removed some papers and took a gold Parker from his shirt pocket. The clubbie watched him indifferently for a moment or two then went on sandpapering the surf-ski.

‘Not working yourself?' asked Norton.

‘No. Things are pretty tough round here at the moment. I'm on the fuckin' jam-roll. It's enough to give you the shits.'

‘Yeah. I know what you mean,' nodded Les.

‘You up here on holidays, are you?'

‘Yeah. Sort of.'

The clubbie finished one side of the ski, got up and went round to the other. ‘Hey, thanks for that two hundred bucks, too, mate. That'll come in handy.'

‘That's okay,' shrugged Les. ‘It's the least I can do.'

Peregrine came out of the garage holding two small pieces of paper. He folded them together, walked around Les and handed them to the clubbie.

‘Do you know what those are, Geoffrey?' he asked. The clubbie looked at them as if he wasn't quite sure. ‘They're bank cheques. One for yourself. And one for your friend.'

The lifesaver opened the cheques, blinked then frowned at Peregrine in disbelief. ‘Hey, these are made out for a hundred thousand dollars each.'

‘That's right,' said Peregrine expressionlessly. ‘One for you and one for your friend Brian. Take them to the ANZ Bank in Murwillumbah, with some identification, and that amount will be forwarded into both your accounts.'

Still blinking in disbelief the simple clubbie turned to Les. ‘Is he fair dinkum?'

Norton was more than a bit taken aback himself. But he had seen Peregrine's generosity before. ‘I reckon he might be, matey,' he grinned.

Peregrine turned to Norton. ‘What does he mean Les? Is he doubting my sincerity? Geoffrey would you like us to drive you to the bank?'

‘No. No that's all right,' said the absolutely dumbfounded lifesaver. ‘It's just… shit! Christ! Bloody hell — a hundred thousand bucks! Jesus!'

‘You see, Geoffrey, sometimes it pays to rescue a pom,' smiled Peregrine.

‘You can bloody say that again,' said the totally amazed clubbie. ‘Better than the one we pulled in weekend before last.'

‘He didn't shout you a drink?' said Les.

‘No, all he left was a ring round the beach.'

Norton tried not to laugh, but when he caught Peregrine's eye he couldn't help it.

‘I… suppose I deserved that.' Peregrine extended a hand to the lifesaver. ‘Thank you Geoffrey,' he said sincerely.

‘Thank you too …' The lifesaver had to look at the cheque, ‘Peregrine.'

The clubbie was miles away staring at the two cheques. Les and Peregrine left him where he was and walked back to the car. A few minutes later they were motoring down the coast way
towards the Pottsville turnoff. They had gone some distance before Les spoke.

‘Hey, that wasn't a bad effort, Peregrine. A hundred thousand each for those clubbies.'

‘Two hundred thousand dollars to save your life, Les?' Peregrine dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘If anything, they deserved more.'

‘Whatever. But it was still a good effort. They were just a couple of battlers. I'm proud of you.'

‘I must admit, I do feel a lot better. Now, there's one more thing I insist you do, Les.'

‘Yeah? What's that?'

‘Back at Murwillumbah I noticed a liquor store selling imported champagne and beer. Pull up outside and open the back of the car. While I'm in a good mood I'm going to educate your drinking habits.'

‘What do you mean? Educate my drinking habits?' growled Norton.

Peregrine pointed an accusing finger at Les. ‘I still claim that half the reason I almost drowned out there was because you had me almost full of that dreadful Tooheys New, or whatever you call it. It's ghastly. If I had been drinking something civilised like Heineken or Carlsberg, I probably would have been all right.'

‘Ohh, don't give me the shits.'

‘And as for that vile concoction you drink in the yellow cans. Fourex. I wouldn't give that to a dog. In fact, it tastes as though dogs have been swimming in it. Amongst other things.'

‘What!?' Norton was almost going to stop the car. ‘Listen. You're starting to take a few liberties, old fellah. I'm from Queensland and we soak our bread in it up there.'

‘I think some of you have been soaking your heads in it. No, I admit English beer can be pretty ordinary. But don't try to tell me Australian beer's all it's cracked up to be. It's … it's rebarbative.' Peregrine baulked at the look on Norton's face. ‘What are you stopping the car for?'

‘I'm going back to Cabarita to belt those two clubbies. They should have let you drown.'

Thursday afternoon in Murwillumbah was like Thursday afternoon in any small Australian country town and Les was able to find a parking spot almost outside the bottle shop Peregrine had noticed earlier. He opened the back of the station wagon and followed the Englishman inside.

The shop was quite large with an extensive selection of wines and spirits. Arranged neatly on shelves, on either side of a double self-serve fridge, were around thirty different brands of beer. Behind the counter opposite was a cheery, country-looking woman in a plain cotton dress.

‘Yes? What can I do for you?' she asked.

‘Do you take American Express?' enquired Peregrine.

‘We sure do.'

‘Excellent.' Peregrine turned to the imported beers and let his eyes run over them. ‘Mmhh,' he mused happily. ‘Not a bad selection. Not bad at all. Okay, I'll start with a dozen bottles of Becks. And a dozen Stella Artois, Kronenbourg, and Gosser. A dozen Lowenbrau and the same of Heineken.'

The woman began stacking the six-packs on the counter and tapping the prices onto a calculator.

‘Hello,' said Peregrine. ‘I see you have Corona I'd better take three dozen of those. You wouldn't happen to have any limes?'

‘I can get you some.'

‘Good. Throw half a dozen in.'

‘What the …?' said Norton.

‘Quiet, Les,' commanded Peregrine. ‘You might just learn something here. Now, a dozen Carlsberg, not the Elephant beer, the other one. And a dozen Tuborg. Oh! And just in case Lothar here starts to break out in carbuncles, throw in half a dozen cans of Fourex.'

‘Make that a dozen.'

‘Very well. A dozen. And keep them separate from the others.'

‘I'm sorry these aren't all cold,' said the woman. ‘I normally wouldn't sell this much imported stuff in a month.'

‘That's quite all right. And I'll take a dozen bottles of Moet and a dozen bottles of Veuve Clicquot. You wouldn't happen to have any Cristal?' The woman shook her head. ‘And six bottles of Beaujolais.' Peregrine turned to Norton. ‘Well, come on, Les. Don't stand there like a Harrods dummy. Start putting them in the car. Now madam, how much do I owe you?'

‘Just what the fuck are you trying to prove, Peregrine?' said Norton, as they turned left at the roundabout on the way out to Yurriki. He had a quick look in the rear-vision mirror. In the back of the station wagon were eleven dozen bottles of imported beer, a dozen Fourex, two dozen bottles of French champagne and a half dozen imported wines.

‘I'm not trying to prove anything, dear boy,' replied Peregrine
quietly. ‘I'm just shouting you a few beers because I think you're such a wonderful chap.'

Les gave the Englishman a baleful look. ‘Now piss in this one. It's waterproof. Christ! It'll take us six months to drink it.'

‘Not if Baldric finds out it's there.'

‘Shit! That's a thought.'

The butcher had their meat waiting back at Yurriki. Les didn't bother to check it; if it was just half as good as the last lot it would still be sensational. Shortly after they were back at Cedar Glen cramming as much beer and champagne into the two fridges as they could. What wouldn't fit was stacked in the cupboards downstairs.

‘I wouldn't mind attacking some of this right now,' said Norton.

‘If you wish,' replied Peregrine. ‘But why don't we wait until it's all nice and chilled and get into it over the barbecue? We'll be really hungry then.'

‘Okay,' agreed Les. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I might have a read for a while.'

‘I'll go for a walk.'

‘Very well. I'll see you when you get back.'

Les spent the next couple of hours strolling around the property trying to picture the place through the eyes of Colonel Daniel J. Harcourt. It took on an entirely new dimension: the mantraps, fields of fire, the gun emplacement beyond the old duck sheds. In the evening sun he sat on a rail of the rickety old wooden bridge for a commanding view of practically the entire lower part of the farm. Yes, thought Norton, Cedar Glen sure is something else. Wish I had the money, I'd buy it myself. When he returned to the house and got cleaned up he found Peregrine laying on his bed with his hands behind his back staring at
Portrait Of A Chinaman
by Ernest Norman Toejam.

‘How are you feeling now, mate?' he asked. ‘You hungry?'

‘Yes, rather,' replied the Englishman. ‘I say, why don't we have some of those pork chops tonight? I watched you unwrapping them and they looked absolutely scrumptious.'

‘Okey-doke. Pork chops, cutlets and sausages it is.'

Les boiled the rice. Peregrine made the salad. Next thing they were in the barbecue area and Norton had the fridge door open trying to work out what to drink first.

‘Well, while you're making your mind up,' said Peregrine,
‘I'm going to have a nice chilled bottle of '78 Veuve Clicquot.'

‘Go for your life. I might try a bottle of this Stella Artois. I like the label.'