And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Here you are, girls. Get yourselves an answering service and a new pimp.’ They took the money and mumbled a kind of disdainful thanks. Les handed Harold some more money too. ‘Here you are, I’rold. Get yourself some shares in ICI.’ Les scrabbled the kid’s frizzy head and winked. ‘See you later, mate. Thanks for your help.’ Before they could say anything Norton left them and drove through the boomgates.

  Back in his room Les tossed his sweaty T-shirt on the bed, got some more ice from the machine then poured himself a glass of 7-Up and took it out on the balcony. Happily he gazed out at the ocean and the hills behind the resort and thought what an amazing old day it had been. He had plenty of time and there was a lot more of Jamaica to see, but he couldn’t wait to get back to the manse and start sniffing around again. Even discounting the buried treasure it was still interesting and a lot of fun. And what an old villain Eduardo must have been. I wonder what the full SP on him would be, mused Les. I wonder what else he got up to? It’d be interesting to find out, that’s for sure. In the meantime, it’s still bloody hot and my air-conditioned room is quite pleasant. But I think a nice long swim and a few beers would be well in order. He got a towel and his sunglasses and strolled down to the pool.

  It still wasn’t all that crowded; a couple of Japanese and pockets of motormouth Americans. There were plenty of empty banana lounges; Les dropped his gear on one and dived in the deep end. Again the water was delightful and Les did pretty much what he did that morning; swam a few laps, dived up and down and generally just splashed around on his own enjoying himself. After a while he towelled off and decided to attack the pool bar. Part of the bar was at the edge of the pool and the other part was built out into the shallow end where you sat on these stools with your legs in the water and ordered your drinks. Norton found an empty seat, ordered a bottle of Red Stripe and charged it to his room. Whether the local brew was any good or not Les wasn’t sure. But the first one slid down his throat like chilled honey, barely touching the proverbial sides. The barman hardly had time to ring it up on the till when Les ordered another one. He settled down a little with number two and had a look around.

  There were only about six people sitting round the dry part of the bar; all yanks and all boring the tits off the barman about how wonderful life was in Slop Bucket, Iowa, or Brucellosis, Idaho. In the pool, some more seppos had strung a net across part of the shallow end and were playing some kind of water netball as if their lives depended on it. There were two teams of around seven a side and every time someone scored they’d scream their lungs out, jump up and slap each others’ hands in typical ‘we’re Americans and we’re not gonna enjoy ourselves we’re gonna win at all costs’ style. The only things missing were two all-girl cheer squads waving pom-poms and a twenty-piece Marine band waving half a dozen American flags. For a muck round in a pool it was all ‘hey, ho, whoa, yeah, right on, alright, wow, yo’. One particular Chucky boy stood out from the others. He was about six foot one, with a big fleshy face and his blond hair braided into tourist dreadlocks at the back. He was about sixteen stone and looked like a bodybuilder starting to go to fat. Somehow he managed to be louder than the rest, but what made him stand out was the gold-coloured G-string he was wearing that went right up his arse, as if he was trying to show the world, especially the smaller Jamaicans, what a hunk he was. Every time he’d score he’d wave to his girl sitting on a banana lounge and she’d clap back and whistle. Paradoxically, she was as skinny as a rake, with tits like two rusty bottletops and no arse. A pair of round-framed glasses were perched on her nose under a bush of mousy blonde hair and she reminded Les of that anorexic hen Miss Prizzy, who’s always trying to pull Foghorn Leghorn. Lucky boy, thought Les. Lucky girl, for that matter. Four beers later Norton decided to go over and lie on his banana lounge, get away from the noise, catch a few rays and check out what other punters were in the hotel.

  About five minutes after Les sat down the World Series finished in the pool. Muscles dragged his arse out and with a great flexing of pectorals and biceps swaggered over and sat down about two seats away from Les, where his dutiful wife started wiping his back. After that he started snapping his fingers at the waiters both for drinks and to let them know he was around. Norton avoided eye contact as if his life depended on it. But it wasn’t too bad sitting where he was, a bit of shade had come over plus the outdoor kitchen was open and looking for customers and Norton was sorely tempted. However, he remembered what those two guards said about the band and the banquet later that night so he thought he’d save himself. The food smelled pretty good too; mostly Jamaican tasties with heaps of local fresh fruit and vegetables. Muscles snapped his fingers for a menu, A waiter brought one over and Muscles looked at it like he’d been offered dog shit cooked fifteen different ways instead of the succulent local cuisine. He gave it several very disapproving once up and downs while the waiter stood there in the sun like a stale bottle of piss, before dumping the menu in his girl’s lap.

  ‘You know what I could go right now?’ he bellowed. ‘A good burger deluxe and a root beer.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ replied his girl. ‘And a plate of fries with ketchup.’

  That was enough for Norton; he got up and left. Before he went back to his room he strolled around for a while and checked out where the night’s festivities were being held. They were a few hundred yards away from the pool on the right. The band area was set up under some palm trees with quite a number of long tables and chairs about fifty yards away on the grass. It looked like a nice setting and Les was looking forward to it. Shit, he smiled to himself. How would another smoke of that rubbish go before I came down? I reckon it’d give you the munchies in a big way. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll get zonked again before I come down and go through that banquet like a school of Bronze Whalers. Les had one more Red Stripe, watched the ocean for a while then walked back to his room.

  After the heat and the punishing seppos it was quite pleasant lying back on his bed with the air-conditioner going. Les poured himself a lazy delicious and pondered what to do. There was no TV and the radio was still pumping out gospel. It was an ideal time to go through some more of Elizabeth’s poems and see if he could work something out. It was getting dark, Les was cutting into the Sangsters and 7-Up and was none the wiser when he put the book down. He’d marked a few with biro he thought might mean something, but by and large they were all too obscure. Christ! If old Betty baby wanted to make it hard for anybody to find the loot she sure did a good bloody job. You’d have to be Einstein. Look at some of these I’ve marked.

  Gold and diamonds cast their shadow in my heart,

  To measure the chrisms of love beyond meed.

  That could be a clue though. Maybe when the sun’s at a certain angle it points to somewhere in that joint and there’s the treasure. Yeah, but where? And what time? What about this one?

  I stand upon the glistened cobblestones where eternity lies unreproved,

  How deep does measured time sink its jewelled troth.

  That could be it. The treasure’s buried under the cobblestones out the front. Yeah, but whereabouts again? And you’d need half a ton of TNT and a front-end loader to move those bloody things. Forget about home made jelly and a pick and shovel. They weigh a fuckin’ ton. Ahh, stuffed if I know. I reckon what I’m gonna have to do is take a run over to Kingston and see that heritage mob. The Laurecian or whatever they call themselves. That’s where I reckon I’ll get some clues. And I can forget about hiring a metal detector. According to that book, someone from the National Geographic went over the place and all he found was an old clay jar with a copper bracelet in it and a voodoo doll. Les took another sip of his drink. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I just got a sudden rush of brain to the head and there’s nothing there. Norton shook his head vehemently. No! It’s there alright. I know it is. In the meantime I have to ring home.

  Les sat up on the bed and blinked around the room. Now what made me think of that? I rang the oldies just before I left. Shit
! I’ve only been gone about a week. It’s not a bad idea though. Les rubbed his hands together. Heh heh! Wait till I tell them what I’ve found in Jamaica. They’ll shit themselves. He picked up the phone and booked a call to Dirranbandi. Ain’t it funny how things just come to you out of the blue? A few minutes or so later the phone rang back and the operator connected him.

  ‘Hello?’

  Les loved that familiar digger voice at the other end. He could just picture his father, old Joe, sitting there in his moleskins, having a cup of tea or reading the paper. Lillian, his mother, wouldn’t be too far away either, shelling peas or baking lamingtons for the CWA.

  ‘G’day, Dad. How are you, mate? It’s Les.’

  ‘Oh. Oh hello, Les. How are you, son?’

  The smile quickly evaporated from Les’s face. Something was up. Generally it was ‘how are you, you big goose,’ or ‘hello woodenhead’. Whenever Dad referred to him or Murray as ‘son’, something was wrong. Either that or they were going to get a good boot up the arse or a clip under the lug like when they were kids and got a bit too clever.

  ‘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 loo
ked 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.