And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  There was a security guard in a brown uniform with a holstered gun on his belt, two young blokes in overalls and old hats, who looked like gardeners, and an older, dapper little bloke in a straw hat and sunglasses, wearing a yellow Bonds type T-shirt with ‘Rose Hill’ across the chest pocket in red and a pair of white trousers. He was the only one looking at Les and seemed as if he might be some kind of figure of authority, if not actually in charge, so Les thought he’d front him; just as another idea formed in his mind.

  ‘Excuse me, mate,’ said Les. ‘Are you in charge?’

  The little bloke poked his chest out slightly and looked at Les from behind his sunglasses. ‘Ire, mon. I’m deh head groundsman,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Deh name’s Joshua.’

  The two gardeners shuffled off, probably to look as if they were doing something. And the guard shuffled off, probably to make sure no Arab terrorists shot the American tourists; or anybody else repulsed enough by their accents and clothes. Les could feel Joshua preening a little; he shook his hand warmly then pointed a finger at him as if in recognition.

  ‘I thought that’s who you might have been,’ he smiled. ‘My name’s Les. Les Norton. I’m a friend of Millwood Downie’s. He said if I was up this way I should introduce myself to you.’

  ‘Millwood Downie deh teacher?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yu friend of Millwood’s?’

  ‘Yup. I’m also a relative of the people who built the great house. The Nortons.’ Les opened his wallet and showed Joshua his driver’s licence. ‘I’m out here from Australia.’

  Joshua looked at the photo and name on the licence and touched the front of his straw hat. ‘Ire mon. Norton. Respec mon. Respec.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Joshua. Millwood said you were a good man.’

  Joshua seemed to take to Les as the big Queenslander went into a spiel about knowing Millwood from Australia and he was out here looking up his family tree. He knew all about Spring Water Primary, his family had donated some money and he was having dinner with Mr Downie tonight before he flew back to Australia tomorrow. Joshua was suitably impressed.

  ‘The thing is, Joshua,’ said Norton, giving the little groundsman a bit of an Arthur Daley arm around the shoulders, ‘I don’t particularly want to see the great house with all those punishing yank tourists. What I’d really like to see is Sweet Ginger Hill. Where Elizabeth and Eduardo Norton grew up.’

  Joshua shook his head sadly. ‘Sorry, mon, but dat place private property. No one goes deh.’

  Les nodded sagely. ‘Millwood explained all that to me, Joshua,’ he said, extracting an American fifty dollar bill from his wallet, folding it and placing it between his fingers. ‘But if I get to see Sweet Ginger Hill that’s yours. And if I get back okay there’s another one in it for you. What do you say, Joshua? Old mate?’

  The little groundsman looked at the fifty like it was a snake hypnotising him. Les was also a good friend of Millwood’s and a Norton. Respec mon. ‘Les,’ he said, ‘I have to take care of de Chucky Bwoys for tirty minutes, mebbe till dem gaan. I meet yu back here at yu car. Den I take yu up Sweet Ginger Hill.’

  ‘Thank you, Joshua. I appreciate it.’ Les handed him the fifty, which disappeared in a blink.

  ‘While yu waiting, Les, why yu don go visit yu family graves?’ Joshua pointed behind Les to the trail leading into the bush. ‘No far tru deh.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Les. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘I see yu back here at deh car, Les. Soon time.’ The little groundsman adjusted his straw hat and walked off towards the babbling Chucky Bwoys and their horrible fat wives.

  Well how about that? beamed Norton. I get to see Sweet Ginger Hill after all. See, I give that little bloke a bit of respec mon. And he gave me some. Of course the lazy fifty helped, I’d reckon. But maybe these Jams have got something deh mon. Anyway, now I’ve got thirty minutes to kill. Which would be closer to an hour, Jam time. And what better way to do it than going through all the old graves. Fancy Joshua tipping me into that. I was hoping to get a look at them. But I was buggered if I knew where they were. Didn’t that little French priest in that other book find the buried loot by deciphering old graves? Les rubbed his hands together gleefully. Only one way to find out. Les locked the car, put some fresh film in his camera and with his backpack slung over his shoulder walked across to the thick bush. The old sun-bleached sign pointed up the trail and simply said NORTON BURIAL GROUND.

  The trail was barely a metre of dry, dusty sand pushing through the shrubbery about fifteen feet overhead. It was dead still and almost crushingly hot and Les was glad he’d wrapped a thick sweatband round his head. The trail veered slightly then ran alongside a small sandstone watercourse full of cool, clear water a couple of feet deep. Les remembered from the book that these must be the canals they built in the sixteenth century to bring rain and springwater down from the mountains to irrigate the sugar plantations. Bubbling slowly past in the heat it looked good enough to bottle as Evian. Les wasn’t too sure about drinking any, but he knelt down, splashed some over his face then soaked his sweatband in it and slopped more water over his neck and down his back. How good’s this? thought Les, splashing more water over his face and in his hair. He gave one of the sandstone blocks a push with his foot; it felt solid and heavy and even after sitting there for three hundred years didn’t even look like budging. Though I don’t think I’d have fancied being one of the poor bastards putting the things in. Especially in this heat. They weigh a bloody ton. And especially not for the pay my loving relations were paying them back then. Les rung his sweatband out, wrapped it back round his head and continued along the trail.

  The trail meandered on, sometimes it would run alongside a canal, other times cross over one then nothing but scrub. Les was sweating again when the pathway came out onto a level green something like a golf course. About a hundred yards across the green a few stumpy trees were dotted round a sandstone wall about five feet high, fifty yards long and twenty-five wide. There were one or two gaps in the wall and at the right hand end was a splintery, white picket fence and an old wrought-iron gate. Behind the far wall the hill sloped away again and Les could see the ocean horizon and further to the right the high-rise of some resort. He walked across the level green to the picket fence and looked through the open gate. Inside were rows and rows of old tombstones and vaults. Les stopped where he was and took off his cap and despite his earlier flippancy shook his head slowly almost in a state of reverent wonder. He’d found a lost Norton graveyard going back to the 17th Century. And that was definitely something you didn’t do every day.

  ‘Respec mon. Respec,’ he whispered. ‘Respec.’ After a second or two Les put his cap back on and stepped through the gate.

  The only comparison Les could make was those old Count Yorga films on latenight TV and he was glad it was daytime. There was row after row of ancient graves and tombstones. Granite ones, marble ones, black ones, white ones, grey ones. Most were built up on sandstone blocks, others had rusting, wrought-iron fencing round them, a lot of it starting to fall down. There was no shortage of Nortons and it appeared that when they went, they went out in style. Some of the graves had rows of a metre- square sandstone blocks stepped up six feet before you got to the marble cross or angel. Scattered here and there were crypts with great slabs of marble or blackened granite that had broken away from the sides lying crumbled and smashed around the bases and pathways. Weeds and shrubs were growing around the graves and along the paths, among the dead leaves and small branches that had fallen down from the few surrounding trees. It was all in an advancing state of deterioration and neglect. Though after three hundred years of wind, rain, blazing sun and salt air blowing straight in off the Caribbean there wasn’t much else to expect. But the Norton graveyard was starting to crumble. It was an eerie feeling for Les, walking around the old graves and seeing his surname on each one. It was also a strange feeling of belonging, as if he was entitled to be there. It was one of
the weirdest feelings Les had ever experienced and although he wasn’t really expecting apparitions or spirits to appear in crinoline dresses or three-corner hats, he was still glad it was daytime. Les wandered around a bit more then after drinking one of the cartons of fruit juice he’d brought with him got his camera out and started taking photos.

  All the graves had inscriptions carved on them, most of them illegible from where the stone had been blackened or stained after centuries of exposure to the weather. One was a massive granite slab sitting up on four beautifully carved, marble legs. There were two squares carved into one end of the slab. Inside one was chiselled, ‘Life How Short’. In the other it had, ‘Eternity How Long’. Les peered into the dirt-caked inscription at the other end. Josephine Clementina Norton, June 1730-September 1816. Josephine didn’t have a bad run, thought Les, taking a photo. I wonder who she was? Sarah Goodin Johanna Norton, 1707-1769. There were dozens more names and dates and rambling religious inscriptions across the stone, but the caked-in dirt made them too difficult to decipher. Les figured if you cleaned them up you’d be able to read them a lot better… but you’d be there a month. And almost that long if you wanted to write them all down. Isobelle Cordelia Norton Plummer, 1788-1861. Brigadier General Edward Wescott Moulton Norton, 1803-1883. As you were, General. Les took a photo and snapped off a quick salute. There were heaps of graves and old tombstones. Literally. Piled side by side, tumbling into each other. Les roamed up and down, clicking away, and although it might have been a little odd, perverse even, he was again having the time of his life.

  Les climbed up the steps of some graves, walked across the slabs of others, shook some of the wrought-iron fencing to see how solid it was. A stiff breeze whipping in from the ocean blew across the sweat on his face and arms, taking the edge off the humidity and making things a little cooler. But after searching all over the tombstones and vaults Les was flat out finding anything he could decipher let alone make something out of. He did discover one thing — the oldest, but not necessarily the biggest, graves seemed to be in one corner of the graveyard closest to the ocean. Les knew he wouldn’t find Elizabeth’s grave, she died in Scotland. And Eduardo the priest disappeared. But among the oldest graves Les did find two other Eduardos. One was solid marble and granite built up on massive sandstone blocks. Over the years it had copped the full blast of the sun and ocean and although the script across the blackened slab was beautifully engraved, Les could just make out the words: ‘Blessed Are the Dead … Belief and Hope Through Jesus… Rest From Their Labours and Their Works Will Follow.’ The words on the top of the slab were a bit bigger. Stanley Moulton Eduardo Norton of Sweet Ginger Hill, 1641-1727. Les stepped back and took a photo. Stanley Norton of Sweet Ginger Hill, thought Les. That’d be Eduardo and Elizabeth’s father. There was another crypt alongside. Les could make out the name Kathleen Loudivine Elinor Norton. I wonder if that was his wife, thought Les. He couldn’t make out the dates. The one right in the corner was built up with a granite cover over the top, almost like a roof. The engraving this time was down the side, away from the ocean. It must have been the original Norton who started the dynasty. Moulton Eduardo Darius Norton of Rose Hill Great House, 1605-1692. The first inscription read, ‘To the Memory of M.E.D. Norton. Whose remains rest beneath until the sound of the last trumpet when this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal must put on immortality.’ There were hearts and angels then the second inscription read, ‘Sacred to the Memory of M.E.D. Norton. He represented the borough of Ferule- shire for two successive parliaments in the British Senate and was a member of the council of this island when he died. He was benevolent to the poor, kind and generous to his servant — and attached and attaching to his friends. He died through the grace of God in the faith of Him. Who is the resurrection and the life.’ Well, there you go, smiled Les, stepping back to take another photo. Benevolent to the poor. That’s me since I’ve been here. I guess I’m just a chip off the old block Moulton. Les looked at the oldest grave for a few moments more, took another photo and the film started to automatically rewind so he reloaded the camera and wandered quietly around, taking more photos. Then a thought struck Les and his original elation began turning into melancholy. In a few days’ time he’d be standing around another grave in Queensland, halfway across the world, among other Nortons. And there would somehow be this weird link back to this old graveyard in Jamaica that overlooked the ocean. The wind suddenly seemed to get cooler. Yes, it was weird alright. Weirder than Les had previously thought.

  Les hung around for a little longer, finding absolutely nothing as far as clues to buried treasure went. But it was going to be a buzz showing all the folks back home the photos once they were all pissed at the wake. He opened the other carton of fruit juice then looked at his watch. Shit! By the time I finish this and walk back it’ll be time to pick up young Joshua and visit Sweet Ginger Hill. Where I hope to find a clue of some description. Buggered if I know what, though. Les had one last look round the Norton graveyard, put his rubbish and the camera back in his bag then picked up a small piece of broken marble for a souvenir. At the old wooden fence he took off his cap again in a mark of respect, and with more than a touch of sentiment farewelled the resting place of his ancestors. Well, see you later, folks. Don’t know when though. But RIP, as they say. Rest In Peace. Or is it Rise If Possible? Whatever: At least you’ve got a nice view from up here. Les put his cap back on and trudged off across the field to the trail.

  He stopped briefly along the trail to splash some more water from one of the canals across his face and by the time he got back to the Honda it was all happening. The tour buses were pulling out and Joshua was walking briskly towards him. The security guard was coming down the steps in the same direction and the two gardeners were heading that way too; probably to take up their original positions beneath the trees. Les had just opened the car up to let the heat out and thrown his bag on the back seat when Joshua arrived almost on the trot.

  ‘Ire, Les,’ he said, closing the door as he climbed in the front seat. ‘Let’s go, mon.’

  Norton looked at him for a second. ‘Yeah, righto,’ he replied, getting in and starting the engine. ‘I wasn’t quite expecting a Le Mans start.’ Les nodded to his right; if he remembered Sweet Ginger Hill was behind and to the right of the great house.

  Joshua shook his head. ‘This way, Les. I show you de school.’

  ‘School?’

  ‘Ya, mon. Spring Water Primary. Where Millwood teaches. I show you.’

  ‘Joshua. I don’t…’

  ‘C’mon, Les. This way, mon. Yu like de school. Meet de piccnys.’ Joshua glanced over Norton’s shoulder at the others coming along the path and earnestly pointed left.

  Les looked at the little groundsman for a moment then slipped the car into drive. ‘Yeah righto,’ he said astutely.

  It wasn’t hard to tell what was going on. Joshua was legging it from his workmates as quickly as possible. Sweet Ginger Hill was out of bounds so he’d probably told them Les was a friend of Millwood Downie’s and he was taking him up to show him the school. You could bet he’d never told his black brothers he’d zipped the honky from Australia for fifty dollars, and you could also bet the brothers weren’t in the whack for the other fifty either. Which was why he wanted Les out of the road before they arrived and he said something in front of them. So it looked like Les was getting the grand tour around the Hill of Zion and Spring Water Primary before they doubled back to Sweet Ginger Hill. And being a supposed friend of Millwood’s Les not only had to cop it sweet but look interested as well.

  The great house faded in the background as under Joshua’s directions they climbed up hills along dusty, bumpy, one-lane roads that would put the wind up a rally driver. There were monstrous potholes half hidden by rocks as big as TV sets and Les hoped and prayed the little Honda’s sump didn’t get torn out. They climbed on and on, crossing other roads, slightly wider but in the same condition. Passed a pretty little waterfall splashing
down from under a huge old tree, a couple of caves in the side of the hill and an ancient sandstone bridge. It was all scrubby bush or low forest with clearings every now and again where the bush had been levelled for sugar fields or whatever and the trees had started to grow back. There were no birds and no wildlife. The closest thing to an animal Les saw was a notice saying STRAY GOATS WILL BE SHOT. S’pose I’d better keep in the car, he thought as they bumped and rattled along. The higher they climbed and the further they got from the great house, the more Joshua started to relax. Before long he started letting Les know he was a bit of a man about town and began giving him the National Geographic tour of the area. He told Les about Jenny the white witch, who had another property near Rose Hill, and how she had a tunnel connecting the home to a cave near the old bridge where she used to bring different slaves for a bit of discreet porking, and when she was sick of them she used to neck them. Until some slave ended up necking Jenny. Now her ghosts roams the old mansion and some nights appears on the bridge, etc, etc. Les was ecstatic. Joshua told him about the pirates that used to anchor just off Rose Point and how they used to come ashore and steal the female slaves. A trio of curious workers walked past as they crossed onto another road near a clearing and Joshua pointed out that that was a remote part of a golf course where they shot scenes for a James Bond movie. Fabulous, nodded Les as they climbed higher again.