They seemed to have gone miles into the wilderness before coming onto another slightly wider, steeper road that climbed a bend to the right, then levelled out, and suddenly there was a scattering of ramshackle houses and dwellings. The road stopped on a plateau that overlooked the ocean on the right, and on the left was a deep valley that rolled into smaller valleys dotted with houses just like the ones along the road between Montego Bay and Dredmouth. It reminded Les of documentaries he’d seen on TV about the peasants living in the hills of Peru or Bolivia. Whatever it reminded Les of, it definitely wasn’t Bellevue Hill or Toorak. Standing apart from the houses at the top of the road was a slightly larger building made out of sandstone, wood, brick and pieces of concrete. It had a warped timber roof and the smallest steeple at the front imaginable. A short set of stairs ran up to the front door, which was locked, and above the front door was a wooden plaque with Spring Water Primary School stencilled on it in green. Sitting on what passed for a lawn out the front were several wooden seats and desks, freshly painted and drying in the sun, and it looked like someone had just put a new bannister down one side of the steps and started to install a couple of new windows. So that’s where my bloody money’s going eh? smiled Les. Well, at least I know. Les made a comment about the school to Joshua then they pulled up a little further, on top of a high, gently sloping mountain that gave a panoramic view of the ocean. Joshua switched off the motor and they got out.
Before Les was the Caribbean, turning bluer and bluer as it stretched across countless white caps to a massive cloud bank on the horizon. To the left Les could see Montego Bay and to the right the narrow harbour of Dredmouth. The breeze was wondrously refreshing as it swept up from the ocean below, cutting across the sugar fields and forests; Les stood there for a while, letting it flick through his hair and thinking it would be a while before he’d ever see a view like this again. Although he didn’t want to at first, Les was glad now he’d come up here and it would be something worth mentioning to Millwood when he saw him that night. Joshua leant against the front of the car and seemed to be leaving Les to his thoughts. The little groundsman was probably alone with his own thoughts as well; like, how he was going to spend the hundred dollars. Whatever their thoughts were, they were abruptly shattered by the screaming and yelling of very young voices. Les turned around and ten of the wildest, feral children he’d ever seen in his life came charging out of the valley towards him. Shit! What’s this? blinked Les. I’m about to be mugged by the local Munchkins. They were just about to swarm all over Les when Joshua stepped out and put his hand up. He rattled off something in patois that was too fast and too raw for Les to understand. But Joshua must have had some sort of respec, because whatever he said worked; the kids screeched to a halt and stood near the car, looking at Les with inquisitive, pinky-brown eyes.
If these were the local piccnys, for their size they were a ferocious-looking bunch. The boys all wore ragged blue singlets and baggy shorts, the girls wore thin blue dresses or pinafores; none of them wore shoes. Joshua said something else and the kids settled down even more, actually giving Les some respec. Les smiled, said g’day, offered his hand and by watching some blokes at the Mardi Gras and mucking around with Delta and Esme managed to pull off a couple of Jamaican handshakes where you make a fist and brush knuckles and fists in four brisk movements. The kids warmed up to Les, pulling at his shorts and T-shirt, two of the girls cuddled up against his legs. They were probably a mob of little horrors yet Les couldn’t help but like them.
He scrabbled the boys’ bristly heads, pulled the blue ribbons in the girls’ pigtails, pointed a stern finger at each one of them and told them they were the cheekiest tribe of monsters he’d ever come across and if ever he was in town again he’d boot them all up the khyber; and that’s not all. But the more Les scolded and hair-raided the kids, the more they laughed and giggled. Les took a couple of photos, gave the camera to Joshua, got him to take a couple then put his camera away, knowing it was both time to get going and time for the ask.
Les gave Joshua a wink and extracted about $400 Jamaican from his pocket. He gave half to the biggest boy and half to the oldest girl, then stood back. The kids literally exploded; whatever noise they made before was like a few whispers compared to now. The two kids with the money leapt straight off the starting blocks with the rest of the piccnys howling at their heels. They whooped and shrieked up and down the valley like banshees as they all tried to get in on the chop up. Norton had never seen anything like it; they left a pack of vultures or hyenas for dead. He watched them disappear into the valley, their voices still echoing around the mountain top and across the plateau, then turned to Joshua.
‘Well what do you reckon, Joshua? Sweet Ginger Hill?’
‘Ire Les,’ nodded the little Jamaican. ‘Back daht way, mon.’
Les filled his chest with another lungful of crisp mountain air, had a last look around the unique little town high up in the middle of nowhere then wheeled the Honda around and past the school. About half a kilometre back down the road Joshua directed him left onto a smaller one. They lurched and bumped over more potholes and rocks for a couple of miles then onto another narrow road that seemed to climb back up the mountain. They turned right again onto another road through the scrub. Les didn’t have a clue where they were and was about to say something to Joshua when the road scalloped in on the left, forming a short, wide driveway set against an old sandstone wall and two sandstone pillars with an equally old bronze lamp sitting on each. Bolted between the two pillars was a beautifully embossed, double wrought-iron gate about ten feet high. Behind the gate was a driveway edged with more sandstone blocks and overhung with leafy cedar and mahogany trees that obscured the view of the house behind. Aloe Vera and other flowering cactus plants pushed up against the wall, bougainvillea and several colourful vines full of bigger flowers hung over the top. Fastened into one of the white-washed pillars was a solid slab of white marble and painstakingly chiselled into it in old-fashioned script was ‘Sweet Ginger Hill’. Les gave a couple of double blinks through the windscreen. The place had a charm and old-fashioned beauty about it that almost took his breath away. It was like being transported back in time, into another era, another part of history. In a way Les was reminded of one of those old Southern mansion he’d seen in films or on TV and surmised that that was one of the reasons the American singer from Kentucky bought it. No matter what his reason, if Les had been a millionaire and found the place on the market he would have bought it too. It looked fabulous. He turned to Joshua.
‘So what do we now, mate?’
‘Just wait here, mon.’
Joshua got out of the car, walked over to one of the pillars and pushed a button. Les turned off the engine and waited, taking in all he could see so far. A few minutes later a beefy Jamaican woman came ambling up the driveway. Ohh no, Les groaned to himself. Not again. Please. She had some kind of yellow slippers on her feet, a red floral dress stretched over her ample behind and a blue and white polka dot scarf sitting on her head, and was a swap for that black woman who’s always chasing Tom around the kitchen in those Tom and Jerry cartoons. Les shook his head as she waddled over to Joshua standing at the gate. They had some sort of a confab, so while they did Les put Tom and Jerry out of his mind and continued to take in the unexpected beauty of Sweet Ginger Hill. A minute or two later they finished whatever it was they were talking about; the woman unlocked a chain on a gate, opening it slightly, and Joshua walked over to the car window.
‘Move de car over by de gate, Les. It be safe deh and we walk down.’
‘Okey doke,’ agreed Norton. He moved the Honda closer to the gate, got his backpack out and locked the doors.
‘Les,’ said Joshua quietly, ‘de ’oman at de gate. Yu have to…’
‘Of course, Josh,’ beamed Les. ‘Christ, mate, I’d be wondering what was going on if I didn’t have to.’ Les walked over to the woman, smiled at her as if she was long-lost kin, and flicked $150 Jamaican out of his walle
t. She stuck it down her dress and motioned Les through the gate.
‘Les,’ said Joshua again, ‘dis be Trishet.’
‘Hullo, Trish,’ said Les, offering his hand. ‘Absolutely delighted to meet you. And I can’t thank you enough for letting me in.’
Trishet shook Norton’s hand then locked the gate again and ambled back down the drive with Les behind her and Joshua bringing up the rear. The driveway was all white quartz gravel; as they crunched along a bit further Les tapped Trishet on the shoulder.
‘Alright if I take a few photos, Trishet?’ The woman nodded so Les stopped, took his camera out of his bag and had a closer look.
Compared to Rose Hill Great House, Sweet Ginger Hill didn’t look all that big, thought the old home was certainly big enough. About twenty metres of cleared lawn, dotted with more colourful trees and cactus. A stone fountain that wasn’t working faced the home from where the driveway ended. The building was two storeys high with a tiled verandah around the front spaced with solid wooden beams that supported a slate roof above. The left half of Sweet Ginger Hill was solid timber, a double oak door in the middle, the right half stuccoed white sandstone with a wood-tiled roof, spaced here and there with tiny sandstone turrets. The main colour was white, although the tiles on the verandah were red and white in an old-fashioned, Italian-Pompeii design. Wooden beams jutted out from the bottom of the roof, ivy and vines flourished along the top of the verandah and the way the old home sat rather grandly in the clearing, it reminded Les of a rambling Spanish hacienda more than anything else. Lizards baked in the heat among the vines along the verandah and Les distinctly heard the chirping of small birds. He took a photo while Trishet waited by the front door, took another one, then walked over, wiped his feet and stepped inside.
There was a tiled foyer flanked with heavy wooden beams and solid wooden panelling; a few roughly hewn wooden chairs sat round the walls beneath some old paintings and carved wooden pegs to hang your clothes on. A corridor ran off to the main room on the left, a set of stairs faced the front door and another corridor on the right ran past several closets and what could have been pantries to the kitchen. The rooms and hallways inside were wide and high and Sweet Ginger Hill’s interior was much bigger than it looked from the driveway. Les was getting a bit thirsty again and figured that for $150 Jamaican a glass of water wouldn’t be too much of an ask. He followed Trishet into the kitchen and she got him one from the fridge. There were two people in the kitchen. A tall, solid bloke, who was probably a gardener and minder, and a young girl, who was probably some other part of the staff that looked after the place when Dollar wasn’t there. Joshua introduced Les as Mr Norton, a friend of Millwood Downie’s, from Australia, an ancestor of the original family and a benefactor of the school. They courteously shook hands and showed Les some respec. Les sipped his glass of water and looked around. The kitchen had just about been fully modernised with a stainless steel sink, porta-gas stove, electric oven and other modern conveniences. But Dollar, or whoever he bought the home from, had left the rough sandstone floor, a huge old cabinet full of willow pattern crockery and soup tureens plus an equally old fuel stove with a copper tap in front still in its original position set under a sandstone chimney. There was also a log of wood standing upright with a marble bowl set in one end. A long pole with a weight at one end suggested this was originally for grinding corn or maize. A microwave oven, sitting on a mahogany table underneath a row of ancient copper pots and pans, didn’t look all that incongruous, more an unusual blending of the old and new. The main room was a little different.
Les finished his glass of water and followed Trishet back through the foyer where a massive door opened up into a wide, spacious room full of floor-to-ceiling bay windows that overlooked the grounds outside. It was all exquisite period furniture of velvet and tapestry, mostly pink or maroon. Ornate gold mirrors and old paintings were set into the walls and heavy blue velvet curtains covered the windows. Rows of thick wooden beams supported the ceiling and in between hung delicate crystal chandeliers. There were beautifully carved oak and mahogany sideboards and shelves running round the walls full of seventeenth-century bric-a-brac, like porcelain statuettes and shell and butterfly displays set in glass domes. It was just like stepping back in time again. Except that at the far end, next to a piano, was a quadruple-decked stereo system crammed with boosters, faders and a graphic equaliser. It stood beneath two monstrous Bose speakers hanging from one of the beams, a teak sideboard was packed with CDs and vinyls and several gold records were pinned to the wall. Les didn’t bother going through Dollar’s holiday music collection, but he did ask Trishet about some of the paintings on the wall. There was a woman in a crinoline dress about thirty with long dark hair and an attractive if somewhat triste face. A man about fifty, of Mediterranean appearance, in a black coat and wide floppy tie. A severe-looking woman about the same age in a blue bodice and white bonnet, and a young boy about twelve, in a high, lace- collared, cream vest outfit. Both males had reddish hair.
Trishet began to come to life when she realised Les wasn’t just some mug tourist looking for something different, and began pointing different things out to him; she probably wanted to show she was in charge here, knew a bit about the place and was no mug either. The younger woman in the paintings was Elizabeth. The man was Stanley Norton and the other woman his wife Kathleen. The boy in the breeches was Eduardo when he was young. Les stared at the paintings, slowly rubbing at his chin. Stanley looked a lot like Uncle Frank, who the whole family always joked had a bit of wog in him. And young Eduardo was almost a swap for Murray’s eldest boy Wayne. Even Elizabeth looked like cousin Judy when she’d go a bit quiet and they’d call her ‘Moody Judy’. It was uncanny. Les took a couple of photos and Trishet took him over to the staircase that wound upstairs past where Dollar had managed to bolt a monstrous alligator skin to the wall.
A French window let in light at the top of the stairs where it split into two more corridors. Trishet explained how she couldn’t show Les Mr and Mrs Dollar’s room and their private studies, but the kids’ rooms would be okay. Which was fair enough, thought Les, and followed her along to Dollar’s daughter’s room, which was Elizabeth’s old room. The biggest wooden four-poster bed Les had ever seen sat against one wall almost in the middle of the room; it was that high off the floor it had a small set of cushioned steps alongside it to climb up. There was a marble fireplace with an iron grate and more bric-a-brac displayed on the shelves and the cornice above. A thick square of brown carpet covered part of the floorboards, an oak wardrobe sat against one wall near a mahogany dresser with a marble top and shiny bronze candlesticks that caught the light streaming in from the French windows. It was a typical kid from the seventeenth century’s room, right down to the wooden bidet in one corner. All except for a framed poster of the Munsters on one wall and a small stereo and TV set in another corner. Les took another photo.
Dollar had two boys and their room, Eduardo’s old room, was down the other end of the hallway. The room was slightly bigger yet entirely different from Elizabeth’s. Where Elizabeth’s had a definite woman’s touch about it, this one had a nautical influence and looked like the aft cabin on an old Spanish galleon. The windows were shaped like portholes, ancient wooden trunks with heavy iron locks stood against the walls or in the corners, black and white paintings of sailing ships and pirates hung on the walls and several carved wooden ships sat on shelves round the walls. Two smaller four-poster beds faced each other from opposite sides of the room among much the same kind of hand-tooled wood and marble furnishings as in the other bedroom. Dollar’s two sons had added their own touch. Another small stereo, a TV computer game, toys, plus baseball and basketball posters on the wall and one of their father on stage in Nashville with his guitar. The room had a nice feel about it. In fact, the whole place so far had a nice feel about it. Dollar was a devoted family man and probably brought his family down here every now and again to get away from the American rat race and soak up a few
old-fashioned values among the secluded peace and quiet of Sweet Ginger Hill. Les took a couple more photos.
The bathroom was all the original sandstone and copper with the same red tiles as the front verandah, except the plumbing and toilet were brand new. Trishet showed Les a few closets, another study with more old furniture in it and pointed out a few other things before taking him back down the stairs, through the kitchen, down a set of sandstone stairs and into the grounds at the rear of the house; or hacienda as Les had pictured it by now.
The grounds were much bigger than out the front and well landscaped up to where they edged off into the surrounding trees and scrub. In the middle was a swimming pool and near it was an old brass and sandstone sundial that had been well cared for over the centuries and looked almost brand new. Behind the pool was a solitary tree, thick with branches and some kind of yellow fruit at the top. Les snapped off a couple more photos then got Trishet to take one of him and Joshua standing next to the sundial with the fruit tree in the background. There were palm trees and other trees where the grounds led up to another verandah at the rear of the house; Les followed Trishet up. It was made of the same red and white Pompeii-style tiles as the front one, beams jutted out of the white stuccoed walls and other beams supported the roof above. There were several bamboo chairs and tables but a good part of the verandah was taken up by bursts of beautiful flowers kept in small sandstone beds. Along the front of the verandah were five shiny brown ceramic containers; three were about a metre and a half high and half a metre or so thick, the other two were closer to a metre long and about half as thick as the others. They reminded Les a little of a Greek amphoras, only they were straight with a round lip formed over the top for a stopper and had lugs formed into the sides for carrying instead of handles. Joshua said they were Spanish jars and were used to carry spices and oils back in the pirate days. Whatever they were, each had more flowering vines of all colours growing out of them and looked quite beautiful with the old tiles in the background, so Les took a couple more photos. Out of curiosity Les asked Trishet how the old home got its name. She reached over to one of the beams with a blue and green vine growing on it and small red berries about the same size as a pea. She picked one off, squashed it between her fingers and held it under Norton’s nose. It smelled like ginger. Les picked one off and took a nibble. It tasted like ginger, only with a bitter-sweet, chocolate taste as well. Trishet said another couple of weeks and they sweetened right up. Les thought they tasted pretty good as they were.
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