And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  Les wandered round a little longer, taking photos till the film began to automatically rewind itself and he felt Trishet and Josh were giving him the hint he’d got his money’s worth. Les wasn’t sure if he’d discovered anything, but it was well worth the effort; the old home, besides dripping with character, was just plain beautiful and how often do you come across something like that? He envied Billy Ray Dollar’s good fortune. Trishet led him back round the grounds to the front gate, where Les gave her hand a squeeze and thanked her again for showing him around. Trishet said it was her pleasure, Mr Norton. Joshua said something to her in patois, too fast for Les to understand, then they got back in the car as Trishet locked the gate again and ambled back down the driveway.

  The roads were no better, but it was definitely easier going back down. Joshua gave Les a bit more of a travelogue on the way; Les didn’t say much, preferring to concentrate on the rocks and potholes again to make sure he didn’t pull the diff out of the car. Before long they’d criss-crossed their way over other roads and were back at Rose Hill Great House, not far from where Joshua’s workmates were still sitting on their backsides beneath the trees. Joshua told Les to pull up where he was, the A1 was straight ahead. Les knew what was going on and slipped Joshua the other fifty dollars in the car so the others couldn’t see. They shook hands again, Les thanked Joshua once more, even if it was the easiest hundred bucks the little groundsman had ever earned in his life, said goodbye and slowly drove back along the driveway into Kenilworth, then turned left towards Montego Bay.

  Well there you go, mused Norton, moving the little Honda around the frantic hitchhikers and the other cars on the A1. That was Sweet Ginger Hill. So what did I find out? Les absently turned the radio on to hear Blood Fire Posse coming out of some station, doing a pretty good cover of ‘Do You Remember’, as he cruised along, deep in thought. Yeah, what do I know? Not much really. Except the old home was drop dead beautiful and there’s some sort of Spanish influence in the family. And Eduardo was some kind of boat nut when he was a kid. As for clues? There might have been something in Dollar’s room or those other rooms that were out of bounds. But stiff shit there. And after hundreds of years of different people living there, everything would be changed around or damaged to a certain extent. Though I saw something there that reminded me of something somewhere else. But I can’t think what it is. Anyway, we’ll see what Millwood’s got to say tonight. One thing I do know, by the time he gets there and we get to a restaurant and order some food it’ll be after eight. I couldn’t wait that long. Not on two lousy fried eggs this morning. I’m that hungry I’d eat a dead rat and make soup out of the trap. I’ll get a hot dog or something when I drop these films off.

  Les turned off the A1 to find the back way along Gloucester. He drove through some sort of gully with hills full of trees on one side and some kind of park with a crumbling concrete bus shelter, and couldn’t quite believe what he’d just driven past. The road was wide, Les did a U-turn and pulled up near the bus shed. Across the road was a battered old blue van with a servery cut into the side. Most of the paint was chipped away or missing, the rest was bare metal tinged with rust. Across the top was written in white, ‘Meals on Wheels’. I don’t believe it, smiled Les. I’ve got to have a feed there. Hope they don’t give me food poisoning. No, not a chance, he thought, as he locked the car and crossed over. Knowing these bastards they’d charge you extra for that too.

  There was a bloke in a white singlet and a faded pair of jeans at the counter; Les heard him order chicken jerky and a bottle of sweet sap. The maitre d, in a grease- and sweat-stained T-shirt, took his order then turned to Norton.

  ‘Yah, mon?’

  Les nodded to the bloke in the singlet. ‘I’ll have the same, thanks.’

  ‘Yah, mon.’

  The maitre d moved across to the gourmet chef and gave him the orders; Les poked his head over the small counter for a look. Sitting just behind the driver’s cabin was an old fuel stove with a blackened piece of grate over the top. Along a bit was an old wooden table with a block of ice covered by a sack on it, and some drawers and shelves covered in food, spices, plates, etc. and other junk. There was no refrigeration. The gourmet chef tossed some small pieces of bone in chicken on the grate, slopped some reddish-orange sauce over the top, then proceeded to scorch the shit out of it while the maitre d got a rusty Phillips-head screwdriver and started banging lumps of ice from the block on the table. By the time he’d hacked off enough to fill two paper cups, the gourmet chef had nuked the chicken to waste and it arrived on the counter in a little cardboard carton on a bed of rice with some tiny nuts and shreds of cabbage or something in it. The sweet sap arrived in a Stone’s Green Ginger Wine bottle, and, going by the condition of the label and the chips around the neck, young Harold had probably been collecting it for the last two years. All up, it came to the outrageous price of a little less than two dollars Oz; Les paid him cheerfully and walked back to the car.

  There were about half a dozen people sitting around the shelter, some were eating, a plumpish woman was drinking a bottle of Red Stripe and an old bloke in a funny little leather cap was trying to light up a roach. Rather than upset the locals with his disgusting table manners Norton chose to eat on the bonnet of the car; the thought that someone might try to steal it or stab him in the back and roll him while he sat round the shelter never occurred to him. The chicken jerky wasn’t all that bad, especially at the price. It tasted exactly like something you’d get at a surf club barbecue where the cook’s blind drunk and slops tomato sauce, tabasco and mustard over everything before he burns the shit out of it then goes and has a chunder somewhere. The sweet sap was something else, however. It was pale green, a little thicker than milk and tasted something like liquid banana, only sweeter. It was absolutely delicious and Les demolished the bottle without even bothering to put it in the cup with the ice. There was no garbage tin, just a pile of rubbish on a slope near the bus shed; Les ate what he could and dumped his rubbish on top of the rest. Well, so much for dining al fresco on authentic Jamaican cuisine, he burped as he got back behind the wheel of the Honda. I could go another gallon of that drink though. I’ve never tasted nothing like that before.

  Les picked up his photos from the Pakistanis and dropped the other film off. The boss said there was a chance it would be ready in about an hour or so, maybe. On the way out Les bought six T-shirts with Ire Jamaica, Reggae Sunsplash and Montego Bay on the front for the kids back home. As he paid, the owner gave him a smile oilier than a hurricane lamp and told him his photos would be ready in an hour; and not a Jamaican one. Les thanked him and walked out to the car. On the way back to the Biltmore Les wasn’t thinking about a great deal, only where he’d eat that night and how the photos would turn out. He certainly wasn’t expecting anybody to be waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs next to the security guard. He parked the Honda, got his stuff off the back seat and walked over.

  ‘Esme? Delta? What…?’ Les didn’t mean to sound abrupt, but even though he’d told the girls where he was moving to he was a little surprised at them showing up, and he didn’t particularly feel like putting them back on the drip; along with just about everybody else he’d met so far in Jamaica. However, the smiles on the girls’ faces seemed genuine and although they were wearing the same jeans and shorts, they’d changed into clean white T-shirts and did look a lot brighter than when he’d first met them.

  ‘Hi Les,’ said Esme. ‘Wi just hangin’ bowt, so wi tort wi come by see yu.’

  ‘Ya, mon,’ said Delta. ‘Wi jus wan sai hello, Les. See how be de big Brer Wallaby.’

  What could Les do? They were probably pitching up to sleep in the car again and bum some more money and orange juice. But they weren’t bad, poor sheilas, and a few more lousy dollars wouldn’t kill him. ‘Yeah, Brer Wallaby’s okay,’ he smiled back at Delta. ‘Couldn’t be creamier.’ Les gave the security guard a wink. ‘It’s okay, I’rol. They’re friends of mine.’

  ‘Ire, mon.
’

  ‘Come on.’ Les led the girls up the stairs, plonked them down at the same table where he had breakfast and pulled up a chair himself. ‘So how have you been? Did you get a good night’s sleep in the car?’

  Yes, the girls did have a good night’s sleep, for which they were grateful. They’d been hanging around the beach all day, but at least they had money for food, for which they were grateful also. Les told them about Lucretia ripping him off when he left and he was glad it was them going to work for her and not him. He also told them about his movements that night and how he was having a kind of business dinner with Millwood Downie. But the girls were welcome to hang about the hotel, the bar looked like it was open and, yes, they could have a few more drinks and put it on his tab. Why bloody not?

  Esme reached across and placed her hand softly on Norton’s arm; her soft brown eyes looked like they were going to melt and run down her face. ‘Les, mon. We din come by fo yu danza. We come by jus see yu, mon. And daht tru, Les.’

  ‘Ya, tru mon,’ agreed Delta. ‘A no lie wi a lie, Les. Wi still got de danze yu give night time.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s… good.’

  Les felt a little embarrassed. The girls’ honesty had caught him off guard, mainly because it was the first time since he’d been there that somebody hadn’t tried to put a snip on him first up. In fact, even though Delta was a bit breezy Esme was giving Les all kinds of looks from across the table and he probably could have put the snip on her and got his money back; with interest. Whatever their intentions, the girls seemed okay, and at least it was nice to have two friends he could talk to in town.

  ‘Anyway, that’s the truth, girls. I have to meet this bloke at seven. But if you want to have something to drink or a bite to eat, I’ll shout you. Brer Wallaby don’t mind.’ The girls continued to stare at Les; especially Esme, who still had her hand on his arm. ‘In the meantime, I’m going for a snorkel across the road then I’m going to get cleaned up and change into my tux.’ Norton stared back at the girls. ‘Hey, you wouldn’t like to do me a favour — would you?’ Esme and Delta exchanged glances then shrugged. ‘There’s a sort of camera, souvenir shop down opposite the post office.’

  ‘Yah mon,’ said Delta. ‘Run by deh coolies. Wi know im.’

  ‘Whatever. I’ve got some photos down there be ready in about an hour. If I give you the money, will you pick them up for me?’

  ‘Sure, Les,’ said Esme.

  ‘Beauty!’ Les handed Esme the docket and enough US dollars to pay for the developing, then pointed a stern finger at her. ‘And don’ laas i money. And don’ tief dem either. Yu know what I sayn, ’oman.’

  ‘A wa yu say, mon?’ said Esme, definitely affronted. ‘Yu a deestant smadi, Les. Mi no a tief dem. No way, mon.’

  Les smiled and blew her a little kiss. ‘Esme, my little sugar glider, I never doubted you for a minute.’

  Les stood up and said he’d see them back here in an hour; have a feed and a drink or whatever if they wanted to. He went to the office and sweetened it up with the girl, gave Esme and Delta a smile and a wave and went to his room. Norton wasn’t quite ready for ‘Slavery Let I Go’ by Dr Alimantado coming from the bar downstairs, but he got it as soon as he opened the door; all seven minutes of wailing saxophone interspersed with crashing cymbals and thumping bass lines. With that ringing in his ears, Les got out of his sweaty clothes, splashed some water over his face and spread the photos across the bed.

  Les probably shouldn’t have laughed, but he did. The first photos he looked at were of the banquet and the band at the resort. Along with the three girls at the table, he’d caught Captain America stuffing himself with food. I wonder how he’s feeling right now, Les chuckled to himself. Onya — mite. The photos he’d taken at the manse turned out perfect too. With the newest automatic cameras it is hard to go wrong, but somehow Les had fluked all the right angles and shadows and had managed to capture the old building in all its decaying splendour and beauty. The sandstone blocks, the wooden columns and the cobblestones outside. The aquamarine walls and the wooden columns inside, the massive beams supporting the ceiling, the views out across the bay, some of it was almost postcard material. The weed-choked backyard, the stables, what was left of the sundial, the slave barracks across the road, everything had turned out perfect. Even the lizard on the wall at the Badminton Club turned out great and the views from the balcony made it look like the Waldorf Astoria. Les looked at the photos spread out across the bed for a while longer. Was there something there to give him some sort of clue? Who knows? But they were top photos and he’d compare them with the other ones when the girls returned. Les climbed into his old pair of shorts, got his diving gear and headed for the beach across the road, managing to make it to the water with only about twenty pests jumping at him trying to flog him stuff he didn’t need.

  The water in the bay was just as pleasant as before, probably even better. The water was dead calm, with the sun almost getting ready to set, and although a cloud bank stopped most of it enough orange and gold washed through the grey to coat the turquoise waters of Montego Bay with a soft rubescent sheen. Les dived up and down, powering now and again with the webs and jet fins and just enjoying himself in general, thinking there could be worse places to be stuck in while waiting for a plane. He thought about a few other things as well; what, he wasn’t quite sure. But there was something. No matter what, it had been a top day and maybe it would come to him later on. By the time he finished his swim, got back to the hotel and cleaned himself up, it was time for Esme and Delta to come back. After a close shave and a splash of Tabac, Les climbed into a pair of light green shorts and a white, Eumundi Lager T-shirt, and walked out the front. There were the two girls seated at the same spot with the photos on the table between them. Les strolled over, all smiles.

  ‘Hello, ladies,’ he said. ‘I see you got the photos. Thanks. Did you have enough money?’

  ‘More danuf,’ said Esme handing Norton his change.

  Les shook his head. ‘No, keep it. Get yourself something to eat. You got enough money for a feed or whatever?’

  ‘Sure we do mon,’ said Esme, still a little starry eyed.

  ‘Hey Les, mon?’ said Delta, looking up from the table. ‘Why yu so good wid wi?’

  ‘Why?’ replied Les, giving her a tickle under the chin. ‘Because you’re both good girls and I’m a bloody good bloke. Right?’

  ‘Ire mon,’ nodded Delta.

  ‘And talking about blokes, I’ve got one coming around to see me soon time, and I want to have a good look at these photos before he gets here. So…’

  ‘So yu want wi to piss off,’ said Esme, a bit dejected.

  ‘Well, if you wish to put it like that, yes. No, not really, Esme. You Boofhead.’

  Les sat down and gave the girls’ hands a little squeeze and a gentle piss in their pockets. But he did have to see this man on very important business. However, if they wanted to come back later on they were welcome to. And if they wanted to lease the Honda townhouse for the night again, that was alright too; he’d sweeten it up with Errol down the front. Again, you would have thought Norton had offered them the world, and the stars immediately returned to Esme’s soft brown eyes. They both reached over and kissed him, then got up, saying they’d get a meal in town and go watch a band or something. They’d be okay. But if they got stuck or something they’d come back here, and they wouldn’t get in the way. Les fare- welled them down the stairs then went back to his room.

  Whether it was safe to drink the local water or not Les wasn’t quite sure. But he had two glasses while Jr Cat’s ‘Trailer Load of Guns’ came howling up from the bar downstairs. He spread the photos out across the bed, separating the manse, the graves and Sweet Ginger Hill. Once again the little camera had done a perfect job. The photos of the old graves were as clear as a bell, you could make out the inscriptions on some of the tombstones and with a magnifying glass you’d almost be able to read the lot. Sweet Ginger Hill was the same. The trees
, the flowers, the colours, Les had captured all of the beauty of the old home again. The bedrooms, the old Spanish jars with the vines growing out of them, the Roman tiles on the verandah, the sandstone turrets. It all looked sensational. Even the photos of him and the kids at Spring Water Primary, and the one of him standing with Joshua next to the sundial and the fruit tree looked good. In fact, they were the two best happy snaps of the lot. Les was pretty rapt. He went over the photos for a while longer, looking for an angle. There was something there that reminded him of something and that was about all. Though for the moment he couldn’t figure that out either. Maybe he’d go through them later on with Millwood. Who, incidentally, would be there before long. Norton put the photos back in their folders then thought he’d wait for the schoolteacher out on the balcony and watch the sun go down over Montego Bay while he had a bit of a think.

  It was quite a pleasant view looking out across the beach and harbour from the front of the hotel. In the carpark below Les could see Errol talking with some other bloke in overalls who must have been the caretaker. He was taking down an old wooden gate at the side and putting in a new one. Errol was leaning on a pinch bar, near them was a broom, a shovel and a few other tools. Les watched them bumbling around for a while then switched his gaze back to the harbour and the street outside. Gloucester Avenue wasn’t all that busy. A few cars went past, an old red bus, a truck or two; nearly all bombs. There were some pedestrians, and a couple of young cops were walking down the opposite side of the road towards the bottom end of town.