The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  Heather hadn’t quite fallen head over heels in love with Peregrine, but no one had ever bought her French champagne before and none of the boys in Port Macquarie were multimillionaires; his father owned a recording company so that had to be a plus. With his contacts and her voice, it would only be a matter of time before she was catapulted into stardom. She was on holidays so the two weeks off work would be no problem and you never know, the farm could be fun. There’d have to be a place somewhere she could hide if Peregrine got too punishing and she only had to sleep with him of a night. Whatever their feelings for each other they still managed to have another ordinary fuck before they went to sleep, and as Heather stayed the night, another one in the morning.

  NORTON SLEPT LIKE a baby and woke up with a grin on his face just before eight. He had a shower, packed some clothes and rang Peregrine’s room.

  ‘Peregrine. It’s Les. How are you mate?’ he said brightly.

  ‘Absolutely whizz bang, old boy. Yourself?’

  ‘Terrific. You disappeared rather smartly last night. I went for a dance with that girl in the black dress, looked up and you were gone.’

  Peregrine chuckled into the phone as he looked across the room at Heather, towelling herself off after a shower. She’d thrown her toothbrush and a spare pair of knickers in her bag when she went to get her harmonica the night before, so there was no need for her to go to her room first thing that morning.

  ‘Yes. Well, young Heather and I decided to come back here for a drop of champers. What about yourself?’

  ‘I finished up pretty much the same way,’ laughed Les.

  ‘Good show, old boy.’

  ‘So what are you doing for breakfast?’

  ‘Well, seeing as it’s our last morning here, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of something decent in that restaurant. What do you say?’

  ‘I reckon that’s a top idea, Pezz.’ This suited Norton nicely. He felt like having a good breakfast before they left and it would give him a chance to see Margaret again or one of her friends from work and find out where she was. ‘How about I call for you in say, fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Splendid. See you then.’

  Les packed the rest of his gear, made sure he looked all right for Margaret, then collected Peregrine.

  He gave Heather a big smile when he first saw her, but it faded a bit when Peregrine told him going down in the lift that she would be joining them on the farm for the two weeks. And there wasn’t a great deal he could do about it without making a real prick of himself. However, when he thought it over, if Peregrine had a bit of crumpet on the farm, he wouldn’t be worrying about wanting to go out chasing after it. Maybe it was for the best.

  The restaurant was fairly crowded when they walked in, but the staff soon found a table for The Great Gatsby from room 220, his red-headed offsider and their lady friend. It was a buffet style breakfast. A waitress set your table for you then you helped yourself to what was on. If you wanted your eggs Benedictine or poached or whatever, a chef would do that for you, and there was no shortage of choice food. They all settled for scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, croissants, and cereal, and got into it with great gusto. While they sat there eating and chatting away Les had a squizz around the restaurant, hoping to see Margaret. He finally spotted her blue and white tracksuit when they had almost finished, sitting with a table of six at the end of the buffet near the windows. He smiled and waited till she got up to get some more coffee. She had her back to him when he came up behind her.

  ‘Hello good-looking,’ he grinned. ‘How are you?’

  She turned, looked at him briefly and completely straight through him, then totally ignored him. Norton’s eyebrows knitted and he gave her a double blink, thinking she might have been playing some sort of game.

  ‘Margaret,’ he said again. ‘How are you?’

  Again she totally ignored him. It was no game. She filled her cup with coffee and all Les got was a brief and icy ‘Excuse me’ as she reached over for a slice of toast. Having got that, she turned on her heel and rejoined her friends at the opposite end of the restaurant, leaving Norton standing there like a stale bottle of piss holding half a plate of sliced honeydew melon.

  Norton couldn’t believe his eyes. He was absolutely dumbfounded and hurt. He’d been given the complete and utter blurt, a la carte. It wasn’t just a dent in his pride. Margaret had kicked every one of the panels in and the windscreen and headlights too. So much for his ideas of being seen around town with the sensuous, sophisticated woman from Melbourne. The dirty, poxy low moll, he fumed. Ignoring me like that. Fuckin’ bitch. Then it dawned on him what had happened. Les had been used, screwed and abused. So much for his feelings. He was nothing more to Margaret than a one night stand. And you could bet she couldn’t get down the pub fast enough and tell all her fuckin’ mates either, the cunt. A burst of angry air snorted from his nostrils as he took his plate of honeydew melon back to his table. He didn’t chew it as he glared towards the other end of the restaurant, he remorselessly ground it to a pulp. Heather was alone at the table when he sat down. Well one thing for fuckin’ sure, thought Norton. If I can’t get a sheila, Peregrine’s not fuckin’ gettin’ one either. That’s for sure.

  ‘Where did Peter go?’ he asked.

  Heather looked at him for a moment. ‘Peter?’

  ‘Oh, well, I meant Peregrine.’

  ‘He went to his room. To get his wallet, I think he said.’

  Les glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, he’s probably forgotten to take his medication.’

  ‘Medication?’

  ‘Yes his tablets. Peter’s not a well man.’

  ‘Peter? What’s this Peter? His name’s Peregrine.’

  ‘Yes, I forget sometimes. We’re calling him that at the moment. Anything to keep him happy — and calm.’ Heather gave Les a double blink as he leant across the table towards her. ‘Just what did Peter … Peregrine, tell you last night?’

  Heather hesitated for a few seconds. ‘He said his father owned a recording company in England. He was out here promoting Mick Jagger’s new album, then he was going up to the Tweed Valley to buy a property.’

  ‘Oh yes, that one.’ Les nodded sagely. ‘And what did he tell you about me?’

  ‘He said he’d hired you as a driver.’

  ‘Oh dear. Tch tch. He said that?’ Norton looked the young hairdresser right in the eye. ‘Heather,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not his driver. I’m a male nurse. Peter’s a very sick man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He suffers from schizoid distrophobic homicidal melon syndrome.’ Heather gave a treble blink. ‘We’ve just released him from Morriset after two and a half years of constant therapy. He tried to kill his second wife with an axe.’

  ‘Second wife?’

  ‘Yes. He tried to stab his first wife and drown their two children in the bath.’

  ‘First wife? Children? But he’s only twenty-two.’

  Les gave a worried laugh. ‘That’s part of the syndrome. They don’t age. He’s forty-six.’

  ‘Oh my God!!’

  ‘His parents are wealthy, yes, they own a smallgoods factory in Wollongong. They love him and even though his treatment costs a fortune, they’ll do anything to keep him happy, which is why we’re here. But I feel I should tell you, we’re not going north to buy a property. We’re going to a private sanitarium to give Peter injections of live sheep glands. It’s a new Swedish treatment.’

  ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘But come along with us. It could help with Peter’s treatment. Though I should warn you, there’ll only be myself and Dr Fishbinder there. So be a bit careful.’ Norton gave Heather a reassuring smile. ‘Peter will be under medication most of the time and we’ll give you a whistle to carry with you at all times, which you can blow if he should… if he should menace you at all. And we’ll both be along pretty smartly to tranquilise him.’ Heather’s jaw had dropped noticeably; Les gave her hand a quick pat. ‘But go along with our little charade and don’t
say I told you anything. And for God’s sake, don’t upset him. I’d hate to have to subdue him in front of all these people. It looks awful. Especially when he starts to foam at the mouth. Anyway, here he comes now. Just carry on like you know nothing.’

  Peregrine was all smiles when he came back to the table; Les winked and smiled back at him. Heather was pretty cool about it all too. As soon as Peregrine’s bum had hit his seat she jumped up and stared at him like he was the phantom of the opera.

  ‘I’m not coming to the farm with you, Peregrine,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m staying here. Then I’m going back to Port Macquarie.’

  Peregrine looked at her and blinked. ‘Wh … what?’

  ‘Ohh, that’s a bit of a shame,’ said Norton. ‘I was looking forward to your company.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Peregrine.

  ‘I can’t take the time off from work.’

  ‘But you said …’

  ‘Peregrine,’ cut in Norton. ‘If the young lady can’t come, she can’t come. Just take it easy.’

  ‘I am taking it easy. I just don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, just keep your voice down a little. These people are having breakfast.’

  ‘I am keeping my jolly voice down. And why don’t you keep out of this? It doesn’t concern you.’

  Norton made a gesture with his hands and gave Heather a look of helplessness and worry.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m expecting a phone call. Goodbye, Peregrine. Goodbye, Les.’ Heather turned and zoomed out of the restaurant so fast she almost left a vapour trail.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Peregrine. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ replied Les. ‘She was all right a minute ago.’

  ‘What did you say to her while I was gone?’ A hint of suspicion crept into Peregrine’s voice.

  ‘Nothing,’ shrugged Norton. ‘All I said to her was there was no TV on the farm, which is the truth. She reckoned that was no good ’cause she couldn’t watch “Neighbours”.’

  ‘“Neighbours”?’ Peregrine screwed up his face. ‘That’s the most wretched show I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Heather evidently doesn’t think so. She never misses an episode. Thinks the sun shines out of Kylie Minogue’s arse.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, who gives a stuff? She was a bag, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She wasn’t all that bad.’

  ‘Turn it up, Peregrine. She had a head on her like Daryl Somers’ Ostrich.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s finish our breakfast.’

  ‘Yes, why not.’ Peregrine took a sip of his coffee which was now cold. ‘By Jove, they’re strange creatures these Australian women, though.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Norton, with just a little sourness in his voice. ‘You can bloody well say that again.’

  They finished eating and when they went over to sign the tab, Les couldn’t help his eyes from wandering to where Margaret was still sitting at the end of the buffet with her friends. He felt like walking down and telling her to get well and truly stuffed in front of everyone. But what would that have proved? There was nothing he could really do without making a prick of himself and embarrassing the woman. He’d been dumped on and that was that. They’d both had a good session in the sack: cop it sweet. However, there was something snide and cowardly he could do as a parting gesture.

  He told Peregrine to wait for a moment while he walked back down to the buffet on the pretext of getting a piece of toast. Margaret had her back to him, the others didn’t know who he was and took no notice as he stood not far away nonchalantly chewing on a piece of toast while he gazed out of the window. About three feet from Margaret and still nibbling on his piece of toast, Norton eased out a monstrous, musty, rancid fart. It had all the remnants of last night’s rich food and four bottles of champagne in it and Les knew from the heat as it slid silently out of his arse it was going to be a bottler. He gave his backside a little shake to ensure Margaret and her friends got the lot, then still gnawing on a crust of toast, he rejoined Peregrine. As they started to leave, Les looked over his shoulder and his craggy face broke into a grin when he saw the upheaval he’d caused at Margaret’s table. Two had raced to the open window knocking over their chairs in the stampede to get there; the others were blinking around the restaurant with looks of disbelief and shock as they rapidly waved their hands in front of their faces. Margaret had turned away and momentarily caught Norton’s eye. He gave her a little wave and the sardonic grin on his face soon told her who was responsible. More than satisfied with the result of his reprehensible deed, Norton joined Peregrine and they left.

  There were warm smiles all round when they checked out and lots of ‘Come again sir’ and ‘It was a pleasure having you’. Norton produced the money Price had given him and offered to pay his half of the whack at least, but Peregrine signed and paid for it without a blink.

  ‘We might just duck into Coffs Harbour for a sec,’ said Les, when they had their bags in the station wagon. ‘There’s a couple of things I want to get.’

  ‘Suits me. I wish to pick up a few odds and ends myself.’

  They were there in about ten minutes and parked in Grafton Street not far from the city centre.

  ‘Have a walk around,’ said Les, as he locked the car. ‘I’ll see you back at the car in twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘Okay, old boy.’

  Les got part of what he wanted in a health food shop and put that in the car. Then he found an army-disposal store and got the rest. The owner packed that into two large plastic bags and Les put that in the station wagon as well. He was sitting in the front seat reading a copy of the Coffs Harbour Advocate when Peregrine climbed in with two small plastic bags.

  ‘Get what you wanted, mate?’ asked Les.

  ‘Yes. And I sent a couple of postcards, too.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ frowned Norton. ‘Letting people back home know where you are?’

  ‘Well, we’re not staying in Coffs Harbour, are we?’

  ‘No, I s’pose not. What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Some Panadol and that. A couple of paperbacks and two tapes.’

  Norton looked suspiciously at the bag containing the two tapes. ‘They’d better not be bloody Boy George or some bunch of pommy hairdressers playing synthesisers.’

  ‘No, they’re not, you oafish great bounder. It’s just an old Rod Stewart and some Pet Shop Boys. In fact how about slipping one on for me now?’ Peregrine handed Les one of the tapes.

  ‘All right. Seein’ as you’re an old mate.’

  Norton put the tape in the cassette, fiddled with the controls for a moment then they started heading out of town going north. There were a few clouds around but it had warmed up noticeably and even though there was a bit of a sou’wester blowing it was quite a pleasant day to be travelling.

  ‘Ohh, yeah,’ smiled Les, nodding at the music coming from the speakers in the back. ‘This isn’t a bad track, this. “West End Girls”.’

  ‘It’s good.’

  The smile on Norton’s craggy face turned into a bit of a grin. ‘I don’t think there’ll be to many West End girls where we’re going, Pezz.’

  ‘No. Probably not.’

  They left Coffs Harbour with the ocean on their right and travelled on listening to the music.

  ‘So what happened with you and the lovely Heather last night, Peregrine?’ enquired Les.

  ‘That’s funny,’ smiled the Englishman. ‘I was just going to ask you the same thing about the girl in the black dress.’

  ‘Well, go on,’ said Les. ‘You go first.’

  They laughed and talked about the previous night and one or two other things that had happened to them so far on the trip. Norton took his time driving, pointing out a few things of interest in the countryside to Peregrine. They stopped for a leak at Woodburn, a feed of fish and chips at Ballina a
nd, still taking their time, were in Murwillumbah not long after three.

  ‘So, this is Murwillumbah, is it, Les?’ said Peregrine.

  ‘Yep,’ replied Norton. ‘Beautiful downtown. Heart of the Tweed Coast.’

  ‘Looks nice.’ Peregrine gazed out his window at a long row of backyards full of washing flapping on sagging clothes lines. Opposite the dilapidated wooden houses built up on stilts was the railway line and an equally ancient and dusty railway terminus to their right. ‘Reminds me of Brixton,’ he added.

  Norton turned left over a wide concrete bridge that spanned the Tweed River then hit the blinkers again and took the next on his right, a small street that ran into the main street in Murwillumbah. He cruised slowly down the street a short distance then pulled up outside some hotel.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ enquired Peregrine.

  ‘That place there,’ replied Norton, and switched off the motor.

  Opposite them was a restaurant with flowers and rosellas painted all over the front: The Hard Cheese Wholemeal Cafe. Times must have been hard, along with the cheese, in the cafe because it was closed with a To Let sign in the window. Next door was a Real Estate Agency, The Tweed Valley Stock And Station Agents And Auctioneers.

  ‘I’ve got to pick up the keys,’ said Les. ‘You can come in if you want but I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

  ‘No. I’ll wait here.’

  Norton liked the dusty front window of the Stock and Station Agency with its dead flies, saddles, bridles, old photos and other bric-a-brac, it had that beaut country flavour to it. He could just imagine what the agent would look like: R.M. Williams boots, moleskins, woollen tie and an Akubra hat, probably smoking the makings. The last thing Les was expecting when he walked in the door was Benny Rabinski, his bald, fivefoot-tall, Jewish ex-landlord from Bondi wearing blue trousers and a white shirt. Having done the transaction over a bad phone line, Benny was expecting a Mr Northam and the last person he was expecting was Les Norton, the ‘goyim’ who had brassed him for ten weeks rent and his brother Marvin for six several years ago in Sydney. They stared at each other in mutual disbelief.