‘You’re welcome, Ron,’ smiled Norton. ‘See you after, mate.’ Ronnie gave them a quick wink and returned to his friends at the end of the bar. ‘Christ! Did you see that?’ Norton’s face was quite flushed from having to down a double Jack Daniel’s and Coke. ‘Could that little cunt put ’em away or what?’
Peregrine was already half pissed from drinking champagne back at the farm and the two double brandies had now topped him right off. ‘I meant it when I said Stephanie’s father would like to see him, Les. Believe me he would. I also know a couple of Harley Street specialists that would like to see Baldric’s liver and kidneys too.’
‘Baldric?’ queried Les. ‘What’s this Baldric?’
‘Don’t you think he looks like that fellow out of “The Black Adder”?’
‘His manservant?’ Norton looked along the bar at the little caretaker who was turned side on to them and a ripple of laughter went through his body. ‘Yeah, you’re not wrong, Pezz.’
They stood there watching the crowd while they drank, when another familiar face loomed up at the bar next to Peregrine. Les recognised her and smiled briefly; she smiled a pissy smile back. It was the butcher’s wife. She’d changed into her Friday night ‘kill ’em’ gear, a tight black knitted tank top and a black leather mini that her fat backside just squeezed into. Peregrine smiled at her as well, just as one of his songs came on the jukebox. The Young Ones murdering ‘Living Doll’.
‘I say, my dear,’ he said to the butcher’s wife, who looked just as drunk as he was. ‘Would you care for a dance?’
It was for sure no one had ever approached the butcher’s wife like that before, not in Yurriki anyway. ‘Yeah, righto,’ she cackled. ‘Why bloody not.’
Peregrine and the butcher’s wife started boogalooing around in front of the jukebox, much to the amusement of several of the patrons and Les. The butcher’s wife probably hadn’t cracked it for too many dances lately and was giving it everything she had and having the time of her life. Peregrine was having a good time too — because he was pissed out of his brain. They stopped boogalooing and got into a bit of dirty dancing. Peregrine was no Patrick Swayze and the butcher’s wife no Jennifer Grey but what they lacked in technique they more than made up for in drunken enthusiasm. Peregrine spun her around and she threw her arms up. One tit fell out of her top and the crowd roared. She kicked her legs up, the crowd got a flash of red knickers and roared again. Norton nearly cracked up. Peregrine pouted and arched his back, whirled her around and around as the song finished, finally spinning her up against the bar next to Les with one of her legs on his shoulder. She was a bit starry-eyed and didn’t know quite what to do when Peregrine kissed the back of her hand.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘that was absolutely delightful. Allow me the pleasure of buying you a drink.’
The butcher’s wife was about to say yes, when a drunken voice close by roared out, ‘Hey! That’s my bloody missus you’re mauling, you bastard.’ Wobbling around like a jellyfish, his eyes bulging and his smother all over his head, was the local butcher.
Peregrine gave him a withering once up and down from over his shoulder. ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ he sniffed. ‘I thought she was your mother.’
This didn’t go over too well with either the butcher or his wife. ‘Oh, a bloody smart bastard, eh?’ slobbered the butcher. ‘We’ll soon see how smart you are, mug.’
He made a drunken lunge at Peregrine, who instinctively brought his hand up and pushed the butcher in the chest. The butcher was that drunk he was flat out staying on his feet and reeled back towards the pool table just as a big redheaded bloke with a bushy red beard brought his pool cue up for a cushion shot. It hit the butcher smack on the temple and knocked him flatter than a blob of cowshit. From the crowd’s point of view it looked as though Peregrine had thrown the best straight left since Muhammed Ali.
The butcher’s wife let out a wail and rushed to her stricken husband snoring peacefully beside the pool table. She pointed an accusing finger at Peregrine. ‘That rotten bastard just jobbed me husband!’
Dumbfounded, Peregrine looked at Norton, who for a split second closed his eyes. Friday night in a bush pub, the mob’s full of piss and two strangers are in town starting fights and trying to steal their wives … Here we go again, thought Les. Next thing it was on.
Some big bloke in a Levis jacket lunged at Peregrine. Whether he just wanted to grab him or throw a punch Norton didn’t know but he wasn’t taking any chances. He blocked the bloke’s arm with his left and slammed a short right into his ribs. The mug barely had time to gasp before Les slammed his right fist down the side of his head mashing his ear like banana. He gasped this time and hit the floor at Peregrine’s feet, out like a light. A punter with a beard jumped forward, flush into a straight left from Les that splattered his nose right across his face. As he dropped his hands Norton kicked him right in the balls then when he sagged, grabbed him by the hair and ran him head first into the bar. He slumped into the butt tray, blood pouring out of his nose and forehead all over Ronnie Madden’s crushed VB cans.
That was two down plus the local butcher. The mob stopped for a moment then some other hero threw a big left hook at Les. Les ducked under it and banged a right into the mug’s ribs and another over the top into his jaw, breaking it in about five places. He too got grabbed by the hair and slammed head first into the bar to land face up next to his mate, blood oozing out of his mouth and scalp. Norton was a little off balance now, with his back to the mob, and he just had time to see another big goose try to take him from behind. It was time for a bit of fancy stuff.
When it came to straight out rough-and-tumble street fighting and boxing there weren’t many better than Les or Billy Dunne. However, with all these new styles of fighting going round and after their own experiences at work, they both decided that it wouldn’t hurt to know a bit of this Oriental stuff. And the bloke they got to teach them was George Osvaldo, a half Portuguese, half Korean who used to run Kung Fu classes in a hall near Coogee when Martial Arts movies were all the go and everybody wanted to be Bruce Lee. George worked at another casino in Rozelle so they got to be mates and they started training with him at Clovelly Surf Club early on Tuesdays and Wednesdays when nobody else was around. George taught them a style of fighting that was a cross between Hapkido and Thai Boxing. It didn’t look quite as spectacular as the stuff on the screen, but if you did plenty of leg stretches it sure worked.
Norton grabbed at the bar for support and fired a snap side kick with his left foot straight into the fourth mug’s chest just near his heart and felt the ribs crack under his heel. The mug clutched at his chest, sagged a little, and Les spun a crescent kick with his right foot onto his jaw, smashing it down one side. He bounced back off the mob and as he wasn’t quite standing up Norton was able to get him with a hook kick, his right heel smashing the other side of his jaw, and he hit the deck. There was a solid bloke in front of Les wearing an old army shirt; Les sunk the toes of his left foot into his solar plexus, then grabbed him by the shoulder with his left hand and smashed his right elbow into his temple, splitting his eyebrow like a tomato. Les held him up and, with all his shoulder behind it, drove a straight right into his face, cannoning him through a gap in the mob and off the big red-headed bloke with the beard who had accidentally started the fracas in the first place, onto the pool table. Blood spurted out of his mouth, he gave a cough of pain and several teeth plopped out, adding a nice touch of white and red to the green felt table, before he too collapsed on the floor.
By now the mob had begun to realise that the red-headed stranger in their midst was, to say the least, horrifyingly efficient in the fighting department. There were battered and bleeding bodies lying everywhere and it was obvious that trying to get one in on Les was fast becoming a no result, so they dropped off. The jukebox had stopped playing and a couple of kids were crying as Les stood there, still tense, and exchanged glances with Peregrine. It looked like it was all over when the butcher’s wi
fe, who had missed nearly all the action, tending her husband, dropped her husband’s head, jumped up and went for Peregrine.
‘You dirty low bastard,’ she shrieked. ‘Bash my husband, will you?’
‘Oh, you stupid woman,’ protested Peregrine. ‘I did no such bloody thing.’
‘Bullshit!!’
She lurched forward tripping slightly over one of the bodies on the floor. Peregrine turned to Les and tried to get out of her way and he too stumbled over a body at his feet. His head went forward and the butcher’s wife walked straight into it. From the mob’s point of view it now looked as if Peregrine had head butted her. She screamed and, with a trickle of blood running out of her eyebrow, fell back into a woman wearing a white Levis jacket. As she held up the butcher’s wife, blood went all over the sleeve.
‘Look what the animal’s just done!’ shouted the woman in the white jacket. ‘He’s hit a woman.’
The mood of the mob turned sour. They angrily surged forward. There was just too many of them.
‘Fuck this,’ said Norton and he grabbed Peregrine by the collar and propelled him towards the door; by the time the mob had worked out who was going to be brave enough to lead the charge at Les, he and Peregrine were on their way to the car. As they went through the front door, Les heard a voice call out.
‘See you, Les. Thanks again for the drink.’ It was the caretaker.
Norton caught his strange, almost knowing look. ‘Yeah. See you later, Ronnie,’ he said tightly. The next thing he and Peregrine were burning rubber back towards Cedar Glen.
They reached the Nimbin turnoff before Peregrine, still trying to get into his seat belt, spoke.
‘Good Lord,’ he gasped. ‘What was all that about?’
‘What was all that about?’ recoiled Norton. ‘What do you think it was about, you fuckin’ ratbag? You king-hit the local butcher and then you head butted his wife. Jesus! We’re lucky we got out of the place alive.’
‘I swear to you, Les,’ pleaded Peregrine. ‘I hardly did a thing. He fell over and she bumped into me.’
‘Bullshit! You started it. And no wonder the poor bloke got the shits. You just about tried to root his missus on the dance floor.’
‘We were only dancing. Having a bit of fun.’
‘Bollocks, Peregrine. You’re a sex-crazed mad dog. You’ll end up getting us hung. No wonder the IRA want to kill you.’
Les gave poor Peregrine the rounds of the kitchen all the way back to the farm. But underneath, it was all he could do to keep from cracking up. He’d seen exactly what had happened and knew it wasn’t really Peregrine’s fault. It was also one of the funniest things he’d seen and one of the best fights he’d ever been in. Blokes went everywhere — only the mugs who deserved it got hurt and Les never got a scratch on him. It was just as much fun, though, making Peregrine sweat.
Back at the barbecue area, the Englishman was still in despair and no amount of pleading could convince Norton that it wasn’t entirely his fault. Les opened a bottle of Jim Beam, got some ice together and poured them both a stiff bourbon and Coke.
‘Here you are, Henry Cooper,’ he said. ‘Get that into you.’
‘Les, please. You’re going on like I’m some sort of nutter. I swear to you it was an accident.’
Norton watched as Peregrine took a gulp on his drink. ‘Yeah, all right. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt with the butcher. But if you’re gonna run round getting into fights, you don’t want to go head butting sheilas. It doesn’t go over too well out here.’
‘Oh Good God, Les, how many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t touch the wretched woman.’
‘I dunno,’ said Norton, shaking his head. ‘But I’ll take your word for it.’
Peregrine took a mouthful of bourbon and gave Norton a baleful look. ‘Anyway, you needn’t talk,’ he spluttered. ‘You looked like you were having the time of your life back there thumping into those unfortunate fellows. You must have done for about ten of them. God! I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.’
‘What?!! Ohh, turn it up, Peregrine. I got a few lucky shots in on about four drunks — that’s all. Anyway, what did you expect me to do? Stand back and let a bloodthirsty mob tear apart the man whose life my boss made me vow I would lay down my own to protect?’
Peregrine thought on it for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose you’re right. I didn’t think of that. But really, was there any need to just about kick one chap’s head off? And almost put another’s through the bar?’
Norton rattled the ice in his glass. ‘Better their heads than yours, Peregrine.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Peregrine again. ‘I guess you’re right.’
They had a few more drinks and discussed the merits and demerits of the fight, with Norton still adamant that it was all Peregrine’s fault. In the inky background the dew thickened the air and the calling of the nightbirds echoed around the farm. It had been a big day: the long walk in the morning, a huge meal, a bit too much to drink, topped with an allin brawl. Before long both men were yawning into their drinks. Finally Les turned the radio off along with the outside lights and they went to bed. In the cool, clean night air, both of them slept like logs.
SATURDAY DAWNED BRIGHT and clear with maybe just the odd cloud or two being pushed through the sky by the light sou’wester. Norton rose just before seven and had a coffee with honey; Peregrine was still sleeping so he left him there. Les decided to do some stretches and other exercises and then go for a brisk walk around the property. He put on his army gear and did just that.
Norton headed for the corner of the farm they’d missed the previous day Whistling happily, he splashed along the creek bed even though it was over his knees and at times flowed around his waist; above his head, dead branches and other debris stuck in the branches of trees showed evidence of earlier flooding. The creek wound round the property for a kilometre, bubbled over a little set of rapids then near a small, circular field which was almost hidden from view, the bush opened up into another billabong three times as big and even more beautiful than the one they had found the day before. A number of large lizards and some other unseen animals scuttled away at Norton’s approach.
After an hour of brisk walking in the increasing sunshine, Les was once again hot, dusty and sweaty. ‘Don’t worry, fellahs,’ he grinned at the now vanished animals. ‘I’m coming, too.’ Fully clothed, he splashed in after them like a noisy water buffalo.
The water was cold, clean and refreshing. Norton wallowed around, duck-diving, spurting water and making stupid noises, then self-consciously he looked around him as if he expected someone to be watching. His face lit up in a grin when he realised there probably wasn’t a soul for miles. He splashed around a while longer then decided to head back to the farm; as he climbed out of the billabong, the odd circular clearing caught his eye, so he thought he may as well check that out too.
The clearing was about fifty metres across; over the ground were scattered a number of thick poles, which appeared to have just been left there, and a number of others embedded into the ground in a large, haphazard circle. At one end were three pits about two metres across and two deep; rotting away in the bottom were more pieces of wood and what looked like small stumps. What the clearing and the holes were built for, Les couldn’t guess, but there was definitely something odd and almost sinister about it all. He shrugged it off and began walking back to the house.
When he reached the driveway he noticed an old pushbike leaning against one of the rockeries. Wonder who that belongs to, he mused? He took off his wet clothes, hung them over the chairs in the barbecue area and, after checking himself for leeches, went up to the kitchen. Peregrine was in his dressing gown having a cup of coffee and reading an old newspaper.
‘Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III,’ said Les brightly. ‘And how are you this morning?’
‘Quite well, thank you, Les,’ replied the Englishman just as brightly. ‘Water’s still hot if you want a cup of char.’
‘Baldric arrived to do some more gardening.’
Les had to think for a second. ‘Oh yeah, Ronnie. What did he have to say?’
‘Not much. Just asked if it was okay if he had a cup of coffee. He asked where you were. I said I didn’t know. Then he was off to work. I must say, he does look decidedly shakey on it. And his breath, if you’ll excuse the expression, smells like he’s been using dogshit for toothpaste.’
‘That figures. He probably drank every can of VB in the Tweed Valley last night.’
‘I’d hazard a guess that he went close.’
Norton took his coffee out on to the front verandah. Ronnie was working on one of the rockeries with his back turned. Les watched him for a moment or two then went back inside.
‘You had any breakfast yet, Peregrine?’
‘No. Just coffee.’
‘You feel like some bacon and eggs?’
‘Yes, that would be splendid. This country air certainly puts an edge on one’s appetite.’
‘Okay. I’ll get cleaned up and cook a bit of brekky.’
Peregrine wasn’t joking about his appetite. He managed to polish off three eggs, plenty of bacon and tomato, plus a stack of toast and two mugs of coffee. Norton asked him what he intended to do for the rest of the day? Peregrine said he didn’t want to do much at all, but bushwalking was definitely out; a swim in the little billabong and a prop there reading for the day would do him. Les told him about the new billabong he’d found earlier and Peregrine was keen to go and have a look. Right after he had done the dishes, insisted Les. Peregrine’s minder he might be. His butler he definitely was not. But it wasn’t hard: the two big grey things near the kitchen window were sinks, the green stuff in the plastic bottle was detergent. Mix it with warm water and it formed soapsuds. The plastic and rubber things were devices for cleaning mess from plates and cooking utensils. It was easy, insisted Norton. Peregrine would love it. While the young aristocrat was experiencing a whole new way of life in the kitchen, Les made another mug of coffee and took it out to Ronnie, tipping him to be a milk and two sugars man.
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