Wearing baggy King Gees, a blue singlet and the same hat he had on in the pub, the little caretaker was on his haunches pulling weeds from one of the rockeries when Norton approached. He turned at Les’s footsteps and dangling from the corner of his mouth was a dead ‘roll-your-own’.
‘Hello, Ronnie,’ said Les. ‘I brought you a cup of coffee.’
‘Oh thanks, Les,’ replied the caretaker. ‘Good on you, mate.’
Madden stood up and accepted the coffee gratefully. Norton studied him for a while and noticed the amount of sweat pouring from his face and arms. If you caught it all in a bucket it would probably still have a head on it.
‘So how are you feeling, Ron?’
‘Ohh, not too bad,’ replied the caretaker, adding a wheezy, rattling laugh. ‘We ended up having a few last night, though.’
‘How many’s a few? A dozen or so?’
‘In the pub? Easy. Then we got into it back home.’
A dozen cans plus — not a bad drinker for a little bloke, thought Les, continuing to study the gardener as he sipped his coffee. He noticed Madden didn’t mention anything about the fight and there was no way he could have missed it. That suited Norton. He didn’t particularly want to bring the subject up himself. But there was something else about the little caretaker and the way he acted that didn’t seem to gel to Les. Was it eyes or his manner? For the moment Norton couldn’t quite work it out.
‘So, how long will you work for today, Ron?’
Madden tilted his head towards the sky and took another sip of coffee. ‘Another three or four hours or so. I’ll finish this weeding then I’ll mow down by the sides of the toolshed. I’ll knock off ’bout two o’clock.’
‘I’m gonna light the barby about then. You want to join us? Have a steak? There’s plenty of piss there.’
Steak didn’t get a great reaction, but the word ‘piss’ brought a gleam to the caretaker’s eyes. ‘Righto, Les. That’d be good.’
‘We’re going for a swim down in that billabong at the front. We’ll see you when we get back.’
‘Okay, Les. See you then.’
Les collected Peregrine plus a couple of blankets and some towels. He borrowed one of his books, which he threw into an overnight bag along with some fruit and other odds and ends, then took him down to the pool. Seeing they had to wade across the creek Peregrine wore his fatigues and boots like Norton, just to be on the safe side.
‘I say,’ said the Englishman, slipping his camera from his shoulder as they splashed up to the billabong. ‘This is a beautiful spot.’
‘I told you it was better than the other one.’
Norton spread the blankets out in a cleared, level spot close by, while Peregrine clicked off a few photos. Then he took him to the circular clearing and showed him the timber and the mysterious holes in the ground.
‘What do you make of that?’ he asked.
Peregrine shook his head. ‘Blowed if I know,’ he said. ‘Blowed if I know, indeed. Unless they’re wells?’
‘With a billabong that big right next to them?’
‘Yes, you’re right. Could this be some sort of stockade? Are they tiger traps or something?’
‘There’s no bloody tigers in Australia, Peregrine.’
‘Well, I couldn’t tell you what it is,’ replied Peregrine snapping off two quick photos. ‘Anyway, old boy. Let’s have a swim.’
They spent the next few hours in the warm sun, swimming, reading, watching the countless beautiful birds zipping in and out of the trees and doing one of Norton’s favourite pastimes: sweet bugger all. Les found Peregrine’s book, Women by Charles Bukowski, one of the raunchiest and filthiest books he’d ever come across; it was also one of the funniest and easiest to read. Peregrine was getting into a biography of Peter Sellers, which he appeared to be enjoying immensely as well. Before Les knew it, it was half past one. He was a bit on the peckish side and fanging for a can of Fourex, so they packed up and headed back to the house.
A pleasant thought struck Norton as he was wading across the creek. Having no TV and not seeing a Sydney newspaper for days, he’d forgotten the semi-finals were on. What a top way to spend the afternoon — drinking beer, eating steaks and listening to the footy. Who was it today, Balmain and Manly? Wouldn’t matter. It would still be a good game. Ahh yes, how sweet it is, thought the big Queenslander as they splashed back to the house.
Ronnie Madden was cleaned up and sitting patiently in the barbecue area when they got there. ‘How was the swim?’ he coughed through the haze of his roll-your-own.
‘Excellent,’ replied Peregrine, as he and Les started climbing out of their wet fatigues and boots. ‘Certainly gives one an appetite. Les tells me you’re going to join us for a bit of nosh.’
‘Yeah. You don’t mind do you?’
‘No. By all means, be our guest. And I might add that my manservant there is quite a dab hand at a barbecue too.’
‘I’ll give you bloody manservant in a minute,’ growled Norton, draping his cammies over a chair.
‘Hey… ah did you say there was a beer in the fridge?’ said Madden, rubbing his hands together. ‘All right if I have one?’
‘Yeah. Go for your life,’ answered Les. ‘There’s about three and a half dozen there. Just leave me a couple for tonight. I don’t feel like driving into the pub.’
‘Will do,’ replied the caretaker, heading towards the barbecue fridge like a heat-seeking missile.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get back in the hotel after last night’s performance?’ asked Peregrine.
Madden laughed as he handed them each a cold Fourex. ‘I dunno. They see a few stinks in there now and again. But Jesus! That was a ball-tearer you blokes put on last night.’
‘You like that did you, Ronald?’ asked Peregrine.
‘It wasn’t a baddy. They took a lot of sick boys into Murwillumbah hospital last night.’ Madden turned to Norton. ‘You sure know how to put ’em together, don’t you mate?’
Les nodded his head towards Peregrine. ‘He started it.’
‘Yeah, I saw that,’ said Ron.
‘Ohh God, no. Not again,’ wailed Peregrine.
Norton left them, had a quick wash then went upstairs to boil some rice and make the salad. Peregrine came up shortly and got changed, but he didn’t give Norton a hand, which suited Les because he would have only got in the road anyway. When he came downstairs, Peregrine had almost finished his first can and Ron was into his third, but the little caretaker had gathered enough wood for the fire.
It didn’t take long for Les to have the rice and onions frying and the meat sizzling. It was pretty much the same fare as the previous day, the only variation was some lamb cutlets which Norton squeezed fresh grapefruit juice all over from a tree near the second gate. While Madden was watching him, Les decided he might try and pump him for a bit of information.
‘So you knew the bloke that built this joint, did you, Ron? The Yank colonel.’
‘Daniel J? Yeah I knew him.’
‘Was that his name?’ asked Peregrine.
‘Daniel J. Harcourt. Colonel, US Rangers. Brilliant soldier. Probably one of the best men to ever shoulder a rifle. Never knew what the ‘J’ stood for.’
‘Where did you get to know him?’ asked Les.
‘I…’ Madden hesitated for a moment. ‘I did a bit of work for him when he had the duck farm.’
‘Ahh, so it was a duck farm, eh?’ smiled Norton.
‘Yep. Biggest, plumpest ducks in the valley. Couldn’t breed enough of ’em.’
‘Where is he now?’
Ronnie shrugged. ‘Don’t know for sure. He’s been gone about four or five months. Left sudden. I got an idea he went back to South East Asia.’
Madden got another beer, Les turned the sausages and squeezed more grapefruit juice over the cutlets.
‘What made him build a place like this out here?’ asked Peregrine. ‘Almost in the middle of nowhere.’
The little caretaker took a huge dr
ink of beer and seemed to smile inwardly. ‘I guess he just liked it. Plus this is the safest place on earth.’
The others exchanged a quizzical look. ‘Safest place on earth!!?’ they chorused.
‘Latitude 28 degrees south, longitude 153 degrees east. Safest place on the planet. If ever there’s another war, the air currents coming off these mountains’ll keep the fallout away from here. This is the safest place on earth. You can survive here.’
Les and Peregrine looked at Ronnie curiously. Then the little caretaker’s expression altered and he abruptly changed the subject as if he regretted what he had just said.
‘Good weather up here for winter, ain’t it fellahs?’
‘Yes, yes. Much better than back home,’ agreed Peregrine.
‘Well, I reckon these steaks are about done,’ said Norton, giving one of them a squeeze with the barbecue tongs.
‘Yeah. I’ll say one thing for our butcher,’ said Ronnie. ‘He sure sells grouse meat.’
‘Yeah. I reckon I can handle being barred from the local pub,’ said Les. ‘But I sure hope the butcher hasn’t brushed us.’
‘I was in town this morning,’ chuckled Madden. ‘He looks okay. But his wife’s got a black eye and three stitches in her cheekbone.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Les, motioning at Peregrine with his can of beer. ‘He gets a few drinks in him and throws punches all over the place.’
‘Yeah, I saw that too,’ said Ronnie, breaking into one of his wheezy laughs.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ pleaded Peregrine. ‘Will you give me a break?’
Again the meat was cooked to perfection and so was the rice. The salad was crisp and Les had even managed to make a kind of garlic toast with the bread. They had an enjoyable afternoon eating and talking with Ronnie polishing off cans of Fourex at the rate of five for Norton’s two. Les switched the radio onto the football about the same time as Peregrine switched to champagne and orange. Ronnie didn’t seem all that interested in the football and after thanking them both, he left around three-thirty. This left Peregrine and Les sitting in the sun getting drunker and drunker. By the time Balmain had gone down to Manly by two points the sun had started to go down behind the mountains. By six-thirty the air was once again thick with dew and the nightbirds had started calling to each other across the valley. Les switched the outside lights on and stoked up the fire.
‘Well, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III,’ he yawned, as he sat back down. ‘It looks like being a very quiet old Saturday night in Cedar Glen.’
‘Yes, it certainly does, old chap,’ replied Peregrine, returning Norton’s yawn. ‘And just quietly, that suits me. I’m almost too choofed to move.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ Norton was surprised at just how tired he was. Normally at this time he’d be getting ready to go to work and finish around four. ‘I reckon I might even be in bed before nine.’
‘And I won’t be far behind you. Curiously enough, I have absolutely no trouble sleeping up here.’
‘No. Me either.’
Then Peregrine’s eyes lit up. ‘I know what I might do. I might go and feed Bunter.’
‘Who?’
‘Bunter. The owl. I’ll give him one of those sausages.’
Norton had to laugh. ‘Go for your life. In fact I might join you.’
They were about to get up when something flashing in the half light about twenty metres out from the barbecue caught Norton’s eye.
‘Hey, don’t move, Peregrine,’ said Norton urgently. ‘Stay where you are. And keep quiet.’
Keeping stock-still, Peregrine followed the direction of Norton’s eyes. The two, small lights flashed again, then moved slightly. After a moment or two they could see what they were.
It was a feral cat, a big one. Even in the faint light Les and Peregrine could make out the length of its thick, greyblack body with its massive scarred head, the two glittering green, eyes watching them from the darkness, showing caution but absolutely no fear.
‘Jesus! Look at that,’ said Norton quietly. ‘A bloody feral cat.’
‘A cat? Jiminy! It’s as a big as a dog.’
‘Yeah. All that meat cooking’s brought the bastard round.’
‘What a repulsive looking creature.’
Norton stared at the huge cat watching them from the darkness, and thought of the destruction they and wild dogs do to the environment and wished he had a gun. A gun? Shit! He had a gun, all right, that bloody thing Eddie gave him when they were leaving. He’d stowed it under his bed and forgotten about it.
‘Peregrine,’ he whispered. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on that moggie. I’ll be back in a second.’
As quietly as he could, considering his drunkenness, Les went to his room, got the blue overnight bag and placed it on the bed. The gun was wrapped in an old red towel along with two boxes of bullets and two fully-loaded magazines.
It was an odd-looking weapon, very similar to an American Colt .45 Automatic, only the barrel extended about seven centimetres out to the front, with a distinctive thread running around it like a drill bit. It wouldn’t have weighed much more than a kilo and had a comfortable grip and easy balance in Norton’s hand. He clicked a magazine up into the butt, thumbed the safety back and with the gun down by his side walked back out to the barbecue area.
‘I say,’ said Peregrine. ‘What have you got there?’
‘It’s a pistol Eddie gave me in Sydney. That cat still there?’
‘Yes. He hasn’t moved.’
‘Good.’
Norton spotted the two lights still watching them, thumbed the safety forward and slowly brought the gun up. ‘Watch this, Peregrine. I’ll put one right between its rotten fuckin’ eyes.’ Les gripped his right wrist with his left hand and carefully took aim. ‘Here, kitty kitty,’ he whispered, as he curled his finger round the trigger. ‘Make my day.’
Les squeezed the trigger, expecting one bullet to hit the feral cat. Instead, there was a vibrating flash of orange flame and a hammering roar that echoed across the valley. Eight shells rattled onto the barbecue table and the cat disappeared in a crimson spray of blood, fur, bone splinters and entrails. After the roar of the pistol the silence seemed more pronounced, broken only by the frenzied screeching of the startled nightbirds.
‘I say,’ said Peregrine. ‘Jolly good shot.’
‘Jolly good shot my arse!’ exclaimed Norton, staring at the pistol still smoking in his hand. ‘What sort of a fuckin’ gun is this?’
What Les didn’t know was that Eddie had given him a Robinson S.R. Model II Constant Reaction Machine Pistol. Built in Australia during World War II, it had a unique rotating barrel and a precompressed recoil spring giving it virtually no kick, which was why, even at 600 rpm Norton was able to ring eight bullets into the cat.
Les and Peregrine walked over to where the cat had been. All that remained was a bit of its head, a shoulder, part of the tail and a few patches of grey fur on the blood-splattered grass.
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Norton. ‘Poor old puss. He never had a fuckin’ chance.’
‘Indeed no. What sort of gun did you say that was Les?’
‘I think Eddie called it a Robinson.’
‘Any bullets left?’
‘I think so.’
‘How about a shot?’
Les looked suspiciously at Peregrine. ‘Well… all right. But aim the bloody thing up in the air a bit.’
Les carefully handed Peregrine the Robinson. The Englishman held it out in front of him and squeezed the trigger. There was another burst of orange flame accompanied by a hammering bang; six more shells flew out of the side and the magazine ejected at his feet.
‘Jolly good!’ said Peregrine. ‘There’s no recoil at all.’
‘No, it’s a ripper, isn’t it?’ Norton took back the weapon and picked up the magazine. ‘Anyway, Dirty Harry, I reckon that’s enough fireworks for tonight. I’m gonna put this thing away. It’s a bit dangerous to be playing around with it, in our condition.’
‘Yes, I agree.’
Les put the machine pistol back under his bed and they resumed their positions in the barbecue area over some bourbon and Coke, laughing drunkenly about some of the events so far. Peregrine decided it would be useless trying to feed Bunter now, after all that racket there would hardly be a bird left in the valley. But both agreed it was a good thing Les had nailed the feral cat. After their second bourbon both men were yawning like caverns; Les switched off the radio and the outside lights and they called it a night.
* * *
FOR THE MIDDLE of winter, Sunday was quite hot. There was hardly a cloud in the sky, the sou’wester had dropped off and even at six-thirty in the morning the sun was beating down into the valley. Yeah, well who needs an ozone layer anyway, thought Norton as he stood outside his bedroom. Peregrine was awake but not out of bed when Les went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. With a bit of pressure Norton was able to get the Englishman up and was even able to coerce him into getting some exercise before breakfast, guaranteeing Peregrine that if he sat around stuffing himself with steak, guzzling bottles of champagne and getting all sleep and no exercise, he’d leave Cedar Glen after two weeks looking like Meatloaf. The Englishman reluctantly agreed and by seven-thirty was in his fatigues and boots joining Les for a brisk walk around the property and a swim in the billabong at the front of the house. Norton even got him to do fifty sit-ups.
Relaxing in the barbecue area after another big feed, Peregrine had to admit that it was the best he’d felt in months. Les promised him that another week of this and he’d be able to beat any woman in the Tweed Valley under five feet two. They hung around reading and soaking up the sun for the rest of the morning, then at about twelve-thirty they slipped into their jeans and T-shirts and headed for the Yurriki Buttery Bazaar.
There were quite a number of cars parked in the streets around town when they got there so Les guessed that the Bazaar must be quite an event on the Yurriki social calendar. They found a spot behind the school, crossed the street and under a huge banner strung between two trees, saying ‘Yurriki Buttery Bazaar This Sunday’ they propped in front of the old butter factory to get their bearings. After a quick exchange of bemused looks Peregrine threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes in mock terror.
The Godson Page 21