The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘My God, Spock,’ he said. ‘Scotty’s beamed us back to I960.’

  Norton returned Peregrine’s look of horror. ‘You’re not wrong, captain,’ he replied.

  The bazaar consisted of rows and rows of stalls on either side of a dusty gravel path running around the old butter factory. There were crowds of people walking around and most of them were hippies or alternative lifestyle people of some description and they all looked like they’d come out of a time warp. The men nearly all had beards and long hair either plaited or growing anywhere. They wore batik sarongs, multi-coloured baggy pants and shirts, hats with feathers or flowers in them, sling bags over their shoulders, scarves round their waists. There were little vests with mirrors on the front, and even a number of flared jeans. They wore earrings and all sorts of things hanging around their necks; most were barefoot although there was the occasional capitalist who could afford a pair of tai-chi slippers.

  The women, a lot of whom were carrying kids in backpacks, had hair much like the men: long or plaited, tumbling out from under men’s hats or from gypsy scarves tied in the corners or under their chins. They wore patchwork tops, Tibetan tops, Arab tops and multi-coloured ones that could have been made out of anything. There were long dresses, short dresses, red stockings, blue stockings; some were barefoot, others had on moccasins or old granny boots to go with their granny glasses. A lot had flowers in their hair or coloured feathers dangling from pierced ears. One girl walked past in a Levis jacket that was more patches than material, with Good News — Not All Of Us Are Under Control stitched onto the back next to a peace symbol. Another went by in a green fez, another in an orange sombrero.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon, Peregrine?’ laughed Norton.

  The Englishman shook his head. ‘I wonder what happened to the local dry-cleaner. I’ll bet he starved to death.’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon some of those shirts haven’t seen an ironing board since the battle of Hastings. Anyway, let’s have a look around.’

  They followed the path through the people and checked out the stalls, which were mainly food, old and new clothing, second hand junk or cheap jewellery. The stall-keepers ran from Hari Krishnas to freaks to people who wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Queensland National party. There was an Atomic Coffee Stand, another selling tempura, one selling Granny’s Homemade Ice Cream. The junk was anything from old sewingmachines to axe-heads, even empty jars and biscuit tins. Les ran his hand through a box of records and shook his head. Music From Big Pink. Richie Havens Stonehenge. The James Gang. Chain. Iron Butterfly. In Sydney you couldn’t have given the stuff away, let alone sold it. Someone was selling ducks and drakes in a cage, another was flogging bulk raw muesli next to a stall selling macrobiotic jams, pickles and sauces. A bloke who looked like John Belushi was playing a guitar, with his wife on drums and their two kids both singing excruciatingly out of tune. Round the corner some other bloke with a beard was wailing into Bob Dylan on a guitar at the side of the butter factory. Behind the stalls was a blow-up castle for the kids to play on. The whole atmosphere was friendly and laid-back and most of the people there seemed to know each other. Their clothes may have been a bit scruffy, but the people themselves were clean and so were the kids. It was obvious they were nearly all just battlers or ‘alternates’ with no desire to live in the cities, doing their best to turn a dollar. And even if they were living in the past a little they added a bit of colour to the surroundings and certainly weren’t doing anybody any harm, except maybe avaricious property developers, saw-mill owners and redneck members of The National Party who like to get drunk and go out shooting small animals.

  At a small caravan, run by a Muslim couple dressed in light blue, Les and Peregrine stopped for a cup of coffee. The coffee was thick, strong and tasty. Les went for a piece of carrot and walnut cake. Peregrine opted for the chocolate wholemeal with coconut and date. Like the coffee, the cake was excellent too. The Muslim and his wife were friendly people and gave them a brochure on Islam to read while they enjoyed their snack.

  ‘See anything you want to buy?’ joked Les.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ replied Peregrine.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes. What about yourself?’

  ‘Well, oddly enough, there’s a couple of things over at that Peace Stall that will come in very handy back on the farm.’

  ‘Okay. Well, what say we finish this, walk around and sample a bit more of the local cuisine, then make our purchases?’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea, Pezz.’

  They strolled back through the crowd to where they’d come in. At the Hari Krishna stand was a sign saying: Try Lord Krishna’s Maha Basadams and Spiritual Food Bliss Balls. They tasted okay but Les reckoned you’d have to eat six hundred to fill you up. These were washed down with fresh passionfruit juice from a stall run by two old people who looked like they could have been in The National Party. It was delicious, however, so they ordered two more. Next was a watermelon and pawpaw ice cream each from Granny’s Homemade. These didn’t go down too bad either on a hot day. Next to a stall selling free-range eggs some child of the rainbow was flogging Green Jungle Juice from a big glass cooler: wheat grain, mint, parsley and unsweetened pine juice. It looked like frogshit but was chilled and also quite delicious. Strolling around all these different and exotic food stalls Les and Peregrine noticed that the one doing the most business was two old country women selling steak sandwiches and sausages on a roll; around it, the lean, hungry flower children were about six deep.

  The boys decided that there had been enough eating and drinking for the time being and it was time to buy what they had their eye on. Les led them back to the Peace Stall. Back behind the old sandshoes, magazines, rake heads and other junk were two banana-chairs in reasonable condition. The poor hippy wanted twenty dollars for the two. Les got him down to fifteen just to be a cunt.

  ‘These will go very well down by that billabong, Pezz,’ he said, tucking them up under each arm. ‘I’ll put them straight in the car and meet you back here.’

  ‘Meet me back at Yasser Arafat’s coffee stand.’

  ‘Righto.’

  When Norton returned, Peregrine was sipping coffee at the Muslim’s caravan and staring intently in front of him where the stalls cornered around heading back towards the main road.

  ‘So what’s doing, mate?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s doing?’ Peregrine motioned with his cup. ‘That’s what’s doing.’

  He pointed towards a stall on the corner that was six bamboo poles with a green tarpaulin stretched over the top. Hanging on racks inside were rows of some of the strangest women’s clothes Les had ever seen in his life. Minis, maxis, bum-huggers, tights, button-down tops, collarless, V-necks, some with shoulder pads, some with epaulettes; and all in the wierdest, most exotic colours imagineable. Where the designer had run out of ideas for colour, he or she had inserted feathers or strips of fake animal skin or fur. Fossicking around amongst the rows of clothing were two women who appeared to be in their midtwenties. One had scraggly, ginger-black hair, the other brown with touches of orange. They both had sexy, pouting faces, heavily made-up with the emphasis on eye shadow, small, thick lips and squat bosomy figures something like Bette Midler’s. The one with the darker hair had on a tight-fitting, one piece black, red and silver outfit which resembled a court jester’s costume, pinned in the middle by a huge red belt with a silver buckle. The other was wearing a black and gold tank-top, leopard-skin tights and pixie boots; beneath a small, white Panama glinted a pair of orange-tinted, John Lennon glasses.

  ‘Well. What do you think?’ asked Peregrine.

  ‘What do I think?’ replied Norton. ‘Nice. It’s a pity they don’t celebrate HaUnween in Australia.’

  ‘I had another look at their clothes while you were away. They call themselves Mata Hari’s Waterbed.’

  ‘They look like they ought to be shot like Mata Hari too. You wouldn’t wear any of that stuff to a shit fight. You�
�re not thinking of buying some are you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Les, I’m thinking of buying the lot.’ Peregrine ignored Norton’s double blink and replaced his coffee cup. ‘Come on.’

  Les followed Peregrine across to the girl’s stall. The one in the Panama smiled when she saw the Englishman. ‘Back again,’ she said pleasantly. ‘See something you like?’

  ‘Actually,’ replied Peregrine. ‘I like it all. It’s quite unique.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the one in the court jester outfit. ‘You’re obviously a man of good taste.’

  Peregrine smiled graciously, adding a polite nod. ‘Ladies, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Peregrine Normanhurst. And this is my associate Les Norton.’

  ‘I’m Marita,’ said the one in the court jester gear. ‘And this is Coco.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, girls,’ smiled Norton, still mystified as to what Peregrine was on about.

  Peregrine motioned his hand across the surrounding clothes. ‘Ladies,’ he said ‘I’ll get straight to the point. How many items of apparel would you have in here?’ Coco screwed up her face. ‘Your entire stock, ladies. How much is here?’

  The proprietors of Mata Hari’s Waterbed exchanged a quick look. ‘Well,’ said Marita a little hesitantly. ‘There’s fifty tops there. Twenty pairs of tights. Forty dresses. What’s that? A hundred and ten … items.’

  ‘And how much would you want for your entire range?’

  ‘What!!?’ chorused the two hippy women.

  ‘I’d like to purchase the contents of your boutique. How much would you be willing to sell it for? Cash.’

  Marita and Coco were completely flummoxed. It would normally take them at least six to twelve months to flog their rubbish, yet here was some bloke who spoke like Richard Burton and must have been eating Gold-Tops wanting to buy the lot in one go. He obviously had more money than sense so why not try to get top dollar? He could only come down.

  ‘Four thousand dollars,’ blurted Marita.

  ‘Yeah. And don’t forget they’re all hand sewn,’ said Coco anxiously.

  ‘Done,’ said Peregrine, with a quick gesture. ‘And quite reasonable too, I might add.’ From the back pocket of his designer jeans he produced twenty crisp, one hundred dollar bills. ‘There’s two thousand dollars there,’ he said, placing the money in Marita’s hand. She stood there and stared at it like it was something from outer space. ‘How about I call around to your factory, or premises, tonight, and pay you the remainder? Plus some more, because I want you to ship the lot to an address in London, England. Is that satisfactory?’

  ‘Sure. Anything you like,’ said Marita.

  ‘No worries Mr Normanhurst… Peregrine,’ panted Coco.

  ‘Excellent. Now if you would be so kind as to write down your address, or give me your business card.’

  Coco started scratching away with a marking pencil on a piece of paper. It was a phone number and an address at Stokers Siding. ‘Do you know how to get to Stokers Siding?’ she asked. Peregrine looked at Les who nodded back. ‘What time would you like to come out?’

  Peregrine gave a quick shrug. ‘Oh … say, six-thirty, seven.’

  ‘Would you like to have dinner?’ asked Marita.

  The boys exchanged a quick look, figuring that Marita’s and Coco’s cooking would probably be as weird as their clothing.

  ‘No, that’s all right thank you,’ replied Peregrine. ‘But I may bring a bottle of champers to clinch the deal. Yes?’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ said Coco.

  ‘Very well then, ladies.’ Peregrine shook both their hands. ‘May I say it has been an absolute pleasure doing business with you. And I’m looking forward to seeing you again this evening.’

  ‘Us too. Goodbye, Peregrine. Goodbye, Les. See you tonight.’

  The boys had barely made it to the front of the bazaar before Marita and Coco were kicking down the bamboo poles and stuffing their weird clothing into whatever it was they’d brought it out in.

  The boys stopped not far from where they had walked in earlier. Peregrine seemed very pleased with himself, Les was almost dumbfounded.

  ‘Fair dinkum, Peregrine,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe you. Four grand for that load of shit. You’ve gotta have a pumpkin for a head.’

  Peregrine chuckled out loud. ‘That is precisely where you’re wrong dear boy. That load of shit, as you call it, will be worth a fortune back in London.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My girlfriend, Stephanie, owns a boutique in The Kings Road. We’ll flog that tatt in there for at least thirty times what I just paid for it.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Not at all, dear boy. Remember what that girl Coco, said. Everything was hand sewn.’

  ‘Yeah. Only because they wouldn’t have the money to buy a sewing-machine.’

  ‘Well, that’s what the trendies in London with more money than brains are looking for. Handmade, Australian originals. Even the name, Mata Hari’s Waterbed. That’s a selling point.’ Peregrine slipped into his cockney ‘Minder’ voice. ‘See, that’s wot the whole thing’s all about, Terry. I give the punters wot they want, and pick myself up a nice little earner at the same time.’ He slipped an arm around Norton’s shoulders. ‘And you never know, Tell. Keep schtoom. Say nuffink to no one. And there might even be a bit of wedge in it for you — know what I mean?’

  Norton shook his head again. ‘Good on you, Arfur. But I still don’t believe it.’

  ‘Les, my boy,’ chuckled Peregrine. ‘I only inherited a measly five million. This turned it into fifty,’ he added, tapping himself on the forehead.

  Norton stared into the crowd still milling around in the heat. ‘Fair enough,’ he nodded. ‘Anyway, after all that wheeling and dealing, I feel like a drink.’

  ‘Yes, me too. Do you think we can get back into the pub?’

  ‘I hope so. That bloody Ronnie put an awful hole in my supply of Fourex. Oh well, if they boot us out we’ll just have to drive into Murwillumbah.’

  As they walked back to the car, Peregrine gave Les another pat on the shoulder. ‘When you stop to consider it, Les,’ he smiled. ‘It hasn’t been a bad day all round. You managed to rob some poor hippy of five dollars. And I’ve pulled in a lazy hundred and twenty grand. But you’re learning, Les. You’re learning.’

  Norton found a parking spot opposite the hotel and told Peregrine to wait in the car while he went in and sussed things out. One of the girls who had been working on Friday night was in the bottle shop; she looked at Les indifferently. The publican was standing in the doorway to the public-bar. He turned around but didn’t say anything either. They’ve probably forgotten what I looked like, shrugged Les. I’m not a regular, it all happened fairly quickly and we left pretty smartly. Oh well, good one. He bought two cases of Fourex, six bottles of Great Western, two more Jacobs Creek and two more bottles of Jim Beam plus some Coke.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Peregrine, opening the back of the station-wagon when Les came back laden down with the booze.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t think they recognised me. Come on, let’s go and have a drink.’

  Because of the bazaar, the hotel was a little busier than usual for a Sunday. There was a fair crowd sitting and standing around out the front and quite a few in the bar, but nearly everybody seemed to be out in the beer garden. Nobody said anything as they walked through the mob of drinkers on the footpath, but when they got to the bar Norton distinctly felt a few eyes on him and noticed a couple of whispered conversations. Nobody said or did anything, and the publican was waiting in front of them, so Les ordered a middy of New for himself and a gin and tonic for Peregrine. These barely lasted two minutes so Les ordered the same again.

  They’d just got their second drink when the bloke playing pool, who had accidentally started the fight in the first place, stepped up to the bar next to Les and ordered two schooners. He was a big man, taller than Les, with a mop of thick red hair and a bushy beard that mad
e him look bigger again. But he had a soft voice and a pleasant if slightly brisk manner.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ he said to Les. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ replied Norton. ‘How’s yourself?’

  ‘Good. Hey… ah, I saw what happened here on Friday night. That was half my fault.’

  ‘Yeah I know. Bad luck it just got a bit out of hand.’

  Redbeard laughed. ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Alan, anyway.’

  Norton took his firm grip. ‘I’m Les. This is Peregrine.’ There was another quick handshake.

  ‘I’m running the dance on Saturday night. You fellahs thinking of coming?’

  ‘Yeah, we were, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘It’ll be a bottler. I got a good local band, plus The Bachelors From Cracow. They were putting down an album in a studio in Byron Bay and I’ve got them to come up and do a gig.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ nodded Les. ‘They’re pretty good.’

  ‘Yeah, it’ll be a good night. Five bucks in, bring your own piss.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Okay. Well, if I don’t see you around before, I’ll see you Saturday.’

  ‘A big chance, Alan,’ winked Norton.

  As Alan picked up his beers and turned to walk away, he stopped and moved a little closer to Norton. ‘If you’re thinking of hanging around here this arvo, keep your eyes open. One of the blokes you belted has brought his brother down.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘When you see Gorgo I think you might be. Anyway, I’ll see you later, Les. You too, Peregrine.’

  ‘See you, Alan. And thanks, mate.’

  Les and Peregrine watched Alan join another bearded man sitting at a table near the snack bar.