‘Good morning, Les. How are you?’ he called cheerily.
‘All right. A bit seedy though,’ replied Norton. ‘Christ! We ended up putting a few away last night!’
‘Yes. I’m a bit that way myself. It’s that Ronnie — I think he’s a bad influence.’
‘You still want to go for a walk?’
‘My word.’
Norton made his coffee then walked to the door. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
Peregrine made some coffee himself then wearing his fatigues and boots joined Les in the barbecue area. Norton was leaning against the fridge, a very worried look on his face. He stared at Peregrine without saying a word. The Englishman could sense something was definitely amiss.
‘Something wrong is there, Les?’ he asked.
Norton stared impassively at Peregrine. ‘We’re out of Fourex.’
‘What was that?’
‘Ronnie’s drank every can of piss in the joint. We’re out of Fourex.’
‘Oh my God!’ Peregrine screwed up his face and wrenched at his hair. ‘Did you say — out of Fourex?’ He fell to his knees and cried out to the surrounding hills. ‘Did you hear that, Lord? Did you? We’re out of Fourex. Oh God! How could you let this happen?’
‘Hey. Don’t joke, mate,’ intoned Norton. ‘This is serious.’
‘Joke? How could you joke about something like this? This is a disaster of Orwellian proportions.’
‘And we’re barred from the local pub too.’
‘Out of Fourex and barred from the pub too! Oh God!’ shrieked Peregrine. ‘Is there no end to this man’s suffering?’
‘So, I’ve been thinking,’ said Les firmly. ‘It looks like we take a trip into Murwillumbah. In fact this could be a very nice day for you, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III. How would you like to see a living, breathing Australian beach?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you about it while we’re walking.’
While they were striding out around Cedar Glen Les explained to Peregrine that according to his map in the car, about forty kilometres or so on the other side of Murwillumbah was the coast. There were literally miles of beaches but handiest for them were Pottsville, Hastings Point and Cabarita or Kingscliffe. There would have to be a pub or a good restaurant somewhere; they could make a day of it and it would be a break from the farm. Peregrine couldn’t get into any trouble sitting on a beach. They could pick up the booze on the way back and Les could ring Sydney. Peregrine replied that sounded like an absolutely splendid idea, he had heard about the Australian beaches, it was a lovely day and he was more than keen.
They finished their walk, did some exercises and topped them off with a swim in the front billabong, then Les cooked them another monster breakfast. By around ten-thirty they’d cleaned up, tossed the two banana-chairs and a few other things in the station wagon and with Peregrine’s Pet Shop Boys tape playing, were on their way to the coast.
It didn’t take long to get through Murwillumbah, where Les turned south following the highway as it rose and fell through the hills, canefields and small banana farms built up on either side of the road.
‘We turn off here,’ said Norton, as they came into the small town of Mooball. He swung the car left at the railway crossing and over Burringbar Creek.
Peregrine pointed to the old country hotel behind them. ‘I like the name of the pub,’ he said. The Victory. That was the name of Nelson’s flagship when we went in and sorted out the smelly French — for about the umpteenth time.’
‘Whatever,’ replied Les.
Another twenty kilometres or so on bitumen and they were in Pottsville.
Pottsville was a few motels, a garage, some houses and a couple of shops nestled around where the shallow creek ran into a granite breakwater built out into the ocean. It wasn’t all that impressive and Les was about to give it a big miss when Peregrine started pointing excitedly.
‘Quick, Les,’ he said. ‘Stop the car.’
Norton looked around thinking the Englishman must have spotted a couple of hot sorts in bikinis. ‘What’s …?’
‘There’s an antique shop just there. Let’s have a look.’
Norton pulled up outside a milkbar. By the time he’d got out of the car Peregrine was across the road and inside the Pottsville Antiques and Art Gallery. A buzzer sounded when Les entered and he found himself in two or three rooms full of old butter churners, cedar chairs and tables, porcelain wash basins and other old bric-a-brac and old paintings. Peregrine was studying a black and white watercolour of an old battleship when Les caught up with him.
‘I thought we were going to the beach?’ he said.
‘We are, dear boy,’ replied Peregrine. ‘I’d just like to have a browse around for a few minutes — that’s all. Sometimes these out of the way galleries can be quite interesting.’
Les had another quick glance around. ‘Yeah, terrific,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll see you back at the car. I’m gonna get an orange juice.’
‘As you wish.’
Sitting on the bonnet of the car, Les had finished his orange juice and was halfway through a Cornetto when Peregrine came walking across the street.
‘You didn’t buy anything?’
Peregrine shook his head. ‘No. Nothing in there really worth purchasing.’
‘What were you hoping to find? A Ming vase?’
The Englishman’s face suddenly lit up. ‘Sometimes Les, you never know what you might find. You just never know.’
‘Yeah, righto.’ Les finished his ice cream. ‘Anyway, there’s another beach further up, Hastings Point. Let’s go and have a look.’
Hastings Point was pretty much like Pottsville. The same number of houses, shops and motels only with a nicer headland and a couple of tiny islands where Cudgera Creek emptied into the ocean. But still no pub.
‘What do you reckon, Pezz?’ said Norton, as they rattled over the narrow wooden bridge.
‘It looks nice. Do you wish to stop?’
Norton screwed up his face. ‘No, let’s go further up. See what Cabarita’s got to offer.’
‘You’re the driver.’
They travelled on another twenty or so kilometres along the coast road; unfortunately the beach was hidden by a strip of thick scrub. Les spotted a bush track, pulled up, did a quick U-turn and stopped in front of it.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Peregrine.
‘Let’s have a quick look at the beach. Come on.’
They followed the trail about twenty metres where it came out onto a deserted stretch of white beach with a small swell rolling in from the clear, blue Pacific Ocean. To their right the beach curved into a headland so far in the distance it was barely discernible. To the left it did the same; you could just make out the pine trees and high-rises of Tweed Heads. There was a light offshore breeze blowing and not a soul around for miles.
‘I say,’ said Peregrine. ‘This is really lovely.’
‘I told you, didn’t I?’
‘And what about this sand? It’s so white.’ Peregrine scooped up a handful and let it run through his fingers.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘The local council digs it up twice a year and has it all steam-cleaned.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Bastard of a job. But it’s worth it.’
‘I say. It must take them ages.’
‘They only do the top couple of feet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Come on. Let’s see what else there is.’
They found what they were looking for a few kilometres further up the highway. The road rose up beside a rocky point overlooking a smallish white beach with a stream running into it. Further on, a smaller point started an expanse of white sand that ran all the way up to Kingscliff and Tweed Heads. Les swung the car into a parking area above the first beach. It was about the same size as Bronte except for the two uneven granite headlands dotted with stunted palm trees and clumps of jagged granite rocks strewn across the beach. A nice even swell
was rolling in — about half a dozen surfboard riders were taking advantage of it. It was all very picturesque but what Les was looking for was built onto the beach not far past the smaller headland. The Cabarita Hotel Motel. A couple of minutes later he pulled up right outside the TAB next door.
‘What do you reckon, Peregrine? This might do us, old mate.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. Why don’t we have a look around?’
The large hotel was quite modern and clean with a bistro at the rear full of open-air furniture next to a park leading down to the beach. There were maybe a couple of dozen people seated around drinking and eating, seemingly oblivious to a number of birds picking at the scraps on the tables. There was a surf club on the opposite side of the road built over some old shops. The boys walked over and through a corner window Les could see a gym with a heavy bag, speedball and weights. At the rear, a couple of fair-haired clubbies were patching up some racing skis; Les gave them a wink and a smile and he and Peregrine got a couple of friendly ‘G’days’ in return. There was the standard Estate Agency, a fish shop and several more shops plus a garage called the Boganbar Auto Centre. The scene was very touristy and laid-back. Several cars swished past and a number of elderly people wearing straw hats came and went taking their own sweet time as they did.
‘Do we need to go any further?’ asked Norton.
Peregrine shook his head. ‘This suits me admirably. It’s beautiful.’
They found a table with an umbrella in the beer garden and Les got two middies of New. Carole King singing ‘Far Away’ was playing on the pub radio system and it wasn’t long before they’d sunk four middies sitting there watching the ocean on the balmy August day.
‘You hungry, Pezz?’ asked Les.
‘Those few beers have put a bit of an edge on my appetite.’
‘Let’s check the bistro out then.’
The menu was fairly extensive, mainly seafood. Peregrine went for the calamari and bream fillets; Les decided on the seafood basket. He got their tickets plus another two middies. They finished those just as the girl called their number; they collected their food plus two more middies. The food was delicious: nice crisp chips, fresh coleslaw and plenty of lemon wedges. By the time they’d got through that they each had six middies under their belts plus a stack of food and both Les and Peregrine were bloated.
‘How are you feeling?’ smiled Norton.
‘Full as a boot,’ replied Peregrine. ‘And a little sozzled.’
‘Yeah, me too. Those six beers sure hit the spot. I’ve got Tasmanian scallops and chips coming out my ears.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a walk.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ agreed Les. ‘I might just duck into the TAB and put a couple of bets on first. You want to have a flutter?’
‘No. I’ll wait here.’
Norton strolled into the TAB five minutes before the third at Warwick Farm. He couldn’t see any of Price’s horses in the race, but he knew a horse from Wyong called Malley Boy had to be a good thing at 12/1. Les had twenty dollars each way. Some horse cast a plate at the barrier so the race was held up. However Malley Boy, even after a check in the straight, still managed to fall into third place and pay $3.50. Norton was thirty dollars in front. While he was listening to the race he didn’t notice Peregrine go to the car and get his towel.
There was a race on at Mornington in ten minutes. Willets was the only Melbourne jockey at the meeting. What was a city hoop doing in the bush? And the horse’s name was Cedar Rose. Cedar Rose? Cedar Glen? Yeah, why not? Norton had thirty on the nose.
When he walked back to the beer garden, Peregrine was gone. Les had a glance along the beach and thought he could see him walking towards the river mouth at the south end. He’ll be all right, thought Les. I’ll catch up with him in a few minutes. He went back to the TAB and studied the form while he waited for his race to come on.
Cedar Rose didn’t look like losing and won by four lengths paying $9.60. Norton was now about three hundred in front for an initial outlay of forty dollars. You’re a dead set genius, you big, red-headed spunk, Les chuckled to himself. Now for the big one — a hundred each way. On what?
Norton was intently studying the race forms pinned to the wall when out the corner of his eye he noticed a young girl run up to the two clubbies patching the skis at the rear of the surf club and point excitedly towards the beach. The two clubbies exchanged a brief look, dropped what they were doing and sprinted towards the ocean. Wonder what that was all about? thought Norton. He went back to studying the form. But somehow the horses and jockeys didn’t seem to be registering.
‘I wonder,’ he said out loud. ‘I just fuckin’ wonder.’ Next thing Norton was also sprinting for the beach.
CALAMARI AND BREAM fillets weren’t the only thing Peregrine was full of as he strolled down to the beach. After six cold middies he was also full of Dutch courage and keen to do a bit of swimming. And why not? The sky was blue, the surf was gently rolling in, the board riders had gone and Peregrine had the beach to himself. With a towel around his waist he hiccupped his way into his English bathers and began breaststroking through the surf. When he got sick of breaststroking he switched to the Mediterranean crawl, a style perfected by about ten thousand Greeks and Italians who have been rescued off Bondi and Bronte. It works beautifully in the calm waters around Sicily or Skorpios, but in Australia, where almost every beach is treacherous with rips, undertows and collapsing sand-banks, it’s about as much use as a Violet Crumble Bar in a knife fight.
Peregrine couldn’t believe how well he was going, one arm after the other, kicking gently with his feet, till he turned around to swim in. Along with his swimming style, Peregrine’s luck immediately took a turn for the worse. Every ten strokes he did towards the shore took him another ten metres out to sea. Then the first wave hit him and he swallowed his first mouthful of water. Then the six middies and the calamari started coming up. Then the panic set in.
Peregrine floundered and thrashed at the water before finally throwing his hands up in the air in desperation. ‘Help me!’ he screamed. ‘Help! Oh God! Help me! Help!’
When Norton got to the park overlooking the beach the two clubbies were almost across the sand. He could see Peregrine about two hundred metres offshore being tossed around in the white water like a piece of rag.
‘Shit!’ he cursed, and started galloping down to the beach. By the time he had his T-shirt off and was at the water’s edge the two clubbies had reached Peregrine, who was going down for the third time and firmly convinced he was about to die. There wasn’t a happier pom on God’s earth when he felt two strong pairs of hands take him under the shoulders and chin. Norton put his T-shirt back on. Oh well, he thought. They don’t need me now — besides, that’s what lifesavers aren’t being paid for, anyway.
The two lifesavers expertly swam Peregrine out with the rip, followed it along and began bringing him in about fifty metres further down the beach. Norton could have applauded — volunteers or not, there was going to be a good drink in it for the two clubbies. They were going well until they reached shallow water where a freakish shorebreak hit Peregrine in the back. One of the clubbies lost his grip and as Peregrine got tossed over, he too was swept across a clump of jagged rocks. The other clubbie got Peregrine onto the beach; Les ran to assist and noticed the water around the one now limping from the rocks was stained red.
‘Shit!’ said Norton.
The clubbie with Peregrine dragged him coughing and spluttering onto the wet sand; water was pouring out of his nose and mouth and he looked awful, but at least he was alive. Les went over to the other lifesaver who was sitting on his backside holding his leg; there was a bad gash running from his ankle up to his calf muscle and blood was oozing out over his hands.
‘Jesus! Are you all right, mate?’ asked Les.
The lifesaver gritted his teeth. ‘Yeah, I think so,’ was the stoic reply.
The clubbie with Peregrine had him on his stomach pumping seawater, calama
ri and Tooheys New out of him. On the park in front of the hotel Norton could see a small crowd starting to gather. Shit! This is all I need, he thought. Lifesaver hero saves visiting member of the Royal Family. This could make the local paper. Les took off his good Hard Rock Cafe New Orleans T-shirt, ripped it in half and wrapped it around the lifesaver’s leg.
‘Leave him,’ he said to the one with Peregrine. ‘He’ll be okay. I’ll look after him. See to your mate.’ He took two hundred dollars from the pocket of his jeans. ‘Here, this’ll pay for your doctor’s bill.’
The clubbie took the money and looked at Les. ‘All right. Thanks mate.’
Norton wrapped one of Peregrine’s arms around his shoulders and started half walking, half dragging him up the beach. He spotted his clothes laid out neatly on the sand, picked them up and draped the white cotton jacket over Peregrine’s shoulders.
‘Come on, Dawn Fraser,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better get you home.’
Peregrine lay on the front seat of the car and moaned, coughed, threw up and spluttered all the way to Yurriki. Worrying about whether he should get the ashen-faced Englishman to a doctor or not, Les was at Cedar Glen before he realised he’d forgotten the beer.
‘Shit!’ he cursed, as he got out to open the front gate.
Well, I reckon it’ll just be dinner for one tonight, thought Les, as he put some dry clothes on Peregrine and placed him in his bed. The Englishman moaned something, rolled his eyes and began heaving. He was still pretty sick, but it appeared to be shock as much as anything else. Les placed a bucket beside the bed and watched him for a while then went down to clean the vomit from the front seat of the car.
Norton couldn’t help but feel more than a bit nervous now. It had been a bloody close shave. Christ! Imagine if he’d have drowned. Price would have hung me. That’s after Eddie had finished with me. Eddie! Jesus! I’ve still got to ring him yet. No that’s bloody it. I’m going to have to keep the stupid bastard on the farm and watch him twenty-four bloody hours a day. It’s just too risky. Norton was still thinking that when he drove into Yurriki later on to ring Eddie and tell him Wednesday had been just another day on the farm.
The Godson Page 27