The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  IT MIGHT HAVE been eight o’clock on a balmy August night in the Tweed Valley, but outside Churchill Court in St. Albans Road, South Kensington, London not far from Kensington Gardens, it was around ten-thirty on a cool, misty, English morning. The apple-cheeked courier driver was almost finished his round. He was five doors down the street when a dark-haired young man got out of the blue Land Rover parked across the road, took a small metal object from his black leather jacket and opened Unit 15’s letter box. He ignored the two letters, but wrote down everything on the postcard, wiped it clean, replaced it, closed the letter box and strolled back to the car. He motioned to the driver and the Land Rover moved down to a phone-box on the corner. The young man in the leather jacket rattled some coins into the slot. It only took a few seconds to get through to Belfast.

  PEREGRINE WAS STILL in bed sleeping soundly when Les went up for a cup of coffee around seven the following morning. He watched him snoring softly for a while, figured he looked all right and decided to leave him where he was and have a run. An hour or so later when a sweaty Les walked back into the kitchen Peregrine was sitting in his dressing gown sipping coffee, but looking quite green around the gills and very subdued.

  ‘Hello, mate,’ smiled Norton. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m… quite all right now, thanks Les,’ said Peregrine quietly. ‘A little weak.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough.’

  Peregrine stared into his coffee and shook his head. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘I can’t ever remember being so frightened in my entire life. I honestly thought I was going to drown.’

  ‘Yeah, well what do you expect, you stupid prick? Fancy going swimming out there with a gut full of beer and food. You deserved to drown.’

  Peregrine’s cheeks coloured. ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ He frowned up at Les from his cup of coffee. ‘Anyway, where were you?’

  ‘Where was I? In the TAB. And on a roll I might add. I should have won a bundle. Instead, your silly bloody caper cost me two hundred bucks and a bloody good T-shirt.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Peregrine, screwing up his face.

  ‘The clubbie who cut his leg. I had to wrap my T-shirt around it, and I gave his mate two hundred bucks for his doctor’s bill. Didn’t you see any of that?’

  The Englishman shook his head. ‘I… don’t remember much at all. I remember swimming out and getting into trouble. Being sick in the car. And vaguely you putting me to bed. I must have been in shock.’ Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why, what happened?’

  Norton looked at Peregrine, shook his head, smiled and got a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. He explained everything that happened to Peregrine. By the end of the story Peregrine’s face was a mixture of disbelief and remorse.

  ‘And that chap cut his leg quite badly?’

  ‘Bloody oath,’ nodded Les. ‘A good ten stitches, easy.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Peregrine had to look away. ‘I feel such a fool.’

  ‘You’re bloody lucky those blokes were around, mate. Or you’d be dead. D-E-A-D. I wouldn’t have got to you as quick as them.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ Peregrine ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He looked quite grief stricken. ‘That’s awful. The poor chap.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Norton couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Peregrine now. He was no doubt feeling quite bad about making a mug of himself and getting the lifesaver injured because of his foolishness. But he had obviously learnt a lesson. Why leave him wallowing in misery? Best to get him out of it.

  ‘Anyway, don’t worry about it, mate. You’re alive, and that’s the main thing. You feel up to a bit of a walk?’

  Peregrine thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, that would be good.’

  ‘Okay.’ Les dropped his empty drink bottle in the bin. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  As well as being quite stiff during the walk Peregrine was very quiet as well, which was understandable. But Les could see he was doing a lot of thinking and more than likely a bit of soul-searching as well. It isn’t often you brush death so closely and so unexpectedly as that. When they got back to the barbecue area he got a glass of water and turned to Norton.

  ‘Les,’ he said firmly, ‘I insist that you take me back to Cabarita some time today. I wish to personally thank those two young fellows who rescued me.’

  Les wasn’t too keen and shook his head. ‘Ohh look, I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘No.’ Peregrine shook his head defiantly. ‘I’m afraid I must insist. I wish to go to Murwillumbah first and do some business, which shouldn’t take me more than twenty, thirty minutes. Then back to that beach. I’ll see those two chaps for a moment or two. Then straight back home.’

  Norton drummed his fingers on the fridge. He swore he’d keep Peregrine safely on the farm from now on. But they were out of steaks. And more importantly, still out of piss. What would it take? Two hours all up?

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ he nodded slowly, trying to sound reluctant. ‘But straight in and straight back out. No mucking around.’

  Peregrine seemed to brighten up a little. ‘Splendid.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll have a bit of breakfast and get cleaned up.’

  AT ABOUT TEN-THIRTY, the same time that Peregrine and Les were driving into Murwillumbah, Patrick, Brendan and Robert were sitting in their Stanmore unit wondering what their course of action was going to be that day. Calls to the British Embassy, to journalists, asking everywhere, other contacts, everything had struck out. Peregrine Normanhurst was nowhere to be found. The phone rang in the middle of their sometimes heated conversation. Patrick answered it. He paused, frowned into the receiver, cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and turned earnestly to the others.

  ‘It’s himself.’

  Patrick listened intently for a few moments then reached for a notebook and biro. He wrote carefully, listened attentively, saying very few words before hanging up. He went through what he had just written and turned impassively to the others.

  ‘That was Liam. They’ve found out where the English bastard is.’

  ‘How?’ asked Brendan.

  ‘The dopey bastard had a postcard couriered to that Wingate woman in London. Listen to this. My dearest Stephanie. How goes it, old pip? I’m here in this godforsaken wilderness stuck in a town called Yurriki near Murwillumbah just underneath Mt. Warning. Can you believe these names? One almost needs an interpreter to understand these colonials. I’m on a property called Cedar Glen which is rather nice, but with an Australian which is rather boring. He’s a complete wally. If I survive this I shall write shortly. Pray for me, old pip. Fondest regards, Peregrine. Well, there it is, lads. We know where the sonofabitch is. Now all we have to do is find him.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Robert, reaching for a map of New South Wales. He spread it out on the coffee table. ‘Murwillumbah, did you say Patrick? Was there anything else?’

  ‘There was one more thing.’ Patrick let his eyes fall back to the notepad. ‘They get here eight-thirty Saturday morning, British Airways flight 438. And they’ll be bringing the Guinness.’

  Robert and Brendan exchanged glances.

  ‘Did you say they’ll be bringing the Guinness?’ said Brendan.

  ‘That I did,’ replied Patrick.

  ‘Then it’s surely on.’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Patrick. ‘It surely is indeed.’

  LES CALLED INTO the Yurriki butcher shop on the way to Murwillumbah. The local butcher either didn’t recognise him or didn’t want to. Norton was able to order twenty T-bones, sausages, cutlets and some pork chops. He told the butcher he’d call back in a couple of hours or so. The local butcher said that suited him, he’d see him then. In Murwillumbah Les found a parking spot opposite the police station outside a tiny coffee shop next to a hotel. Peregrine appeared to have tidied up for the occasion; silk shirt, cravat, tailored brown tweed trousers and expensive shoes plus an alligator skin sling wallet. Les walked to t
he ANZ bank with him. The Englishman said he might be a good half hour or so, Les could come in and wait if he wished. Norton said he’d see him back at the car.

  He got a Sydney paper and went to the little coffee shop; which sold good coffee and excellent pumpkin scones with jam and cream. Les caught up on the football while he waited for Peregrine. There was a pub next door and he could have got the beer while he waited but Les thought he’d get it on the way back — that way it would be colder when they got home. Forty minutes later he saw Peregrine get into the front seat of the station wagon. Les drained his second cup of coffee and joined him.

  ‘Get everything done?’ he asked, climbing behind the wheel.

  ‘Yes. Everything.’

  ‘What did you have to do, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Nothing really.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Les slipped on his seat belt and started the engine. ‘Okay, next stop Cabarita.’

  ‘If you would be so kind.’

  Norton pulled up in almost the same parking spot as the day before. The TAB had just opened but there didn’t seem to be as many people about as on Wednesday. The two surfskis were back on the grass at the rear of the surf club but as Les and Peregrine crossed the street they could only see one clubbie working on them; the shorter, fair-haired one who helped to save Peregrine. Engrossed in his work and with his back turned he didn’t notice the boys until Les spoke.

  ‘G’day, mate. How are you goin’ there?’

  The clubbie turned around and with a hand shading his eyes looked up at Les. It took him a moment or two to recognise who it was.

  ‘Ohh, G’day mate,’ he answered. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Not too bad. Remember my mate here?’

  The clubbie nodded at Peregrine. ‘Yeah. How are you feeling now, mate?’

  Peregrine stared at the clubbie. ‘How am I feeling? I feel fine. Only because of you and your friend.’

  The clubbie shrugged a noncommittal reply and continued sanding the surf-ski.

  ‘Where is your mate, anyway?’ asked Les.

  ‘At home. The doctor at the hospital told him to stay off his leg for a few days.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘They ended up putting twenty stitches in it.’

  ‘Twenty stitches!’ Peregrine had to look away for a moment. ‘You mean to tell me, that my … my stupidity cost your friend twenty stitches in his leg?’

  ‘Yeah, and his job. He just got a start last week at the pub as a cleaner. He couldn’t turn up this morning so the boss put another bloke on.’ The clubbie smiled at the look on Peregrine’s face. ‘But don’t worry about it, mate. That’s just the way things go.’

  Peregrine stared at the clubbie who ignored him as he continued to sandpaper the surf-ski.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Peregrine.

  ‘Mine? Geoff,’ replied the lifesaver.

  ‘No. Your full name.’

  ‘Geoffrey. Geoffrey Nottage.’

  ‘And your friend’s?’

  ‘Brian — Byrne.’

  ‘Excellent. Thank you, Geoffrey.’

  Peregrine stepped into the surf club garage cum storeroom and found an old table covered in lifesaving equipment. He placed his sling wallet on top, removed some papers and took a gold Parker from his shirt pocket. The clubbie watched him indifferently for a moment or two then went on sandpapering the surf-ski.

  ‘Not working yourself?’ asked Norton.

  ‘No. Things are pretty tough round here at the moment. I’m on the fuckin’ jam-roll. It’s enough to give you the shits.’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean,’ nodded Les.

  ‘You up here on holidays, are you?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  The clubbie finished one side of the ski, got up and went round to the other. ‘Hey, thanks for that two hundred bucks, too, mate. That’ll come in handy.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ shrugged Les. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  Peregrine came out of the garage holding two small pieces of paper. He folded them together, walked around Les and handed them to the clubbie.

  ‘Do you know what those are, Geoffrey?’ he asked. The clubbie looked at them as if he wasn’t quite sure. ‘They’re bank cheques. One for yourself. And one for your friend.’

  The lifesaver opened the cheques, blinked then frowned at Peregrine in disbelief. ‘Hey, these are made out for a hundred thousand dollars each.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Peregrine expressionlessly. ‘One for you and one for your friend Brian. Take them to the ANZ Bank in Murwillumbah, with some identification, and that amount will be forwarded into both your accounts.’

  Still blinking in disbelief the simple clubbie turned to Les. ‘Is he fair dinkum?’

  Norton was more than a bit taken aback himself. But he had seen Peregrine’s generosity before. ‘I reckon he might be, matey,’ he grinned.

  Peregrine turned to Norton. ‘What does he mean Les? Is he doubting my sincerity? Geoffrey would you like us to drive you to the bank?’

  ‘No. No that’s all right,’ said the absolutely dumbfounded lifesaver. ‘It’s just… shit! Christ! Bloody hell — a hundred thousand bucks! Jesus!’

  ‘You see, Geoffrey, sometimes it pays to rescue a pom,’ smiled Peregrine.

  ‘You can bloody say that again,’ said the totally amazed clubbie. ‘Better than the one we pulled in weekend before last.’

  ‘He didn’t shout you a drink?’ said Les.

  ‘No, all he left was a ring round the beach.’

  Norton tried not to laugh, but when he caught Peregrine’s eye he couldn’t help it.

  ‘I… suppose I deserved that.’ Peregrine extended a hand to the lifesaver. ‘Thank you Geoffrey,’ he said sincerely.

  ‘Thank you too …’ The lifesaver had to look at the cheque, ‘Peregrine.’

  The clubbie was miles away staring at the two cheques. Les and Peregrine left him where he was and walked back to the car. A few minutes later they were motoring down the coast way towards the Pottsville turnoff. They had gone some distance before Les spoke.

  ‘Hey, that wasn’t a bad effort, Peregrine. A hundred thousand each for those clubbies.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand dollars to save your life, Les?’ Peregrine dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘If anything, they deserved more.’

  ‘Whatever. But it was still a good effort. They were just a couple of battlers. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘I must admit, I do feel a lot better. Now, there’s one more thing I insist you do, Les.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that?’

  ‘Back at Murwillumbah I noticed a liquor store selling imported champagne and beer. Pull up outside and open the back of the car. While I’m in a good mood I’m going to educate your drinking habits.’

  ‘What do you mean? Educate my drinking habits?’ growled Norton.

  Peregrine pointed an accusing finger at Les. ‘I still claim that half the reason I almost drowned out there was because you had me almost full of that dreadful Tooheys New, or whatever you call it. It’s ghastly. If I had been drinking something civilised like Heineken or Carlsberg, I probably would have been all right.’

  ‘Ohh, don’t give me the shits.’

  ‘And as for that vile concoction you drink in the yellow cans. Fourex. I wouldn’t give that to a dog. In fact, it tastes as though dogs have been swimming in it. Amongst other things.’

  ‘What!?’ Norton was almost going to stop the car. ‘Listen. You’re starting to take a few liberties, old fellah. I’m from Queensland and we soak our bread in it up there.’

  ‘I think some of you have been soaking your heads in it. No, I admit English beer can be pretty ordinary. But don’t try to tell me Australian beer’s all it’s cracked up to be. It’s … it’s rebarbative.’ Peregrine baulked at the look on Norton’s face. ‘What are you stopping the car for?’

  ‘I’m going back to Cabarita to belt those two clubbies. They sh
ould have let you drown.’

  Thursday afternoon in Murwillumbah was like Thursday afternoon in any small Australian country town and Les was able to find a parking spot almost outside the bottle shop Peregrine had noticed earlier. He opened the back of the station wagon and followed the Englishman inside.

  The shop was quite large with an extensive selection of wines and spirits. Arranged neatly on shelves, on either side of a double self-serve fridge, were around thirty different brands of beer. Behind the counter opposite was a cheery, country-looking woman in a plain cotton dress.

  ‘Yes? What can I do for you?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you take American Express?’ enquired Peregrine.

  ‘We sure do.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Peregrine turned to the imported beers and let his eyes run over them. ‘Mmhh,’ he mused happily. ‘Not a bad selection. Not bad at all. Okay, I’ll start with a dozen bottles of Becks. And a dozen Stella Artois, Kronenbourg, and Gosser. A dozen Lowenbrau and the same of Heineken.’

  The woman began stacking the six-packs on the counter and tapping the prices onto a calculator.

  ‘Hello,’ said Peregrine. ‘I see you have Corona I’d better take three dozen of those. You wouldn’t happen to have any limes?’

  ‘I can get you some.’

  ‘Good. Throw half a dozen in.’

  ‘What the …?’ said Norton.

  ‘Quiet, Les,’ commanded Peregrine. ‘You might just learn something here. Now, a dozen Carlsberg, not the Elephant beer, the other one. And a dozen Tuborg. Oh! And just in case Lothar here starts to break out in carbuncles, throw in half a dozen cans of Fourex.’

  ‘Make that a dozen.’

  ‘Very well. A dozen. And keep them separate from the others.’

  ‘I’m sorry these aren’t all cold,’ said the woman. ‘I normally wouldn’t sell this much imported stuff in a month.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. And I’ll take a dozen bottles of Moet and a dozen bottles of Veuve Clicquot. You wouldn’t happen to have any Cristal?’ The woman shook her head. ‘And six bottles of Beaujolais.’ Peregrine turned to Norton. ‘Well, come on, Les. Don’t stand there like a Harrods dummy. Start putting them in the car. Now madam, how much do I owe you?’