The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Just what the fuck are you trying to prove, Peregrine?’ said Norton, as they turned left at the roundabout on the way out to Yurriki. He had a quick look in the rear-vision mirror. In the back of the station wagon were eleven dozen bottles of imported beer, a dozen Fourex, two dozen bottles of French champagne and a half dozen imported wines.

  ‘I’m not trying to prove anything, dear boy,’ replied Peregrine quietly. ‘I’m just shouting you a few beers because I think you’re such a wonderful chap.’

  Les gave the Englishman a baleful look. ‘Now piss in this one. It’s waterproof. Christ! It’ll take us six months to drink it.’

  ‘Not if Baldric finds out it’s there.’

  ‘Shit! That’s a thought.’

  The butcher had their meat waiting back at Yurriki. Les didn’t bother to check it; if it was just half as good as the last lot it would still be sensational. Shortly after they were back at Cedar Glen cramming as much beer and champagne into the two fridges as they could. What wouldn’t fit was stacked in the cupboards downstairs.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind attacking some of this right now,’ said Norton.

  ‘If you wish,’ replied Peregrine. ‘But why don’t we wait until it’s all nice and chilled and get into it over the barbecue? We’ll be really hungry then.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Les. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I might have a read for a while.’

  ‘I’ll go for a walk.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll see you when you get back.’

  Les spent the next couple of hours strolling around the property trying to picture the place through the eyes of Colonel Daniel J. Harcourt. It took on an entirely new dimension: the mantraps, fields of fire, the gun emplacement beyond the old duck sheds. In the evening sun he sat on a rail of the rickety old wooden bridge for a commanding view of practically the entire lower part of the farm. Yes, thought Norton, Cedar Glen sure is something else. Wish I had the money, I’d buy it myself. When he returned to the house and got cleaned up he found Peregrine laying on his bed with his hands behind his back staring at Portrait Of A Chinaman by Ernest Norman Toejam.

  ‘How are you feeling now, mate?’ he asked. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Yes, rather,’ replied the Englishman. ‘I say, why don’t we have some of those pork chops tonight? I watched you unwrapping them and they looked absolutely scrumptious.’

  ‘Okey-doke. Pork chops, cutlets and sausages it is.’

  Les boiled the rice. Peregrine made the salad. Next thing they were in the barbecue area and Norton had the fridge door open trying to work out what to drink first.

  ‘Well, while you’re making your mind up,’ said Peregrine, ‘I’m going to have a nice chilled bottle of ’78 Veuve Clicquot.’

  ‘Go for your life. I might try a bottle of this Stella Artois. I like the label.’

  Les liked the label. He also liked the beer; two went down in less than ten minutes, then a Tuborg and a Gosser. Then he discovered the Becks.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Norton, on his second bottle of Becks. ‘You’re right about this overseas piss. It’s the grouse.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? Better than that wretched Fourex.’

  ‘Ohh, I dunno about that,’ said Les, feeling a bit of a traitor to mother Queensland. ‘But it is good.’

  Peregrine had to smile at the look on Norton’s face. He was tearing into the imported beers like there was going to be no tomorrow, but loath to admit that he was loving it.

  ‘Come here,’ said Peregrine. ‘I’ll show you something.’

  When Norton finished his second bottle of Becks, Peregrine took a bottle of Corona from the fridge, knocked the top off then cut a slice from one of the limes and jammed it in the neck.

  ‘There you go, Les,’ he grinned. ‘Try that.’

  Les took a tentative sip which turned into one great slurp. ‘Ohh yeah,’ he belched. ‘How good’s this?’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? Les Norton, I’ll make a yuppie out of you yet.’

  ‘You might even do that,’ laughed Les, taking another swig of Corona. ‘I’ll get a Mercedes and a car-phone. Next thing I’ll be drinking at The Four In Hand.’

  ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘Just a joke, Peregrine,’ said Les. ‘Just a private joke.’

  The pork chops were as good as the T-bones and by six they’d finished their barbecue over a chilled bottle of Beaujolais. By seven Peregrine was into his third bottle of Veuve Clicquot and Les had knocked over an unknown number of imported beers including four more Coronas. By eight there were empty bottles everywhere, the ghetto-blaster was blaring and Les and Peregrine were both howling, screaming and baying at the moon, mule drunk.

  Peregrine focused on Norton across a table of empties and other debris. ‘Les,’ he slurred. ‘Les. I am so drunk I cannot believe it.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘No,’ he blinked. ‘Not a chance. No one, I repeat, no one could possibly be as drunk as me. No one in the world.’

  ‘I would have to disagree there … I’m afraid. Have to.’

  They sat blinking drunkenly at each other and into space when a look of suspicion crept across Peregrine’s face.

  ‘Les,’ he hiccupped. ‘Have you got a feeling someone’s watching us?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Norton’s drunken gaze shifted from the barbecue area to the grass surrounding them. At the edge of the darkness countless tiny pairs of light seemed to be winking at them. When Norton’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see what they were.

  ‘Hey, look at that, Peregrine,’ he leered. ‘It’s the possums. I put some fruit out last night and they’ve come back.’

  There were at least twenty grey possums watching them intently through big, sad-looking brown eyes, their soft pink noses twitching from side to side as they sniffed tentatively at the air. Some had babies clinging precariously to their backs, several had tiny black tails poking out of their pouches. One or two would come in for a closer look then turn around and scurry back, tails dragging behind them, bums up in the air. Others would rise up on their haunches and paw at the air as they sniffed in the boys’ direction.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Peregrine. ‘I’ve never seen the like. They’re absolutely marvellous. What on earth are they?’

  ‘Brushtail possums. Cute little bludgers, aren’t they?’ Norton rose from the table and the possums withdrew into the darkness. ‘If I can make it up the stairs, I’ll go to the kitchen and get some more fruit.’

  Like a bull in a china shop, Norton lurched up the stairs and clambered back down with half a dozen apples. He chopped some up on the table and scattered the pieces out onto the grass. The possums could sense that neither Peregrine or Les meant them any harm and before long had the pieces of apple in their paws munching and crunching away with delight.

  ‘I say,’ said Peregrine. ‘Those shrub tail possums, or whatever you call them, are about the cutest little blighters I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re all right, aren’t they?’ Norton grinned at the little animals enjoying the pieces of fruit then sadness with a touch of anger crossed his face. ‘You know, it’s a shame really, Peregrine. Rotten fuckin’ greyhound owners use them to blood greyhounds.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Yeah. Tie them to lures and let the dogs rip them to pieces. Nice people aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘And some fuckin’ idiot in Tasmania, wants to trap thousands of them, kill them and sell them to the Japanese as aphrodisiacs.’ ‘I could believe that,’ said Peregrine. ‘The bloody Japanese would eat us if they thought they could get off on it.’

  ‘Poor bloody wildlife. It doesn’t stand much of a chance these days.’ Norton’s gaze suddenly went from the animals to Peregrine. ‘Hey. I just thought of something. You know what Murwillumbah means in Australian Aboriginal?’ Peregrine shook his head. ‘Place of many possums. I noticed it on a T-shirt in town today.’

  ‘Really?’ Then Pere
grine’s eyes lit up. ‘I just thought of something too. You’ve got your friends, I’ve got mine. I’m going round to feed Bunter.’

  ‘Good on you,’ mumbled Norton. ‘I’ll stay here with the possums.’

  Peregrine gathered up some scraps of meat and weaved his way round to the other side of the house. The three owls were in their customary positions in the trees, huge orange eyes beaming down.

  ‘I say, chaps,’ hiccupped Peregrine, placing the meat scraps on the ground. ‘This is becoming almost intolerable. I’ve a jolly good mind to call Mr Squelch and have you bunked from Greyfriars. Especially you, Bunter, you piffling pernicious porker.’

  Showing no fear now, the three owls swooped down and picked up the pieces of meat almost at Peregrine’s feet then returned to their trees.

  ‘Do help yourselves, you young smudges.’

  Peregrine watched the owls drunkenly for a while then swayed back round to the barbecue area.

  ‘They there?’ asked Les.

  ‘Certainly were,’ answered Peregrine. ‘And as hungry as ever.’

  ‘Couldn’t be any worse than these little bludgers.’

  One possum was now on its haunches leaning against Norton’s leg with one paw and grasping for a piece of apple Les was holding with the other. Peregrine laughed at its antics then poured himself a fresh glass of champagne. He raised his glass.

  ‘The owl and the possum went to sea,’ he hiccupped. ‘In a beautiful pea green boat.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Peregrine?’

  ‘Just a joke, Les. Just a private joke.’

  Norton raised his bottle of Kronenbourgh. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he belched.

  UNDERSTANDABLY LES AND Peregrine were just a little bit seedy the following morning, but they still managed a brisk walk around the property and a good breakfast afterwards. But the best part of the day was definitely the time spent down at the smaller billabong with their books and banana-chairs laughing now about the events that had happened during their first week at Cedar Glen.

  By around two-thirty Les had finished Women and Peregrine had got through his book on Peter Sellers. They had a final swim and decided to pack up and start getting their now habitual afternoon barbecue together. They were just at the rockeries by the rear of the house when a rumbling, rattling sound started coming up the front driveway. Norton wasn’t quite sure what to do when Ronnie came into view behind the wheel of a blue tractor, with a metal tray on the back and a scoop at the front. He gave them a wave then parked it beside the tool shed. Les and Peregrine were in the barbecue area having a bottle of mineral water when he walked over.

  ‘What’s doing with the tractor, Ron?’ said Les. ‘You gonna do a bit of excavating?’

  The little caretaker looked at them for a moment then sat down. ‘Well, to tell you the truth,’ he said, remorse spreading over his already anguished face. ‘It belongs to the farm. I just borrowed it for a couple of days to do a bit of work around my joint.’

  ‘Couple of days?’ said Peregrine. ‘We’ve been here over a week and it’s the first time I’ve seen it.’

  Ronnie squeezed his hands together. ‘Yeah, fair enough. But do us a favour will you? Don’t tell the estate agent I had it.’

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know, Ronnie,’ said Les. ‘Benny Rabinski’s an old mate of mine. What do you reckon, Peregrine?’

  The Englishman shook his head. ‘Ohh, I wouldn’t like to say. It’s up to you, Les. The lease is in your name.’

  Norton also shook his head then thought for a moment. ‘All right Ronnie, I won’t say anything this time. On one condition.’

  ‘Okay. What’s that?’

  ‘You have a drink and a barby with us this afternoon.’

  ‘Ohh, Christ, fellahs,’ protested Ronnie. ‘You blokes have had me round here nearly every day, and I haven’t weighed in a zac yet.’

  ‘So?’ shrugged Peregrine.

  ‘Well it just don’t seem right.’

  ‘Okay. Suit yourself, Ron,’ said Les. ‘But it’s either that or I call copper on you to Rabinski.’

  The little caretaker licked his lips and his eyes darted towards the fridge behind Norton; then he gave out one of his wheezy laughs. ‘All right. It looks like you blokes have made me an offer I can’t refuse.’

  ‘You got it, Baldric,’ said Peregrine.

  After getting cleaned up, Les cooked steaks and sausages and speared Ronnie straight into the dozen cans of Fourex, then topped him up with Tuborg and Heineken but kept him away from the Corona, Becks and Gosser. Les liked the little caretaker, but in the state he was in and the way he was pouring beer down his throat Norton figured that letting him amongst those would be like giving strawberries to a pig.

  ‘So what do you think of those imported beers, Ron?’ asked Les.

  ‘Ahh, they’re all right,’ shrugged Madden. ‘We used to… I’ve drank them before.’ The little caretaker drained his fifth bottle of Tuborg and tossed the empty into the Otto-bin. ‘Piss is piss to me.’

  ‘Yeah, I figured that,’ nodded Les.

  Baldric wobbled off around six-thirty. He knocked back the offer of a lift, saying he’d take a short cut that went past the Cedar Glen stables and down across the creek back to his place. This left Les and Peregrine to get drunk again.

  By ten o’clock they’d fed the possums and the owls, the evening mist was filling the valley and apart from the ghetto blaster playing softly, the only sound was the nightbirds calling to each other and the crickets and frogs in the big hole near the barbecue area. Both Les and Peregrine had champagne and beer running out of their ears so they decided to have a goodnight bottle of beaujolais before they hit the sack. The bottle of beaujolais was almost gone and the boys were drunk and tired enough to be at the stage where they were now starting to tell each other what good blokes they were.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got to hand it to you, Peregrine,’ said Norton. ‘When it comes to a quid, you’ve got a heart of gold, mate.’

  ‘You think so, Les?’

  ‘Reckon. Those two lifesavers. The girls from Stokers Siding. Me. Are you this generous back home?’

  ‘What? With the villagers on my estate? Of course. My word.’ Peregrine took a slurp of wine. ‘Why, only last week young Melville Spencer the village cripple came up to me, asked me for some money to study music in London. Said he wanted to be a conductor.’

  ‘Yeah? So what did you do?’

  ‘Had my groundsman nail him to the chimney. Then there was old Mrs Scrillitch. She kept complaining about a huge hole full of water right out the front of her house.’

  ‘What did you do for her?’

  ‘Gave her half a dozen ducks. I’ve only really ever had one bit of trouble: Old Bert. Ex-beefeater. Ninety years of age. Absolute pain in the neck. Took me to court. Claimed the walls in his cottage were too thin. I ended up having to repatriate him.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well what could one do? I took the sheriff round to have a look. Opened the oven and there was the bloke next door dipping bread in old Bert’s gravy.’

  ‘So I s’pose you settled out of court.’ Norton drained his glass. ‘Yeah. You are a good bloke Peregrine, no doubt about it.’

  BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 438 was almost on time when it touched down at Kingsford Smith Airport on Saturday morning, but it was closer to eleven o’clock when the three English soccer officials made it through customs. The three neatly-dressed men in overcoats didn’t look at all like your average sixty-year-old, balding, overweight soccer official. These men were lean and hard and closer to forty. Their faces were a little gaunt but also handsome in a rugged sort of way. In fact, with their loosely parted dark hair and piercing green eyes, they didn’t look unlike the three men waiting for them on the other side of the barrier. If the three soccer officials were tired and jaded after their trip like their fellow travellers they didn’t show it and could not have been more pleasant as they opened their suitcases and presented their passports at sep
arate counters.

  ‘And the purpose of your visit, Mr Berkley, is to possibly recruit some Australian soccer players?’ said the customs officer.

  ‘Yes. Queens Park Rangers,’ replied the dark haired man with the intense twinkling eyes.

  ‘Hoping to find another Craig Johnston?’

  ‘We’d certainly like to.’

  The customs officer looked at the passport in front of him for a moment then brought his stamp down. ‘Righto. A three month visa ought to be enough. Enjoy your stay in Australia.’

  ‘I will,’ smiled the soccer official. ‘Thank you so much.’

  The three men in the blue overcoats regrouped then joined the three men waiting for them outside the customs hall. They didn’t make a great song and dance about seeing each other. The greetings and handshakes, though warm and sincere, were quick, almost inconspicuous. The six men quietly moved off into the bitter sou’wester whipping around Mascot to the two white Holden sedans waiting in the parking area.

  ‘Did you have a good trip then, Liam?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘It was,’ replied the gaunt-faced Irishman, answering for the others. ‘But most of the time we spent working out the best way to go about this.’

  ‘And have you come up with something?’ asked Robert.

  ‘We have. And we’ll discuss it with you back at your flat. But first we have to go here.’ Liam took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Patrick.

  ‘Botany?’

  ‘Is that far from here?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Just down the road.’

  ‘Good. Well then, Robert, why don’t you take Logan and Tom back to the flat and we’ll see you there after we pick up the doings. They came in on Lufthansa at seven am. So they’ll be there waiting for us.’

  Every para-military or criminal organisation, be it Tamil Tigers, Basque Separatists, the PLO, or a drug smuggling ring, all have their own ways of getting things in and out of countries undetected. The IRA were not different, and were probably better at it than anyone else. When Liam, Patrick and Brendan backed into the loading dock of a bond store off the main street in Botany, the trunk was waiting for them. They couldn’t miss it. It was painted black with a red and white stripe around it and the words ‘Queens Park Rangers Sponsored By Guinness’ painted in white. They manhandled the weighty trunk into the boot of the Holden and drove off. The Saturday traffic wasn’t too bad and in less than half an hour they were with the others in the Stanmore unit. The two women made strong coffee with something a little stronger added, there was another round of greetings then it was straight down to business.