The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Ohh, fuck this, Peregrine,’ he said, downing over half a bottle of Corona in a swallow. ‘I gotta get down, baby. And I don’t give a stuff if I never get back up again.’

  There was a happy-faced woman in a white top with dark hair and glasses tapping her feet to the music at the edge of the alcove. Les asked her for a dance. She said yes and they joined the bouncing, seething mass on the floor for a bit of slippin’ and slidin’ and reelin’ and rockin’. The disc jockey kept the pressure up, flogging the punters unmercifully for the best part of an hour; Spy Vs Spy, Omar And The Howlers, Machinations, and even some old Jerry Lee Lewis and Gary Glitter. Les and his partner thumped and bumped around sticking as close to each other as possible, but half the time you didn’t know who you were dancing with. It was just one big rage.

  The woman in glasses lasted about forty minutes before throwing in the towel. Les thanked her and offered her a drink. She said she had to find her daughter somewhere and she’d probably come back. Peregrine was sitting down having a glass of champagne when Les plucked a Becks from the ice and just about swallowed the lot in one go.

  ‘I have to hand it to you, Les,’ said Peregrine. ‘When it comes to dancing, you have a Dionysiac style all of your own.’

  ‘Mate, I can’t wait to get back out there,’ Les winked and swallowed the rest of the Becks. ‘Michael Jackson, eat your heart out.’

  ‘Yes. All that’s missing is the glove.’

  The DJ stopped, the band came back on and the crowd settled down a little to listen to a bit of blues-rock. Les was getting into the Coronas when he noticed Peregrine smiling at something over his shoulder. Les turned around and there was Marita and Coco. Hello, our luck’s in, thought the big Queenslander, but with them were two blonde-haired guys of about thirty and two pretty little girls. Bringing up the rear was an attractive girl of about twenty wearing a white blouse, tartan dress and a tartan string bow-tie.

  ‘Hello, Peregrine. Hello, Les,’ said Marita and Coco.

  ‘Hey, hello girls,’ chorused the boys. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘You got here,’ said Coco.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Peregrine. ‘It’s quite a night.’

  ‘We saw Les dancing,’ said Marita. ‘Not that you could miss him. So we thought we’d come over.’

  ‘Excellent,’ smiled Peregrine, and nodded towards the garbage-bin. ‘You’ll have to join us for a drink.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  The girls introduced the two boys, Roy and Steve, who were the two little girls’ fathers. They had smiles in their eyes and good warm handshakes. The two little girls were Crystal and Tessa; immediately upon hearing their names they took hold of their mother’s dresses and buried their faces in the folds, giggling shyly. They saved the girl in the tartan dress till last. Her name was Colleen, and Colleen got a very heavy introduction to Peregrine.

  ‘Colleen’s into fashion designing, too,’ said Coco.

  ‘Is that right?’ beamed Peregrine.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Colleen. ‘I work from Byron Bay. But I come up and give the girls a hand every now and again.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  Norton couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the way Colleen was being given the big sell. It was obvious she’d been brought over as an offering for Peregrine. Be nice, do the right thing, and you never know, the rich pom might buy some of your clobber too. Half your luck, Pezz, thought Norton. She’s not a bad little sort.

  Like a true gentleman Peregrine poured the girls a glass of champagne and Roy and Steve had a Tuborg each. They weren’t bad blokes and it turned out they shaped surfboards at Byron Bay. Norton had tipped them to be surfies of some description: the unkempt blonde hair looked very offshore on the tanned faces and if that wasn’t enough, the 100% Mambo T-shirts and the Bad Billy cotton pants were a dead give away. They had another couple of beers from the garbage-bin then the two surfies went and got some of their own. The girls knocked over one bottle of Moet while they discussed fashions, assuring Peregrine the clothes he’d bought went to England on schedule, then they popped a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. All in all the night was going along famously. The band took another break and the DJ started up again so they all got up for a dance. All except Les. He was left to keep an eye on the two anklebiters. But they weren’t bad little kids and Norton didn’t mind them sitting on his knees and crawling all over him and blowing spit bubbles in his face while he tried to drink his Corona. And Crystal and Tessa didn’t think Uncle Les was too bad for a grown-up either. After a few dances the others trooped back from the dance floor. As they did, Colleen was hanging all over Peregrine like a garage sale dressing gown. Peregrine Normanhurst III, thought Norton, you’ve done it again, buggered and all as you look. Now I wonder if there’s something out there for Uncle Les?

  Les was wondering what his chances were when the DJ announced that the next record would be the last before The Bachelors From Cracow. He grabbed a fresh Corona and moved to the edge of the alcove for a better look.

  He got there just in time to see some bloke with jet black hair swept straight back over a pale, vampirish face pull the cover from a mixer just a metre or two away. At his side stood two girls with equally pale faces and spiky dark hair wearing men’s double-breasted suits, T-shirts and Julius Marlow shoes.

  ‘And now,’ honked the DJ, ‘let’s give a big warm Tweed Valley welcome to our special guests for the evening, The Bachelors From Cracow.’

  The crowd applauded and surged forward as the band walked out on stage carrying their instruments. They were a seven piece group — young with fifties-style flat-top haircuts and had intense, interesting faces. They nearly all wore cheap, dark suits and ties and had that hip city-boy look about them. The saxophone player was a swap for Max Headroom and the guy on electric piano had to be nearly seven feet tall with a big lantern jaw like Gomez Addams’s butler. The trumpet player looked like a young James Cagney in a black bolero jacket. The best of the lot was the lead singer, he was about four feet tall with short black hair cut into a long scraggly fringe at the front that wisped across a nose big enough to double as a bus shelter. He looked like Tiny Tim after someone had shoved him in a wool-press.

  No matter what they looked like, The Bachelors From Cracow could really wail. It was slick, cool, fast-lane jazz, so full of energy you’d think there were twenty on stage, not seven. To top it all, the reptilian lead singer had one of those smoky, crackling, tone-perfect voices ideal for singing jazz. If the band was the cake, he was definitely the icing. The music wasn’t exactly Norton’s cup of tea and the crowd obviously preferred rock ’n’ roll. But every number they did was that tight and full of power no one could fail to be impressed. Peregrine was absolutely rapt and for a while seemed to have snapped out of his earlier lethargy.

  ‘I say,’ he spluttered. ‘Those chaps are just… just sensational.’

  ‘I like them too,’ said Colleen, gripping his sleeve.

  The Bachelors From Cracow did every track from their new album to an enthusiastic, appreciative audience. They got a big ovation, then came back for an unexpected but howling version of James Brown’s ‘So Good’, after which they faded off stage into the arms of their girlfriends in the Julius Marlows.

  The DJ returned, Norton finished another Corona then went for a leak. When he returned the others had gone except for Peregrine, who was seated with Colleen next to him. He motioned for Les to sit down on the other side.

  ‘Les,’ he said. ‘I hate to be a slacker. But this headache is getting worse and I feel quite ill. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go home.’

  ‘Yeah? Oh, that’s no good.’

  ‘Colleen has a car and she’s offered to drive me.’

  ‘Yes. I know how to get to where you’re staying from here.’

  ‘No, I’d better take you home,’ said Les.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ insisted Colleen. ‘I can do it.’

  The way Colleen was insisting told Les that she wanted to get rich,
young Peregrine on his own and talk a bit of fashion with him, among other things. However Les wasn’t too keen on letting Peregrine go off with a complete stranger. He also wasn’t too keen on leaving the dance. Still, Colleen wasn’t really a complete stranger. She was a good friend of Coco and Marita who were now more or less business partners with Peregrine. Les thought about it for a moment. He’d walk up to her car with them and check things out.

  ‘Okay,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll walk up to the car with you.’

  This brought a smile to Colleen’s face and they started for the door. Les told Alan he was going for a few minutes and to keep an eye on the piss. No worries, Alan assured him.

  Colleen drove a yellow, Cortina station wagon. As Peregrine climbed in the front seat he apologised once more for being a party-pooper, but he did feel decidedly ill. No sweat, winked Les, probably just a reaction to what happened on Wednesday. After making sure they got safely away, everything was in order and Colleen was of good character, Norton walked back to the dance.

  Well, I’ve got about a dozen bottles of beer and two bottles of Moet left, thought Les. Enough to keep me going, anyway. He opened another Corona as the DJ ripped into some more rock ’n’ roll. The place was still jumping and Les was figuring out which way to move when he noticed a young girl standing near the kitchen door eating some sort of a vegetarian curry roll. She was a pretty little thing, straight brown hair, wide, dreamy brown eyes and the sweetest crimson slash of a mouth Norton had seen in ages. Wearing stone-washed jeans and some sort of a double-breasted, blue-checked shirt, she didn’t look like a hippy and was definitely no more than nineteen. Norton watched her chewing gingerly at the curry roll. He could smell it ten feet away and tipped whoever cooked it put plenty of curry in it.

  ‘How’s the roll?’ he asked her.

  ‘Bloody hot,’ replied the girl quickly.

  ‘Would you like a cold beer?’

  She looked at Les for a moment. ‘Yeah, okay. Thanks.’

  Les got her a bottle of Stella Artois. She checked out the label then took a healthy swig.

  ‘Ooh! That’s really nice,’ she said, and took another drink.

  Norton smiled as he watched her demolish the rest of the curry roll and the beer in what seemed like a matter of seconds.

  ‘Jesus, you can sure put it away for a little girl,’ he said.

  ‘All that dancing. I’m dried out,’ she replied, with a polite belch.

  ‘Yeah. He’s a larrikin, that disc jockey.’

  ‘Is he what.’

  ‘Would you like another beer?’

  The young girl thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ she smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Les got her a bottle of Corona and a fresh one for himself. He didn’t bother trying to impress her with the slice of lime. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and clinked her bottle.

  ‘Yes, cheers,’ she replied, giving Les a once up and down, her smile now slow and relaxed.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Norton.

  ‘Alison.’

  ‘Not Alison Wonderland?’

  ‘No. Alison Brisbane. But you can call me Al. Everybody else does.’

  ‘Well, I’m Les. How are you doin’, Al?’

  ‘Pretty good, Les,’ replied Alison. Then she grinned and gave Norton a friendly punch in the chest. ‘How’s yourself?’

  ‘All right,’ winced Norton. ‘Till you broke two of my ribs.’

  ‘You can take it.’ Alison took a huge swig of beer. ‘Hey, what happened to the other Arab? Did he go back to Mecca?’

  ‘He felt crook and went home.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ said Alison. ‘Your mother wanted the tea towels back.’

  Alison was as cheeky as she was pretty and the more beer she drank the cheekier she got. Norton couldn’t help but like her. It turned out she worked part time as a waitress in Brisbane and had come down to Murwillumbah for the weekend to visit her girlfriend. Her girlfriend had had an enormous fight with her parents and had stormed out in a huff and naturally she had to join her. They’d come to the dance to meet a friend of her girlfriend’s and stay at his place for the night. His place turned out to be a caravan about the same size as a biscuit tin with no running water or toilet on five acres of ground going back towards Murwillumbah. She wasn’t at all keen on sleeping on the floor of the caravan and still had her gear in an overnight bag in the friend’s car. Alison gave someone on the dance floor a quick wave. It had to be her girlfriend and the friend. The girlfriend was a dumpy brunette wearing a cheap blue dress and an imitation leather jacket. The friend was in his thirties going a bit thin on top and the way he was dancing with the girlfriend it wasn’t hard to tell what he had in mind. They stopped groping each other momentarily to wave back then continued as they were. The germ of a wonderful, beautiful idea was beginning to form in Norton’s booze-affected mind when the disc jockey threw on Separate Tables — ‘Change Your Sex’.

  ‘Hey, can you dance Les?’ asked Alison.

  ‘Can a hoot owl hoot? Come on!’

  They joined the other dancers and away they went. Alison’s style of dancing was a bit like herself: cheeky. She’d dip her body and head at Les, bounce around him, move up close like she was teasing him then spin away and appear behind him. Norton’s style was pretty much as Peregrine had described: Dionysiac without stomping on anybody’s feet. But whatever, he was going great guns with the little cutie from Brisbane.

  After about six dances they returned to the alcove for a couple of fresh Coronas. Alison took hers and said she was just going to see her girlfriend for a minute and find out what was going on. Les watched them talking for a few moments and noticed when Alison walked back she had a disappointed look on her face.

  ‘Well, Les,’ she sighed. ‘It looks like I’m going to have to go.’

  ‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

  ‘Paul wants to get going and that’s my lift.’ Alison screwed up her face. ‘Jesus, I’m not looking forward to sleeping on the floor of that caravan. With Paul groping Jane right next to my head all night.’

  Norton thought for a moment. His earlier idea seemed better than ever. But he was going to have to be quick. ‘You don’t have to, you know,’ he said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You could come back to my place. I’m staying on this huge farm. There’s tons of room.’

  Alison gave Norton a suspicious smile. ‘Could I trust you, though?’

  Les did his best to look hurt. ‘Alison…’

  The girl thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said, then wagged a finger at Les. Til come back on two conditions.’

  ‘Sure,’ shrugged Les.

  ‘One, you behave yourself. And two, you drive me into Murwillumbah on Sunday to catch the two o’clock train.’

  ‘Good as gold.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go and get my bag out of the car.’

  She went back to her friends who were getting ready to leave. They gave Les a brief smile as they walked past.

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ said Alison.

  Well, I’ll be buggered, thought Les, as he watched them walk out the door. This has turned out the grouse. She’s like a little doll. And she’s all my way. No need to monster her — just having her back later for a few drinks’ll be a million laughs. And if something should eventuate, all the better.

  Norton couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself as he stood back and sipped his beer while he watched the hippies and the alternatives dancing away, drinking, smoking the odd joint and having the time of their lives in an old, dusty rundown School of Arts hall. Since he’d left Sydney he’d stayed at the grouse and ate and drank the best food and wines available. Now he was at a simple bush dance full of simple bush people and he felt this was the best yet. Millionaire dope dealers, Norton laughed to himself — half these people here would be lucky to own a colour TV and a car less than ten years old. All the millionaire drug dealers were too busy building resorts and high-rises all over what’s left of the coastline of Au
stralia. Destroying peoples’ lives with heroin and cocaine and laundering their money by destroying the environment; aided and abetted by so-called developers, crooked councilmen and arguably the most corrupt politicians on the face of God’s earth. And the only thing standing in their way were the hippies and the greenies — the ones trying to save the environment. The ones who the politicians, and their sycophants on certain radio stations try to shitpot all the time to cover their own smelly, slimy tracks. Norton’s mind suddenly flicked back to the huge stumps of those old Cedar trees at Cedar Glen and the roots left rotting in the ground. Christ! When you thought about it simplistically, the only things keeping the planet together were the greenies and the roots of the trees. It was a fact.

  Les was standing there awash in the virtue of his own karma, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Alison, holding a battered K-Mart overnight-bag.

  ‘I got my suitcase. Where’ll I put it?’

  Norton gave it a quick eyeball. ‘Is there an incinerator down the back?’ He put it down next to the garbage-bin, went to get a couple of beers and held up a bottle of Moet. ‘You fancy a glass of champagne?’

  Alison looked at it for a moment. ‘Why don’t we drink it back at your place? I just feel like one of those beers.’

  ‘Okey doke,’ said Les, and popped another two Coronas.

  The DJ stopped and The Hemsemmiches came back on with, of all things, a reggae/rock version of ‘Goin’ Up The Country’. Alison dragged Les out onto the dance floor for a bit more slippin’ and slidin’, dippin’ and teasin’.

  And that was how they spent the next hour or two, drinking beer, laughing and dancing. Apart from Alan, Les didn’t know a soul at the dance and neither did Alison. So they were stuck with each other for a bit of company. Alison was now starting to catch up with Les in being a drunken, laughing wombat. Now and again she’d hold his hand or take his arm, and sometimes when they sat down she’d rest her head on his shoulder. What a way to be stuck with someone, thought Les. He felt like the king of the world.