The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Okay.’

  Les gave her his phone number. They chatted politely for a few minutes, Les said he might even call to say hello tomorrow. Janice said to do that. Then they hung up.

  Well, that eases the pain somewhat, thought Les. He was even smiling a little now. Flowers and fuckin’ chocolates. Yeah that’d be right. Who does she think I am, Maurice Chevalier? But it is a bit rough when some poor bloody nurse can’t even walk up her driveway without some arsehole trying to rape her. Still, this might’ve all worked out for the best. I can really put the screws into Billy tonight. I reckon I’ll be sweet for at least three baked dinners. And he’s got to throw in one of Louise’s chocolate strawberry cakes. Norton chuckled and looked at his watch. May as well go and have a bet. He got his jacket and despite being more or less stood up, found himself whistling as he walked down to the TAB.

  After three races Norton was about square. He’d backed three losers but another two got up, paying well for a place so he got most of his money back. It wasn’t long before the cigarette smoke and noise in the TAB got to him; he had a couple of daily doubles and walked back home.

  There wasn’t a great deal to do at home and the unexpected call back to work had thrown him out a bit. Just keep warm and watch TV till he had a snooze before going to the club. Les did just that. He was drinking tomato soup and watching some unbelievable windsurfing on ‘The Wide World Of Sports’ when there was a knock on the front door around four o’clock. Hello, thought Les. I wonder who this is? His forehead creased slightly. I hope it’s not the cops. He put down his soup and walked to the front door. It was a short, dumpy girl around twenty, in a courier service uniform.

  ‘Mr L. Norton?’ she said.

  Les hesitated for a second. ‘He’s not here at the moment. What is it?’

  The girl tended a large, beige envelope. ‘A letter,’ she said. ‘Special delivery from England.’

  ‘England?’ Norton looked at the name on the back of the envelope and smiled. ‘That’s all right. I’ll take it.’

  ‘Sign here, please.’

  Norton signed the receipt book and the girl handed him the envelope. ‘Thanks,’ he said. The girl nodded a reply and walked back to her small motorbike. Les heard her putter off as he looked at the back of the envelope again. Beneath an Heraldic crest of a knight’s head surrounded by chain and a sword and inscribed with something in Latin was: Sir Peregrine Normanhurst, Abbey Le Grange, Lomanshire, West Sussex, England. And a postcode. Well what do you know, grinned Les. It’s from me old pommy mate. At least he got home all right. Les closed the front door and went back inside. He turned off the TV, got a knife from the kitchen and settled back down on the lounge. Well, I wonder what old Pezz has got to say? He smiled as he slit open the envelope.

  The letter was about four pages of beautifully embossed beige paper with the same Heraldic crest above each page.

  Dear Les,

  How goes it old sausage? it started.

  Norton burst out laughing. That’s bloody Peregrine all right. The Hooray Henry’s Hooray Henry.

  The letter continued:

  It is very late Wednesday here and you will have to excuse any typing errors. Father and I have been running around together ceaselessly since I arrived home. I have tried to make this letter as brief and to the point as possible, but if it gets away on me as you read on I think you will understand why.

  I imagine by now you will have found out I purchased Cedar Glen. When I was on the way back to Brisbane with the plod I made them stop at Murwillumbah for two hours while I finalised all the details. (I might add there was quite a scene at Brisbane with Uncle Lawrence when I got there but I won’t go into that.) Your Jewish friend Rabinski wanted $3m for it but I got him down to $2.5m. I imagine he has turned me over to a certain extent but I was in a hurry and I still consider it cheap for such a magnificent property. I gave Ronnie Madden immediate Power of Attorney and signed everything over to him. So by now Baldric is the new owner of Cedar Glen and his plans of making it a refuge for Australian Vietnam veterans should come to fruition I think under the circumstances, Les, it was the least I could do.

  So, Les, I suppose one could say my brief holiday away from home has left me somewhat out of pocket: purchasing the property, the money for those two lifesavers, picking up the tab at Penguin Resort, paying for all that imported beer which you managed to pour down your throat with great gusto, not to mention the clothes I brought from those two girls at Stokers Siding which I am still waiting to receive. Probably the best part of three million dollars Australian. Quite an expensive two weeks in Australia for a poor unsuspecting pom. However, I’m lucky I can afford it, and I might add I did have one significant stroke of luck while I was there. I refer to that painting I acquired from you and for which I still have the receipt.

  I thought for a moment there you may have twigged at my barely concealed excitement. I knew as soon as I saw that style and those fabulous colours even without checking the artist’s initials that I had come across more than just another beautiful painting. Father and I collect and deal in fine art — Father is an expert and it is part of the way I built up my fortune. When I took the painting back to my room I got a screwdriver and carefully removed the part of the frame where those initials were. Sure enough, there were more initials in front of the ENT. I almost fainted when I found out the artist’s correct signing of his work was VINCENT. I hate to tell you this, Les. But that painting is a Van Gogh. I don’t know whether you are familiar with fine art or Vincent Van Gogh but he always signed his paintings VINCENT because he detested the way the French pronounced his surname. Some of his works were never even signed at all. Now Les, the plot thickens. How did a Van Gogh end up in Australia? Father and I have been researching endlessly ever since I arrived home by private jet and what we have come up with is absolutely fascinating.

  There was a well-known Australian impressionist, the son of a wealthy pioneer, John Peter Russell. In June 1881 he left Sydney for Europe on the SS Garone with another Australian artist, Tom Roberts. When they reached England they went their separate ways. In 1884 John Peter Russell enrolled at a famous art academy in Paris called Cormon Atelier. Some of his fellow students were Toulouse-Lautrec, Claude Monet, Gaugin, Rodin the sculptor and, of all people, Vincent Van Gogh. John Peter Russell and Vincent Van Gogh became very good friends. It was John Peter Russell who did the most famous portrait of Van Gogh, which was Vincent’s favourite, and now sits in the Gemaenta Musea in Amsterdam.

  Around 1887, Van Gogh became interested in Japanese art and woodcuts and was particularly impressed by two famous Japanese artists of the time, Hiroshige and Hokusai — ‘Le Style Japonais’. Vincent Van Gogh went through a Japanese period and held an exhibition of his works at the Cafe Tambourin in Paris which was owned by an exmodel and his mistress at the time, Agostina Segatori. This was in 1887, the same time John Peter Russell opened up his own art studio in Paris, the Impasse Helene. It was here that he painted his portrait of Vincent and it was here we believe Van Gogh did his portrait of the great Japanese artist, Hiroshige. John Peter Russell married an Italian model Mariana Mattiocco, who was, according to Rodin, the most beautiful woman in Paris. For this beautiful woman whom he loved, John Peter Russell built a chateau on a small island called Belle Ile off the coast of Brittany. Monet, Rodin and Vincent Van Gogh used to visit him there and his unique and warm friendship with Van Gogh continued over the years. Unfortunately Van Gogh’s mental condition deteriorated and in July 1890 he committed suicide. Before he did, one of the last letters he ever wrote was to his Australian friend John Peter Russell. It was written from the asylum at St. Reny. The last paragraph of the letter reads thus:

  ‘If ever you are in Paris, take, if you wish, a canvas of mine from my brother’s house, if you are still pursuing the idea of making a collection for your country. You will remember that we have spoken of it already and it is my desire that you be given one for this purpose.’

  Sadly this wish was litt
le more than a bequest.

  John Peter Russell returned to Australia in 1921 after the death of his wife and it appears that the painting he chose to take with him was Van Gogh’s portrait of the Japanese artist Hiroshige painted at John Peter’s studio the Impasse Helene in Paris in 1887. John Peter Russell died in 1930 in Sydney. How the painting got to the Tweed Valley and finished up in a second-hand shop is anybody’s guess. But who around that time, especially in Australia, would know anything about a colourful painting of a Chinaman by some artist who simply signed his works Vincent? I would say the colonel picked it up more out of a whim than anything else.

  So there you have it, Les. Portrait Of A Chinaman by Ernest Norman Toejam is actually Portrait Of Hiroshige by Vincent Van Gogh. Father and I have taken the painting to two of England’s leading art auctioneers where it has been authenticated. We now await the arrival from Holland next week of the foremost expert on Vincent Van Gogh, Professor Konrad van der Hooft from the Gemaenta Musea in Amsterdam. He is the world’s leading authority on Van Gogh and it will only be a formality once he sees it. What is the painting worth? Who knows, Les? A brilliant portrait like that with such a unique history, thirty, forty million — pounds. But one could never sell something like that. It will hang here at Abbey Le Grange along with our Titians, Monets and Raphaels. Our one Van Gogh. Like myself, father has always wanted a Vincent. And now he has one. I might add, father said to say thank you very much.

  By now, Les, I imagine your face is starting to look like — what is that expression I heard you use? Jedd Clampett’s dog? Letting a fifty million dollar painting slip through your fingers. But don’t worry. Do you think I would pull off a dodgy stroke like that without throwing a bit of wedge your way? Leave it out, Terry. As soon as Professor van der Hooft clocks this painting on Monday I am forwarding you a cheque for five hundred thousand pounds. With the rate of exchange and all that you will finish up with over a million dollars. Something, Les. A nice little earner for putting up with some potty pom for a couple of weeks. Know what I mean, squire? So you have done it, old porpoise. You are now a millionaire. Or at least you will be next week when I send you the cheque.

  In all seriousness, Les, I would like to thank you for what you did. And I accept the fact that my irresponsibility almost cost both of us our lives. I am truly sorry as you know and I hope you will forgive my act of stupidity. I have woken up in more ways than one since my trip to Australia and I have you to thank for it more than anyone else. I would consider it an honour, Les, if you let me call you my friend. And that invitation to come to England anytime still stands, more than ever.

  And now it is very late and I am very tired. Like I said earlier, father and I have been horrendously busy all week. I am looking forward to a quiet weekend. I am going to Scotland — my uncle, Lord Myleford has a houseboat on a lake up there. I am taking the painting with me to show him and spend the weekend fishing. He’s my favourite uncle. Goodbye for now, Les, I will write to you again next week when I send you the cheque.

  Your friend,

  Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III

  Underneath was scrawled — Pezz.

  Norton just stared at the letter in his hands and blinked. To say he was somewhat taken aback would literally be the understatement of the year. It completely blew him out. It blew him out that much he had to read it again, and again. After the third time Les didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, kick a hole in the wall or jump straight up through the roof. That fuckin’ stupid painting. Les didn’t know Van Gogh from Van Halen. But he did know that just about every time he watched the news on TV one got auctioned somewhere in the world for about a hundred million dollars. And he’d just let one slip through his fingers. But how was he to know? And if he had brought it back with him — which he wouldn’t have — he would have only got sick of looking at it after a while and tossed it out. A hundred million dollars! Norton stared at the letter and shook his head. But what about Peregrine buying Cedar Glen and giving it to Ronnie Madden? What a champion bloke. However there was one part of the letter Les had to read a fourth, fifth and sixth time. A part which put a grin on his craggy face and made him warm all over — a feeling he could hardly explain. ‘So you have done it, old porpoise. You are now a millionaire.’ Norton had finally done it. He’d cracked it. He was never short of a dollar, but now he was a millionaire. He’d never have to work another day in his life. No more Kelly Club, no more arguing with drunks, no more getting home at dawn and sleeping half the day away. No more fights, no more hassles with coppers, no more getting shot at, no more having to work when he would have liked to have had the night off. From now on his life was pure gravy. He’d still keep his house and rent it out to Warren then buy a property in the bush somewhere miles from the nearest city and live happily ever after; watching the sun rise through the trees in the morning and watching it set behind them in the evening. This was after he’d taken that trip to England with a big pocketful of traveller’s cheques. But millionaire or not he still had to go to work that night: he couldn’t let Billy down. But he’d definitely be telling Price what he could do with the Kelly Club. Maybe not exactly in those words. But tonight would be his last night at the Cross.

  It was all very heady. Very confusing. Les wanted to have a drink and celebrate, but found he couldn’t get off the lounge. All he could do was read the letter over and over again and stare into space. He was still sitting on the lounge staring into space when Warren came home just before six. Norton didn’t hear him open the door or his footsteps coming down the hall. The big Queenslander was in another dimension.

  ‘Les?’ said Warren, as he walked into the lounge room. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out with Janice?’ Norton shrugged his shoulders and kept staring ahead. ‘I know.’ Warren burst out laughing. ‘She’s stood you up. She was drunk last night. Now she’s sobered up and realised what she’d done. Ha!’

  Norton nodded his head slowly and kept staring ahead. Still he didn’t say anything.

  ‘The great lover,’ laughed Warren. ‘Wouldn’t get a fuck in a brothel with a suitcase full of fifties and a bunch of roses. Ha-hah! You fuckin’ wally.’

  Norton continued to stare into space. The silence and the weird half smile on his face finally got to Warren. ‘Are you all right?’

  Norton nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Couldn’t be creamier.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Warren. ‘Something’s wrong. What’s going on?’

  ‘Big Danny couldn’t make it so I have to go to work tonight.’ Norton’s voice was slightly indistinct and sounded like it was coming from far away.

  ‘Ohh, what a bastard.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it dreadful?’ Norton turned to Warren with the weirdest grin on his face. ‘Isn’t it… a shame?’

  Warren shook his head. ‘I’m going to make a cup of coffee. You want one?’

  ‘No thank you, Warren.’

  Warren made himself a cup of coffee then came back into the lounge where Les was still staring into space. Warren looked at him for a moment then glanced at his watch. ‘You mind if I switch on the news? It’s almost six o’clock.’

  Norton gestured towards the TV set. ‘Be my guest, Warren. Watch whatever you like. Watch the news. Watch ‘Sesame Street’. Watch re-runs of ‘The Don Lane Show’. Take the TV set into your room and crawl inside it.’ Norton made a crazy little laugh. ‘Do whatever you wish.’

  Warren shook his head again. He could understand Les having the shits about going to work when he could be taking a nice girl out. But generally when he was put out he ranted and raved around the house and carried on like a good sort. This mood he was in was most unusual to say the least. He ignored him and switched on the TV.

  There was the usual promo for the station followed by the theme music for the news then the teletext printing out across the screen and the voice-over seemed to be concentrating on the main story.

  ‘IRA bomb outrage stuns Royal Family.’

  There were two
other minor news items, then the camera cut to a po-faced Jim Whaley. The backdrop on the screen behind him was a Union Jack, part of an Irish flag and a figure in a balaclava superimposed over that.

  ‘Hello, what’s this?’ said Warren. Even Norton seemed to come out of his strange mood at the sight of the figure in the balaclava.

  Whaley was at his deepest and most serious. ‘Members of the Royal Family were plunged into grief today at the assas sination of Lord Layton Myleford in Scotland,’ he intoned.

  ‘Did he say Myleford?’ said Norton, sitting up on the lounge.

  ‘Quiet, Les,’ replied Warren.

  ‘Lord Myleford was killed instantly,’ continued Whaley, ‘when his houseboat was blown to pieces by a remote-controlled bomb on Lake Dundenfillitch near the Scottish town of Linskygill one hundred and sixty kilometres from the English border.’

  The camera then flashed to a picturesque blue lake scattered with wreckage. Police boats and police divers were probing the wreckage, helicopters were hovering overhead, army units were searching and patrolling the shoreline.

  ‘Also missing, believed killed in the blast, is Lord Myleford’s nephew and baronet in line to the throne, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III.’

  Les and Warren exchanged brief shocked looks then returned to the TV screen.

  ‘Sir Peregrine, who was only recently in Australia, was fishing with his uncle when the blast went off in the early hours of the morning, completely destroying the houseboat. Members of the Royal Family are unavailable for comment at the moment, but a spokesman for Buckingham Palace said the assassination is a particularly tragic blow because Lord Myleford was a revered member of the Royal Family and a favourite uncle of Prince Charles, who has been forced to cut short an official visit to Spain.’

  The camera switched to a grim-faced Prince Charles arriving at Heathrow Airport and being hurried into a Jaguar saloon.

  ‘Police divers have recovered the body of Lord Myleford but are still searching Lake Dundenfillitch for the remains of Sir Peregrine. No one has claimed responsibility for the blast but police say the method and type of bomb used point to the IRA.’