And De Fun Don't Done (53 page)

‘Yes?' she muttered.

‘I'd like a room for the night please. I might stay tomorrow. I'm not sure.'

The woman nodded something and handed Les a form to fill in, explaining tiredly as she watched him that the first night was in advance. Les nodded an okay, paid with
his VISA and a few minutes later had the key to Number 27. She said the porter was busy for the moment and pointed out how to get to the room; which meant she sussed that Les was big and silly enough to lump his own luggage. Les half thanked her and got his bags from the car.

Behind the office a crumbling concrete path meandered through gardens of surprisingly lovely flowers. On the left was some sort of open restaurant or dining area then the path curved away from a kidney-shaped swimming pool that looked murky enough to hide the Creature from the Black Lagoon and all his immediate relatives. Behind this, however, was a walled area dotted with plastic chairs and tables that gave a sensational view across Montego Bay and the hills beyond. There was a bar and TV lounge to the left, then the path turned into stairs leading to the rooms spread out over two flat storeys. Everything was in need of more white paint and maintenance, especially where the rusting air- conditioners set next to the rooms had dripped, leaving pools of dirty brown water. When he opened the door, Norton's room was no exception.

It was one big white room with a bathroom on the left as you walked in. The double bed looked tidy enough with a red floral cover, but the rest of the room was just old and sparse, like something you'd expect in some outback New South Wales or Queensland town in 1950. There was a sideboard, chair and table along one wall then an orange curtain drew back over a skinny balcony that might have given a view over the bay except for a hilly block of land fully of scrubby trees fenced off with cyclone wire. Les had a quick, uninterested look around then checked out the bathroom. The toilet seat was half off, the sink was stained and the almost-white enamel was flaking from the bath. The shower nozzle was loose and the water dribbled out feebly. There was no fridge, no TV and no radio. But the phone was fairly new and appeared to work. Welcome to home sweet home, Les mumbled to himself. Still, it's only till bloody Wednesday. I hope.
There was a clean towel in the bathroom. He splashed some water over his face and neck, dried off, then flopped down on the bed with his hands behind his neck and scowled up at the ceiling. Now fuckin' what?

Norton's cup of happiness was definitely not flowing over. One minute he was on his way back to Australia with thoughts of home on his mind, now he was stuck in some flop till Wednesday, ready to dissolve and lucky to be away by then. What do they say in this bloody joint? Shit happens, mon? Does it bloody ever. Oh well, at least I got a roof over my head and transport. And I'm not short of dough. It could be a lot fuckin' worse. Les brooded up at the ceiling some more. Well, I can sit around here feeling sorry for myself or I can find something to do to take my mind off things. There must be somewhere round here I can go snorkeling in some clear water. And there's that Mardi Gras tonight. I wonder what sort it is? Les gave a bitter laugh. The way my luck's going I'll probably have to buy a pair of black leather jeans and cut the arse out of them just to get a look in. Or, for about seven bucks a day, I could get on the piss and blot the whole thing out. Bad luck I shot all that dacca down the brascoe. I could have really done a job on myself. Or? Norton suddenly found himself tap-dancing a bit quicker and in a different direction. Why don't I play Sherlock Holmes and see if I can find that loot old Eduardo's snaffled away? He looked at his watch. By the time I take the car back, sort things out and get to the airport, I've got till Wednesday afternoon. Roughly two and a half days. That'd keep me occupied. Yeah. Why don't I get my arse into gear and have a bloody go? I know it's there. Les looked at his watch and let ten seconds tick by, then swung himself off the bed and took a deep breath. Starting right bloody now. And if I don't find it, it won't be for lack of trying. But the first thing I'm going to need is some clues.

Les got the phone number of the Laurecian Society out of his backpack plus one or two other things. A quick trip over to Kingston and back wouldn't take all that long,
thought Les, as he pushed the numbers on the phone. And I'll get a chance to see some more of the island. It rang for a while then a woman answered.

‘Hello? Jamaican Heritage Trust.'

‘Good morning. My name is Norton. Mr Les Norton. I'm over here from Australia and I'm trying to trace the Norton family around Montego Bay. And I'm after some information regarding the old Norton manse at Dredmouth. Would it be possible for me to come over and see some old books and documents and that?'

There was silence for a moment. ‘You say your name is Mr Norton?'

‘That's right, ma'am. Norton. N-O-R-T-O-N. As in Sweet Ginger Hill and Rose Hill Great House in Montego Bay. And the manse at Dredmouth.'

There was more silence. ‘Just one moment please, sir. I will put you through to someone.'

‘Thank you very much, ma'am' replied Les.

Les tapped his biro on the notebook he had open on the bed. I hope I don't get some bloody public service runaround. That sheila didn't sound too bright. There were a couple of clicks and a beep then a smooth, deep voice came on the line.

‘Hello? Winston Glover.'

‘Hello? Mr Glover is it? Mr Glover, my name is Norton, Mr Les Norton, and I'm over here from Australia.' Les went into the same spiel he gave the woman, only with a little more detail, and adding that the main reason he was interested in the manse was because two of his family back in Australia were in the priesthood. Mr Glover seemed to think for a short while.

‘I understand perfectly what you're talking about, Mr Norton. Unfortunately, I'm more involved in the administration side of things. Restoration and all that. Do you understand?'

‘Yes… I think so, Mr Glover.' Here it is, thought Les. The old public service standby. Sorry, that's not my department.

‘The person you need is Professor Eyres. Unfortunately
Professor Eyres is away at the moment lecturing in Antigua and won't be back till Thursday. He keeps all the historical data concerning that sort of thing locked in his office. How long are you here for, Mr Norton?'

‘I leave on Wednesday.'

‘Oh. Pity.'

‘Yeah. Ain't it?' said Les glumly.

‘Where are you ringing from, Mr Norton?'

‘Montego Bay.'

‘Montego Bay,'repeated Mr Glover slowly. He seemed to think for a few moments. ‘There could be someone over that way who may be able to help you with your research.'

‘Yeah?' Norton's voice rose a little.

‘Yes. A Mr Millwood Downie. He's a schoolteacher and he's also a part-time historian. A dilettante, so to speak. He and Professor Eyres are good friends. I'm sure he could assist you in some way.'

‘Fantastic. So how do I get in touch with Mr… Downie?' Les glanced at his notebook where he'd been writing all these names down.

‘I don't know his home number and he teaches mainly at night. But during the day he works at the Autumn Moon Golf Club at Montego Bay. You'll find the number in the phone book and you should be able to contact him there.'

‘That's great.' Norton was rapt. This Downie bloke might know something and at least he didn't have to drive over to Kingston. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Glover. I appreciate your help.'

‘My pleasure, Mr Norton. And I hope you find what you're looking for.'

‘Thanks again, Mr Glover. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.'

Well, there you go, smiled Les. Why did I write all Jamaicans are dropkicks on that T-shirt? He seemed like a pretty good bloke. Let's hope this Downie rooster's got his Jamaican shit together. Les looked through the phone book and there it was: 26 Spring Water Road, just off the
A1 and not far from Rose Point Resort. Les pushed the numbers, writing them and the address down while he waited. A younger woman's voice answered this time.

‘Good morning. Autumn Moon Golf Club.'

‘Could I speak to Mr Millwood Downie, please?'

‘Yesss. May I say who is calling?'

‘A Mr Norton, from Australia.'

‘Just one moment, Mr Norton.'

Les waited and crossed his fingers. A switch clicked in his ear, there was silence for a while, another phone rang then a curious voice answered.

‘Hello? Milton Downie?'

‘Hello, Mr Downie? My name is Norton. Les Norton. I'm out here from Australia and I was told to contact you by a Mr Winston Glover at the Jamaican Heritage Trust.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘I was hoping to talk to Professor Eyres, but he's lecturing in Antigua at the moment. I believe you're a friend of Professor Eyres?'

‘That's right. Yes.'

‘Anyway, the reason I'm ringing you, Mr Downie, is . . .'

Les went into the same spiel, adding this time that he only had till Wednesday as he had to be back in Australia by Monday and he was leaving early to beat the hurricane. He also emphasised the bit about the manse and Father Eduardo Norton because of the two priests in the family.

‘So what I was hoping, Mr Downie, is, seeing that I'm a bit strapped for time, could I call out to see you today and just introduce myself? Then when it's convenient for yourself, we could get together before I leave and you could tell me a few things about the family. Mainly Father Eduardo. Would that be alright?'

Downie seemed to think for a second or two. ‘Oh yes. I don't see why not.'

‘Well I'm staying just over in Montego Bay. Would some time today be alright?'

‘Yes. I'm here till five. But I could be held up later on this afternoon. How about two o'clock?'

‘Okay, Mr Downie. I'll see you at two o'clock.'

‘I look forward to meeting you, Mr Norton. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye, Mr Downie. And thanks.'

Well there you go again, beamed Les, looking at the phone. One door closes and another one opens. He doesn't sound like a bad bloke either. But I don't think I'd better race out there and start coming on too strong about the manse. Like, come on, Millwood, I only got two days, where's the fuckin' loot stashed? Why don't I have a swim, take a few photos of the harbour from up here and read a bit more of that book on Jamaica so I sound as if I know what I'm talking about. Yes. Good idea. Les got into his Speedos, picked up his backpack and walked down to the Badminton Club's version of a swimming pool.

Except for a plump woman in a white uniform pushing a broom around, the pool area was deserted. It was still oppressively hot, completely still, with a thin cloud cover blocking out the worst of the sun. But the view from where Les stood certainly was sensational. It wrapped right around the harbour and the hills beyond and in the distance Les could see beaches and bays and a majestic white ocean liner moored to a wharf alongside some high- rise hotel. The hazy sun had turned the Caribbean almost turquoise across the bay and where the water deepened it was an intense, cobalt blue. It certainly was the postcard view of Jamaica. Les used the last shot in the camera, reloaded, and shot off a few more; he took some of the view and some of this funny-looking lizard with a big head and pink eyes crawling up the white-washed wall. Happy with that, Les found a chipped white table and chairs in the shade, put his gear down and fell in the pool.

The water wasn't all that bad; no worse than the Barrone back in Dirranbandi when it sometimes looks like it's flowing upside down, and it didn't look as if there'd been too many people around pissing in it. Les flopped around for a while, cooling off, did a few crooked
laps then towelled off and sat in the shade with his book. After a while he was none the wiser about buried treasure, but he'd learnt a few more things about Jamaica. Eventually he looked at his watch and closed the book. Well, I reckon that might do. By the time I get there and sort a couple of other things out it'll be time. Even Jamaican style. He strolled up to his room, got into a light green T- shirt with a Koori drawing of a goanna on the front, and the same brown shorts, then after giving himself a quick detail drove to the Golf Club.

Just by watching the roads going downhill and keeping an eye on the ocean Les had no trouble finding the Al. Once on it, he ignored the hitchhikers and drove slowly. The same mob of higglers were ensconced on the corner opposite Rose Point Resort. Les swung left and the guards let him straight through the boomgates again. There was a parking space not far from the main entrance. Les was in and out with another pile of monopoly money and a few hundred more in US bills. After showing the clerk his receipt, proving he'd stayed there and he was coming back, he had no problems changing a traveller's cheque. With the money tucked into his wallet he drove back out through the boomgates and turned left for Spring Water Road.

At first Les thought it was an apparition. But no, it was a near-new street sign on the right with the name of the club underneath. He turned right up a slight hill then further on drove through two white-washed, sandstone pillars with copper lamps on top and a white and green sign above saying Autumn Moon Golf Club Resort. Past the sign was about half a kilometre of crunchy white gravel driveway surrounded by trees, with about another half a kilometre of golf links on either side. Everything looked green and lush and landscaped or manicured to within an inch of its life and very exclusive looking. Several golfers were buzzing around in electric golf buggies, others were strolling across the greens, pulling golf carts. The driveway stopped at a kind of island full of flowers then half circled past a red and white concrete
restaurant on the left, a pro shop and clothes store in the middle and the resort proper on the right. It was built in the fashion of a small, white stuccoed castle with turrets on top and a number of steps out the front. Red and yellow bougainvilleas meandered round the turrets and the front was all plate glass and once again very exclusive looking. Les drove round the island, stopped in front of the steps and got out to see if he could find the office. Off to his right a Jamaican man about thirty was hurrying towards the stairs with a clipboard under his arm. He looked up from whatever he was preoccupied with and seemed to notice Norton.