And De Fun Don't Done (59 page)

Les hung around for a little longer, finding absolutely nothing as far as clues to buried treasure went. But it was going to be a buzz showing all the folks back home the photos once they were all pissed at the wake. He opened the other carton of fruit juice then looked at his watch. Shit! By the time I finish this and walk back it'll be time to pick up young Joshua and visit Sweet Ginger Hill. Where I hope to find a clue of some description. Buggered if I know what, though. Les had one last look round the Norton graveyard, put his rubbish and the camera back in his bag then picked up a small piece of broken marble for a souvenir. At the old wooden fence he took off his cap again in a mark of respect, and with more than a
touch of sentiment farewelled the resting place of his ancestors. Well, see you later, folks. Don't know when though. But RIP, as they say. Rest In Peace. Or is it Rise If Possible? Whatever: At least you've got a nice view from up here. Les put his cap back on and trudged off across the field to the trail.

He stopped briefly along the trail to splash some more water from one of the canals across his face and by the time he got back to the Honda it was all happening. The tour buses were pulling out and Joshua was walking briskly towards him. The security guard was coming down the steps in the same direction and the two gardeners were heading that way too; probably to take up their original positions beneath the trees. Les had just opened the car up to let the heat out and thrown his bag on the back seat when Joshua arrived almost on the trot.

‘Ire, Les,' he said, closing the door as he climbed in the front seat. ‘Let's go, mon.'

Norton looked at him for a second. ‘Yeah, righto,' he replied, getting in and starting the engine. ‘I wasn't quite expecting a Le Mans start.' Les nodded to his right; if he remembered Sweet Ginger Hill was behind and to the right of the great house.

Joshua shook his head. ‘This way, Les. I show you de school.'

‘School?'

‘Ya, mon. Spring Water Primary. Where Millwood teaches. I show you.'

‘Joshua. I don't…'

‘C'mon, Les. This way, mon. Yu like de school. Meet de piccnys.' Joshua glanced over Norton's shoulder at the others coming along the path and earnestly pointed left.

Les looked at the little groundsman for a moment then slipped the car into drive. ‘Yeah righto,' he said astutely.

It wasn't hard to tell what was going on. Joshua was legging it from his workmates as quickly as possible. Sweet Ginger Hill was out of bounds so he'd probably told them Les was a friend of Millwood Downie's and he was taking him up to show him the school. You could bet
he'd never told his black brothers he'd zipped the honky from Australia for fifty dollars, and you could also bet the brothers weren't in the whack for the other fifty either. Which was why he wanted Les out of the road before they arrived and he said something in front of them. So it looked like Les was getting the grand tour around the Hill of Zion and Spring Water Primary before they doubled back to Sweet Ginger Hill. And being a supposed friend of Millwood's Les not only had to cop it sweet but look interested as well.

The great house faded in the background as under Joshua's directions they climbed up hills along dusty, bumpy, one-lane roads that would put the wind up a rally driver. There were monstrous potholes half hidden by rocks as big as TV sets and Les hoped and prayed the little Honda's sump didn't get torn out. They climbed on and on, crossing other roads, slightly wider but in the same condition. Passed a pretty little waterfall splashing down from under a huge old tree, a couple of caves in the side of the hill and an ancient sandstone bridge. It was all scrubby bush or low forest with clearings every now and again where the bush had been levelled for sugar fields or whatever and the trees had started to grow back. There were no birds and no wildlife. The closest thing to an animal Les saw was a notice saying STRAY GOATS WILL BE SHOT. S'pose I'd better keep in the car, he thought as they bumped and rattled along. The higher they climbed and the further they got from the great house, the more Joshua started to relax. Before long he started letting Les know he was a bit of a man about town and began giving him the
National Geographic
tour of the area. He told Les about Jenny the white witch, who had another property near Rose Hill, and how she had a tunnel connecting the home to a cave near the old bridge where she used to bring different slaves for a bit of discreet porking, and when she was sick of them she used to neck them. Until some slave ended up necking Jenny. Now her ghosts roams the old mansion and some nights appears on the bridge, etc, etc. Les was ecstatic. Joshua
told him about the pirates that used to anchor just off Rose Point and how they used to come ashore and steal the female slaves. A trio of curious workers walked past as they crossed onto another road near a clearing and Joshua pointed out that that was a remote part of a golf course where they shot scenes for a James Bond movie. Fabulous, nodded Les as they climbed higher again.

They seemed to have gone miles into the wilderness before coming onto another slightly wider, steeper road that climbed a bend to the right, then levelled out, and suddenly there was a scattering of ramshackle houses and dwellings. The road stopped on a plateau that overlooked the ocean on the right, and on the left was a deep valley that rolled into smaller valleys dotted with houses just like the ones along the road between Montego Bay and Dredmouth. It reminded Les of documentaries he'd seen on TV about the peasants living in the hills of Peru or Bolivia. Whatever it reminded Les of, it definitely wasn't Bellevue Hill or Toorak. Standing apart from the houses at the top of the road was a slightly larger building made out of sandstone, wood, brick and pieces of concrete. It had a warped timber roof and the smallest steeple at the front imaginable. A short set of stairs ran up to the front door, which was locked, and above the front door was a wooden plaque with Spring Water Primary School stencilled on it in green. Sitting on what passed for a lawn out the front were several wooden seats and desks, freshly painted and drying in the sun, and it looked like someone had just put a new bannister down one side of the steps and started to install a couple of new windows. So that's where my bloody money's going eh? smiled Les. Well, at least I know. Les made a comment about the school to Joshua then they pulled up a little further, on top of a high, gently sloping mountain that gave a panoramic view of the ocean. Joshua switched off the motor and they got out.

Before Les was the Caribbean, turning bluer and bluer as it stretched across countless white caps to a massive cloud bank on the horizon. To the left Les could see
Montego Bay and to the right the narrow harbour of Dredmouth. The breeze was wondrously refreshing as it swept up from the ocean below, cutting across the sugar fields and forests; Les stood there for a while, letting it flick through his hair and thinking it would be a while before he'd ever see a view like this again. Although he didn't want to at first, Les was glad now he'd come up here and it would be something worth mentioning to Millwood when he saw him that night. Joshua leant against the front of the car and seemed to be leaving Les to his thoughts. The little groundsman was probably alone with his own thoughts as well; like, how he was going to spend the hundred dollars. Whatever their thoughts were, they were abruptly shattered by the screaming and yelling of very young voices. Les turned around and ten of the wildest, feral children he'd ever seen in his life came charging out of the valley towards him. Shit! What's this? blinked Les. I'm about to be mugged by the local Munchkins. They were just about to swarm all over Les when Joshua stepped out and put his hand up. He rattled off something in patois that was too fast and too raw for Les to understand. But Joshua must have had some sort of respec, because whatever he said worked; the kids screeched to a halt and stood near the car, looking at Les with inquisitive, pinky-brown eyes.

If these were the local piccnys, for their size they were a ferocious-looking bunch. The boys all wore ragged blue singlets and baggy shorts, the girls wore thin blue dresses or pinafores; none of them wore shoes. Joshua said something else and the kids settled down even more, actually giving Les some respec. Les smiled, said g'day, offered his hand and by watching some blokes at the Mardi Gras and mucking around with Delta and Esme managed to pull off a couple of Jamaican handshakes where you make a fist and brush knuckles and fists in four brisk movements. The kids warmed up to Les, pulling at his shorts and T-shirt, two of the girls cuddled up against his legs. They were probably a mob of little horrors yet Les couldn't help but like them.

He scrabbled the boys' bristly heads, pulled the blue ribbons in the girls' pigtails, pointed a stern finger at each one of them and told them they were the cheekiest tribe of monsters he'd ever come across and if ever he was in town again he'd boot them all up the khyber; and that's not all. But the more Les scolded and hair-raided the kids, the more they laughed and giggled. Les took a couple of photos, gave the camera to Joshua, got him to take a couple then put his camera away, knowing it was both time to get going and time for the ask.

Les gave Joshua a wink and extracted about $400 Jamaican from his pocket. He gave half to the biggest boy and half to the oldest girl, then stood back. The kids literally exploded; whatever noise they made before was like a few whispers compared to now. The two kids with the money leapt straight off the starting blocks with the rest of the piccnys howling at their heels. They whooped and shrieked up and down the valley like banshees as they all tried to get in on the chop up. Norton had never seen anything like it; they left a pack of vultures or hyenas for dead. He watched them disappear into the valley, their voices still echoing around the mountain top and across the plateau, then turned to Joshua.

‘Well what do you reckon, Joshua? Sweet Ginger Hill?'

‘Ire Les,' nodded the little Jamaican. ‘Back daht way, mon.'

Les filled his chest with another lungful of crisp mountain air, had a last look around the unique little town high up in the middle of nowhere then wheeled the Honda around and past the school. About half a kilometre back down the road Joshua directed him left onto a smaller one. They lurched and bumped over more potholes and rocks for a couple of miles then onto another narrow road that seemed to climb back up the mountain. They turned right again onto another road through the scrub. Les didn't have a clue where they were and was about to say something to Joshua when the road scalloped in on the left, forming a short, wide driveway set against an old sandstone wall and two sandstone pillars with an equally
old bronze lamp sitting on each. Bolted between the two pillars was a beautifully embossed, double wrought-iron gate about ten feet high. Behind the gate was a driveway edged with more sandstone blocks and overhung with leafy cedar and mahogany trees that obscured the view of the house behind. Aloe Vera and other flowering cactus plants pushed up against the wall, bougainvillea and several colourful vines full of bigger flowers hung over the top. Fastened into one of the white-washed pillars was a solid slab of white marble and painstakingly chiselled into it in old-fashioned script was ‘Sweet Ginger Hill'. Les gave a couple of double blinks through the windscreen. The place had a charm and old-fashioned beauty about it that almost took his breath away. It was like being transported back in time, into another era, another part of history. In a way Les was reminded of one of those old Southern mansion he'd seen in films or on TV and surmised that that was one of the reasons the American singer from Kentucky bought it. No matter what his reason, if Les had been a millionaire and found the place on the market he would have bought it too. It looked fabulous. He turned to Joshua.

‘So what do we now, mate?'

‘Just wait here, mon.'

Joshua got out of the car, walked over to one of the pillars and pushed a button. Les turned off the engine and waited, taking in all he could see so far. A few minutes later a beefy Jamaican woman came ambling up the driveway. Ohh no, Les groaned to himself. Not again. Please. She had some kind of yellow slippers on her feet, a red floral dress stretched over her ample behind and a blue and white polka dot scarf sitting on her head, and was a swap for that black woman who's always chasing Tom around the kitchen in those Tom and Jerry cartoons. Les shook his head as she waddled over to Joshua standing at the gate. They had some sort of a confab, so while they did Les put Tom and Jerry out of his mind and continued to take in the unexpected beauty of Sweet Ginger Hill. A minute or two later they finished whatever
it was they were talking about; the woman unlocked a chain on a gate, opening it slightly, and Joshua walked over to the car window.

‘Move de car over by de gate, Les. It be safe deh and we walk down.'

‘Okey doke,' agreed Norton. He moved the Honda closer to the gate, got his backpack out and locked the doors.

‘Les,' said Joshua quietly, ‘de 'oman at de gate. Yu have to…'

‘Of course, Josh,' beamed Les. ‘Christ, mate, I'd be wondering what was going on if I didn't have to.' Les walked over to the woman, smiled at her as if she was long-lost kin, and flicked $150 Jamaican out of his wallet. She stuck it down her dress and motioned Les through the gate.

‘Les,' said Joshua again, ‘dis be Trishet.'

‘Hullo, Trish,' said Les, offering his hand. ‘Absolutely delighted to meet you. And I can't thank you enough for letting me in.'

Trishet shook Norton's hand then locked the gate again and ambled back down the drive with Les behind her and Joshua bringing up the rear. The driveway was all white quartz gravel; as they crunched along a bit further Les tapped Trishet on the shoulder.

‘Alright if I take a few photos, Trishet?' The woman nodded so Les stopped, took his camera out of his bag and had a closer look.

Compared to Rose Hill Great House, Sweet Ginger Hill didn't look all that big, thought the old home was certainly big enough. About twenty metres of cleared lawn, dotted with more colourful trees and cactus. A stone fountain that wasn't working faced the home from where the driveway ended. The building was two storeys high with a tiled verandah around the front spaced with solid wooden beams that supported a slate roof above. The left half of Sweet Ginger Hill was solid timber, a double oak door in the middle, the right half stuccoed white sandstone with a wood-tiled roof, spaced here and
there with tiny sandstone turrets. The main colour was white, although the tiles on the verandah were red and white in an old-fashioned, Italian-Pompeii design. Wooden beams jutted out from the bottom of the roof, ivy and vines flourished along the top of the verandah and the way the old home sat rather grandly in the clearing, it reminded Les of a rambling Spanish hacienda more than anything else. Lizards baked in the heat among the vines along the verandah and Les distinctly heard the chirping of small birds. He took a photo while Trishet waited by the front door, took another one, then walked over, wiped his feet and stepped inside.