And De Fun Don't Done (62 page)

‘Hello, Millwood,' smiled Les. ‘You got here alright?'

The schoolteacher turned around. ‘Oh! Hello Les. How are you? What's…' He turned back to the crowd out the front where even I'rol and the caretaker had walked over to stick their heads in.

‘Nothing much, Millwood. Just a motor accident out the front. That's all.'

‘Good Lord. Did anybody get hurt?'

‘Yes. A Jamaican pedestrian got knocked conscious.'

Milton screwed his face up a little. ‘He what?'

‘Millwood,' said Les, ‘I don't know much about voodoo and zombies over here, but I'm convinced Jamaica is the proof of reincarnation. No other people could be that dumb in one lifetime.'

The schoolteacher shook his head. ‘I…?'

‘Come on, mate. Let's go upstairs and have a drink. It's good to see you again.' Les shook Millwood's hand then led him upstairs to the bar.

There were about six or eight people in there, a young Canadian couple wearing faded red, maple leaf T-shirts, a couple of white feral aunties around forty in floral frocks, who slewed around heavily when Les and Millwood walked in, the rest were Jamaicans having a quiet beer after work, or whatever. Two were seated on stools talking to the barman in his white shirt and black bowtie, who turned out to be Manuel the waiter from earlier in the morning. Christ, thought Les. They sure get their pound of flesh out of him. Les suggested a table away from the others and let the schoolteacher sit down.

‘Well, what would you like, Mill? Or do you want to go and eat first? Whatever suits you, mate. You're my guest.'

‘No. A drink would be fine, Les.'

‘Suits me. What'll you have?'

‘A Jack Daniel's and Coke? Is that alright?'

The way Millwood was a bit hesitant, Les surmised he didn't get to drink too much Jackies and had probably developed a taste for it by scrounging a bit at the golf club now and again. ‘Coming right up. In a tall glass with plenty of ice — and I think we might make it a double.' Les walked over to the bar, where Manuel immediately recognised him with a smile, and got a tab going. Les ordered the bourbon for Millwood and a papaya rum and pineapple juice for himself, then took them back to the table and sat down. Another look of surprise registered on the thinnish schoolteacher's face. After being bossed around by punctilious, loud-mouthed Americans at the golf club, it was probably the first time any white person with money had not only bought him a drink, but got it for him as well then treated him as both a friend and equal. ‘Cheers, Mill,' said Les, raising his glass. ‘Thanks for coming over.'

‘Cheers, Les. Thanks very much.'

‘My pleasure — mate,' Les added with a wink, and they both took a decent slurp. ‘So how was work today, Mill? Alright?'

Millwood closed his eyes and nodded his head. ‘Yes. It was alright. I suppose.'

Millwood explained that normally the golf club was tolerable enough, but at the moment with Hurricane Richard in the air, so to speak, he had Germans, British and mainly Americans running around everywhere, not knowing what they wanted to do. As well as being catering officer, he was also in charge of the staff and the complaints department; and the last few days he'd been getting plenty of them, mostly from the Americans. Not counting trying to teach the kids at night. Still, he couldn't complain too much, jobs were hard to get and he managed to put a little aside each week and with a bit of luck he was hoping to get married next year. Millwood took out a battered wallet and showed Les a photo of his girlfriend Adriana. Her head was reasonable, but she wouldn't miss losing about three stone, and Les figured
that if that was her at twenty-two, after five years of marriage she'd look like a baby rhinoceros. Nonetheless, he told Millwood he was a lucky man.

Les told Millwood he drove out to Rose Hill Great House but the top half was closed for repairs and it was swarming with American tourists so he brushed it. He met Joshua, saw the Norton graveyard, then finished up at Sweet Ginger Hill; which was very interesting. He admitted he slung Joshua a few dollars to get there and just happened to mention Millwood's name so he got to see the school as well. But that and the plateau it stood on were interesting too, and Les was pleased to see that his money was going to a good cause; like new windows and stairs and maybe a whip, a chair and a gun for the pupils, Les added with a wink. Millwood smiled and admitted they were a wild lot, but once you got to know them they were alright, and Les had only seen half of the crew. Les winked at Millwood over his glass and said that you never know, towards the end of the night there might even be a few dollars more floating around to finish the stairs and maybe get some more desks for the little monsters. The likeable schoolteacher tried, but couldn't hide his embarrassment when Les said that, and it didn't take the big Queenslander long to figure that Millwood Downie was one of those honest, appreciative types of people who were fast becoming an endangered species these days. They got through another two stiff drinks and Les was thinking of getting down to the nuts and bolts of their meeting. But they had plenty of time yet and he was more than enjoying Millwood's company as they swapped yarns about Jamaica and Australia.

‘There is something I do have to ask you, Mill,' said Les, talking a hefty slurp of rum and pineapple juice.

‘Sure, Les. What is it?'

‘Well, you speak excellent English, Mill. Much better than me. How come…?'

‘A wah yu say, mon?' replied Millwood, rising up in his chair. ‘Yu a sayn mi no talk lik de dreads and de braas? Yu sayn mi sum cubbitch peelhead, mon? Huh? Yah I nung,
mon. No bada fas wid mi, Les. Yu know where mi stand from. Mi a wan bad leggo beas' eenai place.'

‘Ire mon,' grinned Les. ‘I no bada fas wid yu. I no tek smadi mek poppy show. I no com de bakra stoosh wid yu, mon.'

‘Hey, Raatid, mon. Mi no mik cut yai.'

‘Ya mon. No trace. Yu mik I flat on I feece. Mik I tie I shoe leece.'

Millwood threw back his head and laughed. ‘Hey, Les, you're not bloody bad. Des words riv by yu. Or yu tief dem?'

‘Respec mon. Respec,' protested Les. ‘I no tief dem. I got a book I bought at the airport and I read it on the plane. Not bad for an Aussie bakra, eh?'

‘Not bad at all.' Millwood laughed and tipped some more bourbon down his throat. ‘To be honest, Les, the jambo's okay — it's cute, it's tricky and the tourists love it. But after a while it does tend to get a bit naff.'

‘Yeah I can dig that, Mill. It's a bit like aussie slang. It can get a bit punishing at times when they lay it on too thick.'

‘I try to teach the kids at school to speak English properly. A good command of the English language won't hurt them. And they're not going to get far in life running around talking like a mob of Red Hills ganja barons.'

‘Or semi-literate Australians.'

‘Yeah. I can dig that too — cobber.'

‘Hey. Respec, mon. Respec.'

Les chuckled into what was left of his third rum and could feel that familiar rosy glow starting to spread across his face. There wasn't a real lot of Millwood and by the way his eyes were starting to get that glazed over, soft boiled egg look, it appeared the three double delicious on an empty stomach had hit the spot with him also.

‘Well, what do you want to do, Mill? Have another cool one? Or will we go and have a bite?'

‘I wouldn't mind eating, to be honest, Les. Another one of these and I'll go into Harry Belafonte mode.' Millwood
closed his eyes and threw back his head. ‘Daaayyy-Oh. Da-a-a-Oh.'

‘Yeah, I know how you feel, Mill,' nodded Les. ‘Another one of these rum things and I'll get a pair of maracas, lie back on the bar and start up with “When my baby, when my baby smiles at me I go to Rio…” And believe me, Mill, Peter Allen I definitely ain't.'

‘Do you have a place in mind?'

‘Yeah. There's a joint about three doors down called Calico Jack's looked alright.'

‘It's very stoshus, Les.'

‘Good,' nodded Les. ‘Just what a couple of talawa gents like us deserve. Do you want to leave your briefcase in my room?'

‘No. There's a couple of things in it I can show you over dinner.'

‘Okey doke, Mill. Then we'll come back here, have a few more cool ones and I'll show you the photos I took. And a couple of other things I got.'

They got up, Les signed the tab, giving Manuel a few dollars, then managing to avoid eye contact with the two feral aunties walk out the front with Millwood.

Not a great deal was happening in Gloucester Avenue on Tuesday night. There were a few people in the bar next door, drinking Red Stripe and nodding their heads to some reggae song. Alongside was a restaurant called Willie's that looked more like a beer garden. A dozen or so people, mostly Germans, were sitting around, either drinking beer or eating hamburgers and chips off plates. A bit of traffic crawled past, a number of Jamaicans were walking around, ready to pounce on any tourists and try to flog them the usual rubbish they didn't want. Oddly enough, when the rats saw Les walking along with another Jamaican they left him alone. It was only a few minutes' walk to the restaurant.

Calico Jack's had evidently been named after some notorious pirate and was painted mainly white with a ye olde pirate touch about it. A concrete wall, with balus- traded gaps to see in or out, ran across the front and two
small brass cannons sat at the entrance. There was a dining room and bar inside and an open area in front spaced with heavy concrete seats and tables. A full-size mural of a bearded pirate with a brace of muskets across his chest and a wooden leg stood on one side of the dining room door and a skull and crossbones was draped on the other. The waitresses wore white dresses beneath black aprons with a skull and crossbones on them and were getting it easy because there wouldn't have been ten customers in the place. Les suggested they eat out in the open, Millwood agreed and they chose a table near a gap in the wall to watch the passers by. Millwood dropped his briefcase on a seat and said he'd be back in a minute; Les sat down facing the street. A smiling young waitress brought two menus over and while she was there Les ordered two bottles of Heineken. He was absently going over the menu when a small posse of Jamaican men somewhere in their twenties sauntered past and noticed Les sitting on his own.

‘Enjoying de meal are you, mon?' said one, in a slow, sarcastic sneer.

‘Everything just nice is it, mon?' hissed another.

‘Yeah,' nodded Les stiffly. ‘Couldn't be creamier.'

‘Daht's good, mon,' muttered another. ‘We so fucking happy for you.'

With three rums under his belt, Norton was about to tell them all to get well and truly fucked, but thought maybe it best if he kept his mouth shut. Millwood arrived back and sat down; walking over he'd heard what the posse said before they slouched off.

‘I was thinking of inviting your mates in for a feed, Mill,' said Les, nodding to the street. ‘But I changed my mind.'

‘Yes, I heard what they just said, Les. I'm… sorry. But, that's the poor and downtrodden that they sing about in the songs.'

‘Well, it ain't my fault, Millwood old son. I didn't kick the British out.'

‘You noticed, Les,' smiled Millwood.

‘Noticed? Millwood, I've never come across so many people filthy on the fuckin' world.'

‘Of course,' smiled Millwood.

‘You hate everybody. You even hate the other blacks in America.'

‘Of course,' smiled Millwood.

‘You got independence and black rule in 1962. And put in a shonky government that couldn't run a choko vine over a shithouse.'

‘Of course,' Millwood smiled again.

‘So you kicked all the evil whites out and took over the place like it was yours. But you weren't even here in the first place?'

Millwood's smile turned into a grin. ‘Les, what are you? Some kind of racist?'

‘Oh of course,' nodded Les. ‘Though I think the correct word is realist.'

Norton's arse was still burning at being abused for doing no more than shout a Jamaican a meal in a half decent restaurant when the waitress arrived with the beers. She put them on the table then waited to take their orders. Millwood raised his bottle and smiled at Les.

‘Just remember, Les. You're white. And even if you're right, you're still wrong.'

Norton clinked his bottle against Millwood's. ‘Yeah, you can say that again, Millwood, me old China. So here's to you anyway. The white man's burden.'

‘That's me, Les. But I ain't heavy. I'm your brother.'

‘Yeah. And you'll miss ol' Brer Les when he's gone.' Les took a hefty swallow of beer and looked at the menu again. ‘I'll tell you what, mate. The food doesn't look too bad.'

Les ordered a bowl of conch chowder and peppered shrimp with wild rice. Millwood went for red perch fillets in coconut and avocado for an entree and garlic crab for a main. They looked like they were going to knock the first beers off pretty smartly so Les ordered two more.

‘Anyway, Millwood. So what have you got in the briefcase?'

‘Not a great deal, to be honest, Les. Nearly all the documentation is over in Kingston with Professor Eyres. But I did my best.'

‘Oh. Oh well… I'm sure you did,' nodded Les, trying not to sound too disappointed.

Millwood moved some of the plates across and placed three books on the table plus a blue folder with four foolscap pages in it. Les took a look at the books:
A Brief History of Jamaica 1650-1800
by Zachary Esquemeling;
Tales of Olde Jamaica 1603-1874
by Edith Nettleford; and
Montego Bay
.
Its History
,
Politics and Heritage
by Dr Donald Cumper MBE. Written in 1950. Les could have two of the foolscap pages. Millwood had typed them up at the golf club when he got a chance, then photocopied and put them in his briefcase before he left. Les glanced through them. There was roughly what he already knew about the family, plus a lot more names and dates that he recognised from some of the old tombstones, and Millwood had also explained who were the different aunties, uncles, grandparents, etc. Millwood had also typed out the names of the three books on the table, as well as some others Les's family might be interested in. Anything else they might need they could get by contacting the Jamaican National Heritage Trust whose shield and logo were on the top of the page along with the address and phone number in Kingston. The books he couldn't let Les have. But Les could go through them and take a few notes before he left. They were mainly snippets here and there about his family and others, plus some photo plates of portraits and paintings of the old houses. The only two portraits of Eduardo were over in Kingston. Centuries ago, the Nortons were the main family around Montego, with the biggest plantations, the most slaves and the most employees. Over the years they interbred with the slaves, who adopted the name and died off, then when slavery was abolished the Nortons that were left drifted off; some went to America, most went back to England then on to the colonies or wherever. Millwood had obviously gone to some trouble
in the short space of time he had and the papers were exactly what you would give some decent type of person hoping to trace their family tree. Nothing much to interest an avaricious intrigant trying to find a swag of buried loot in an equally short space of time.