And De Fun Don't Done (24 page)

‘Yeah, I intend to hire one. But I'm okay. Don't worry about it.'

‘No, we'll come over. Just hang on for a moment, Les.'

‘Hey it's…' Les waited on the line for a minute or so, thinking how nice Laverne sounded over the phone.

‘Les, I'll tell you what we're gonna do. Ricco and I will come over tonight around eight. And you can come back here for dinner. Ricco wants to barbecue some burgers.'

‘Laverne,' protested Norton. ‘There's no need for you…'

‘Hey, it's okay, Les. Ricco wants to meet you anyway.'

‘Alright, fair enough.'

‘So we'll see you about eight.'

‘Okay. Thanks, Laverne.'

‘Bye, Les.'

Norton stared at the phone for a moment after Laverne hung up. Well, isn't she a number one babe the way she was worrying about me? And now I'm going round for dinner. Then Les found himself shaking his head. How would a girl like that go out with a prick like Captain Rats? Either she's got a heart of gold, or she's related to Mother Theresa. She's right, though. I do need a car. Especially if I'm going to ring those other Loris and have a good look around the place. I'll hire one tomorrow. Maybe the mysterious Ricco might be able to help me out there. So what will I do till eight? Norton drummed his fingers on the bar. I know what I can do. Clean that mess up in my room before they get here. Les got a bottle of Coors Cutter from the fridge and started doing exactly that.

He had his gear half stowed away and was happily pottering about when he noticed something was missing. His brand new Walkman with the graphic equaliser and super bass he'd bought at the duty free shop before he left Australia. Shit! Les cursed to himself. I know where the bloody thing is too. Back on the bed at Swamp Manor. I must have tossed the sheets over it when I bolted out of the joint. Bugger it! That means when I get a car I have to go back around there. Still, I only have to see his mum, and I promised I would. I can avoid shit-for-brains. Les started to laugh. He'll probably be in hospital anyway.
Les finished tidying up then washed a couple of T-shirts in the bathroom and hung them over some chairs on the verandah. All of which was pretty exhausting work, so he went back out to the pool for a while.

After he'd towelled off and was walking round the flat with a large glass of orange juice, Norton started eyeing the paper bag with the road map and travel books in it Mrs Laurel had loaned him. He was going to have to take them back with him when he went round to get his Walkman. I wonder what's in them anyway, thought Les, as he picked them up off the dressing table and put them on the bed. Might give me something to read. It was then Les realised he hadn't read a newspaper, turned on a radio or watched the news on TV since he'd been in America. Christ! Who knows what's going on? We could be at war or anything. Governments might have fallen, Europe could be in turmoil. And most important of all, which league teams are going to make the semis back in Australia? I just pray Balmain isn't among them. Even thousands of miles across the seas Norton could hear George Brennan laughing at him if the Tigers got up and his team missed out.

There were four books. Two small thin ones on Hawaii and Panama. The other two were almost like novels, only full of pictures. One was about Mexico. The other one made Norton's eyes light up.

‘Bloody hell!' he said out loud. ‘Jamaica, mon. Jamaica.' One of the reasons Les came to Florida was because Jamaica was just a couple of hundred miles away, if that. The James Bond movie
Live and Let Die
had been on TV not long before Norton left. There was 007 running up and down on the backs of alligators as he rescued the usual glamours and took on the evil SPECTRE, or whoever the baddies were, and gave them a severe thrashing single-handed. But apart from that the place still looked alright and back in Australia in the middle of winter Norton could just picture himself strolling around Harry Belafonte's ‘Island in the sun'. Snorkeling in the crystal clear, blue waters. Walking in the moonlight
across golden beaches with some dusky Jamaican beauty on his arm. Drinking rum among happy, smiling people, listening to reggae music while they all smoked joints of ganja as big as corn cobs. Way to go. But there was more to it than that.

Old Grandma Norton, Isabelle, or Bellah, as everybody on Dad's side used to call her, was always babbling on about the Nortons in Jamaica and how there was a famous poet in the family. No one took that much notice because old Bellah didn't mind a drop or two of the cooking sherry now and again. But Grandma would get a roll on, especially with a few drinks under her apron, about how one mob of Nortons went to Jamaica and the family had roots there; as well as a heap of money. Yeah, Grandma, they'd all say. As far as Les was concerned, apart from a brand of motorbikes, Norton was just another name; some mob of convicts arrived in Australia and that was that. But old Bellah was adamant there was more to the Norton bloodline than that, and even after she was gone it always stuck in Les's mind what old Grandma might have been on about. Especially the money. Bless her dear old soul. He looked at the three pretty little kids on the blue cover of
Seekers Guide to Jamaica
, settled back on the bed and started flicking through the pages.

The book was more than just a travel guide. It went right back to the Caribs, the Arawaks, Christopher Columbus, pirates. The British takeover in 1655, the slave trade. Right up to full nationhood in 1962, Rastafarians, reggae music and ganja the sacred herb. All the places looked choice. Negril, Ocho Rios, Kingston Town, Savannah-La-Mar. Les read on. But what Les was looking for should be in the back index. It was, just like old Bellah said and just like the song. Montego Bay. Les flicked back into the book right onto Rose Hill, the Great House built by Moulton Eduardo Darius Norton in 1681. And not far away was Sweet Ginger Hill, built by Stanley Moulton Eduardo Norton in 1720, where the famous poet Elizabeth Norton Blackmore was born.

‘Holy bloody hell!' Les looked around the room as if he expected there was someone there to share his excitement. ‘Elizabeth Norton Blackmore. Old Grandma was right.' Les shook his head. ‘Well, I'll be buggered.' Les read on avidly. If his grandmother was right and this was the same family of Nortons, he'd accidentally traced his family tree back to the sixteenth century.

The book said how Rose Hill Great House had been restored and was open to visitors for a fee. But Sweet Ginger Hill was now owned by Billy Ray Dollar, the American country singer, and was off limits to the public. Dollar and his wife got held up in his house by bandits one night armed with machine guns, but he still made periodic visits to his Jamaican hideaway. Scenes from
Live and Let Die
were shot not far away. The book went on about how the Norton family made their fortune out of sugar plantations and running slaves. Elizabeth had a brother, Eduardo Xavier Norton. They both lived at Sweet Ginger Hill and brother and sister were very close. Eduardo had a fallout with the family, took on religion and moved to a place called Dredmouth, not far from Sweet Ginger Hill, where the family built him a manse. A ‘manse'? What the fuck's a ‘manse'? thought Les. The book then said it seemed strange that after their fallout the Norton family, notoriously tight-fisted, would build Eduardo a manse. Les had to chuckle. Notoriously tight- fisted. That's the bloody Nortons, alright. Old Bellah sure knew what she was talking about. It was rumoured Eduardo was involved with pirates, including the equally notorious Black Beard and Anne of the Indies. There was more rumour and mystery about buried treasure, and it was said the clues to where it was buried were in one of Eduardo's sister's most famous poems. There was more mystery surrounding the Nortons around Montego Bay; voodoo, witches, ghosts, etc. Then Eduardo disappeared during a violent storm one night, the same night a pirate ship, the
Cimarron
, was sunk with all hands in 1770. Elizabeth left Jamaica for England not long after her brother Eduardo disappeared, where she married
another famous poet, Davidson Blackmore, though she always retained her maiden name. Elizabeth intended to return to Jamaica, but died from pneumonia before she got the chance; she was in her early forties. The Norton family was a famous family in Jamaica and the name lives on, though all the original descendants went back to England not long after slavery was abolished, or are buried in the walled family burial ground that overlooks the ocean beneath the Rose Hill Great House, about twelve miles from Montego Bay. The book then went on about other things around Montego Bay, like Stewart Castle, Flint River, Fort Charlotte. But Les kept flicking back to the part about the Norton family, especially Elizabeth, Eduardo and the manse, whatever that was. There was definitely some mystery and romance or something there; not counting the ghosts, buried treasure and whatever. Bloody old Bellah, Les smiled to himself. And all the time we thought she was off her trolley or it was just the piss talking. Bless her dear old soul.

Les took another look through the book, then lay back on the bed and had a bit of think. Old Grandma. Wouldn't it be funny if she was right? It sure looks that way. No matter what, I'm going there. Jamaica is definitely included in the holiday. I've got another two weeks or so of luxury and cruising around Florida, then I'll go over there for a week or probably a fortnight. In fact, if I like it, I might even stay longer. No matter what, it'll be a buzz just looking around the place. Christ! Wait till I tell the folks when I go home for Christmas. The old man'll shit himself. Les started to read a bit more, then realised it wasn't getting any earlier. If he was going to get scrubbed up and make a phone call before Laverne and her boyfriend called round he'd best get his finger out. Les was about to make a move when a violent clap of thunder rattled across the sky. It made him jump and turn towards the window. Outside, it had clouded over. There was more violent thunder then it started pissing rain again. I don't believe this, muttered Les to himself. It's worse than the Kokoda Trail. Surely it's not like this every day during summer?

Eventually the storm cleared up and the late afternoon sun came out about the same time Les was standing in the kitchen wearing his jeans, a freshly ironed brown check shirt and looking at the two phone numbers he'd fished out of the mess when he cleaned up his bedroom. Now, which one is Lori the shipwright or whatever? I think it's this one. Les dialled and waited a few seconds.'

‘Hullo?'

‘Yes. Could I speak to Lori please?'

‘This is Lori.'

‘How are you, Lori? It's Les, the Australian bloke. I met you at the Sandbar on Friday night.'

The girl seemed to think for a moment. ‘Oh yes. I remember you. Hey, how are you? How are the weather balloons going?'

Weather balloons? Oh Christ! This is the one that works for the law firm or whatever. ‘Yeah, right. The weather balloons. It's funny you remembered. They're going alright. I only had to blow up two hundred today. My lips are stuffed.'

Lori chuckled over the phone. ‘You're a funny guy, Les.'

‘You wouldn't say that if you could see my lips. I think my kissing days are over.'

Les nattered on to Lori for a short while. You never know, he thought. The other one might brush me and this one wasn't too bad. She'll do for a trade-in till the other Lori gets back from Orlando. He told her he'd moved into a condo out on Manatee and was getting a car. Would she like to go out one night when he was settled in some more? Lori was keen. Les nattered on politely for a while longer and was about to say goodbye.

‘Oh, Les,' said Lori. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you.'

‘Sure. Go for your life.'

‘You're a meteorologist?'

‘Am I bloody ever. I got the lips to prove it.'

‘No seriously, Les. This weather lately. Do you find it unusual?'

‘Unusual? I don't know about unusual. It's bloody hot, it's humid and it rains every bloody afternoon. You don't have to be a meteorologist to know that.'

‘It's just that some friends of mine were saying Florida was due for a bad cyclone soon. The weather's never normally as stormy as this in summer. And someone else said there was a big cyclone building up somewhere. Is there? You should know.'

Les thought for a moment: about what, he didn't know. ‘Alright, Lori,' he prevaricated, ‘if I tell you this you promise you won't tell anybody?'

‘No. Never.'

‘Well, there is a big cyclone building up. That's one of the reasons I'm over here. In fact, when I see you, I'll show you some printout sheets from the computer. But you're not to tell anyone. The Australian government would have me shot if they thought I caused a panic. You understand?'

‘Yes I do, Les. Oh my God!'

Norton finally said his goodbyes, shook his head, then looked at the other phone number. What am I now? A racehorse trainer. He dialled again.

‘Hullo?'

‘Could I speak to Lori please?' he said carefully.

‘Just a minute. I'll get her.'

A moment or two later came a familiar Texan drawl. ‘Hullo? This is Lori.'

‘G'day, Lori, you little yellow rose of Texas. It's Les. The racehorse owner from Australia. I met you at the Sandbar on Friday night.'

‘Oh. Hi, Les. I remember you.' Lori sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘How are you? We were only talking about you at work today.'

‘Fair dinkum?'

‘Yes,' Lori gave a little chuckle. ‘Fair dinkum. There's some aussies own a boat out at the marina. They come from a place called Mal-bourne. You know it?'

‘Yeah. Know it well. Are they nice people?'

‘Oh yes,' said Lori happily. ‘They're nice people. Hey — no worries.'

Now it was Norton's turn to chuckle. ‘Hey, I think I know where you're coming from, Tex.'

‘So how have you been, Les? It's so nice to hear from you.'