The Godson (7 page)

‘Yeah,' nodded Les. ‘I'll put him in the spare room. He'll be sweet in there and it's only for a couple of nights.'

‘I don't know how Sir Peregrine Normanhurst is going to handle the spare room if he's been used to living in a castle. It is a bit grotty.'

‘What do you mean? It's got a bed. There's a wardrobe.'

‘Yeah. One you found in the street. What about the two ton of rubbish in there?'

‘What about it? Half of it's yours.' Warren had to concede the point. ‘Anyway, if he don't like it he can sleep on the lounge. Fuck him. What's he want for nothing? Unless you want to give him your room.'

‘I couldn't give a stuff if it was Prince Charles himself. He's not getting my room.'

‘Well, that settles that. 'Cause Peregrine sure as hell ain't gettin' the landlord's.' Norton got up from the table and went to the loaf of Vogels sitting next to the sink. ‘You want another piece of toast?'

They finished breakfast, taking their time over another pot of fresh coffee, and by then it was almost one. Warren left Les to do the washing up, saying he was going round to some girl's place at Rose Bay and he'd see him and the house guest that evening. After he'd gone Les showered and changed into a pair of jeans and sat around reading the Sunday papers for a while. However, something Warren had mentioned earlier kept playing on his mind. He put the paper down and went into the spare room.

Warren hadn't been far out saying there was two ton of rubbish and it was a bit grotty. It looked like a rat's nest. There were magazines, posters, dirty clothes and other junk strewn or stacked around the floor. In the corner were car parts, batteries, the roof-racks off Warren's car plus a spare tyre, his boogie board and flippers. Rusting away in another corner were two spear-guns, half a push-bike and more junk. The wardrobe was still the same ghastly purple colour it was the day Norton found it in Lamrock Avenue, complete with the cracked mirror and the tattered Save The Rainforests stickers. The single bed had a pillow, two old grey blankets and nothing else. There was no curtain, just a single, white Holland blind. Travelodge the room wasn't. Norton surveyed the uninspiring scene for a moment then began stacking things and pushing others into the corners with his foot. He ran a carpet sweeper over the middle of the room and tidied the bed. Aah, bugger it, he thought. It's only for two nights. He looked at his watch. I'd better get going. His plane might be early.

Peregrine's plane was on time, but Les was late due to a truck overturning on Gardeners Road. Not that it made all that much difference because as usual at Sydney airport it took the passengers on flight 389 over an hour and a half to get
through customs. Standing behind the throngs of people, squeezed against the barrier at the arrivals section, Norton was glad he'd brought the Sunday paper with him.

The remnants of the previous flight had trickled through, pushing their metal trolleys full of luggage or dragging suitcases on wheels to be greeted and led away by laughing and occasionally crying relatives and friends. There was a pause for a while then a murmur went through the crowd as the passengers from flight 389, looking noticeably more tired and dishevelled than the previous crowd, began to arrive. Norton studied them intently, not really sure what he was looking for; a blurred photograph of one man amongst about two hundred people. Norton watched their faces as they went past the barrier picking up the different accents; mainly English with some foreign and Australian. Suddenly a figure slowly pushing a metal trolley at the edge of the crowd caught Norton's eye. He was not quite as tall as Les, and was wearing a blue trench-coat and matching suede trilby. It was the figure's positive bearing that got Norton. A definite aloofness, as if he was trying to distance himself from the others around him.

From about twenty feet away, Norton studied the man in the trilby, as he removed his trench-coat and folded it neatly across an expensive leather suitcase in the trolley. The figure still seemed oblivious to the people around him, not looking for anybody, but exuding an insouciant confidence that whoever he was there to meet would soon come to him. Beneath the trench-coat, the figure was wearing a plain grey worsted suit cut in traditional English style: three-button front, ticket pocket and two splits in the back. A chalk-striped blue shirt, old school tie and brown suede shoes had Britain stamped all over them and considering whoever it was had just arrived from a thirty-hour flight, the only creases seemed to be in the blue handkerchief in the top pocket of his coat. Norton edged forward for a better look at his face. He had finely-chiselled features, high cheekbones and a straight nose over a strong mouth. His eyes were a hazel green and though Norton could see the graininess in them, the way they occasionally darted around suggested the person in question could at times have some sort of a sense of humour. He looked to be about twenty-two and definitely not the ‘Hooray Henry' Les had been led to believe. Les stared at him till their eyes met then made a gesture and moved closer to the rail. The man in the grey suit moved closer also.

‘Are you — Peregrine Normanhurst?' asked Les, a little
hesitantly. The man nodded his head briefly. ‘Take your gear down there.' Norton nodded to the end of the barrier and moved down as Peregrine followed.

‘I'm Les, anyway,' said Norton, as Peregrine brought his trolley to a halt. ‘I'll be looking after you while you're out here.' They exchanged a brief but warm handshake.

‘Pleased to meet you, Les.' Peregrine's voice was clipped but extremely well-modulated.

Les picked up the heavier of the two bags. ‘Follow me. The car's just over here.' Peregrine picked up his overnight bag and trench-coat and followed Les out of the terminal, stopping momentarily to take a pair of sunglasses from his inside coat pocket and slip them on.

‘How was the trip over?' asked Les.

‘Absolutely ghastly,' replied Peregrine tightly.

‘Yeah?' Norton was surprised. ‘I thought they looked after you on British Airways.'

‘Oh, the food and service was quite marvellous — as one would expect. But we hit this bloody turbulence nearly all the way. I don't think anyone got a wink of sleep.'

The way Peregrine hesitated, almost spluttering when he used the word bloody suggested to Les that this might be the absolute height of his vocabulary of swear words. He made a mental note to watch his Ps and Qs, for the time being anyway. ‘Oh well. You'll get a good night's sleep tonight, anyway.' Peregrine didn't bother to reply.

They arrived at Norton's old Ford and Les opened the door. Peregrine looked at the old banger like he'd never seen anything like it before and stepped inside as if he expected something to jump out of the seat and bite him.

‘You ever been to Sydney or Australia before?' asked Les, climbing behind the wheel after slinging Peregrine's bag on the back seat. Peregrine shook his head. ‘Well, I live at Bondi. You'll be staying at my place for a couple of days then we'll be heading up the North Coast.'

Peregrine nodded disinterestedly. ‘Are we going in this?' he asked.

‘No. I'm getting the loan of another car on Monday. Tomorrow.'

Peregrine nodded again and stared indifferently out of the windscreen.

Figuring Peregrine was tired and a little testy after his long flight, Norton didn't bother him with any small talk on the way to Bondi. Referring to Les's limousine as ‘in this' didn't
go over too well, but he could understand the Englishman's irritability and reasoned he'd be okay once he was settled down and had a cup of coffee and a bit of a feed. They arrived at Norton's house in silence.

‘Which is yours?' asked Peregrine dully, as he surveyed the row of semis once they were out of the car.

‘This one,' smiled Les. ‘Come on.'

If Peregrine Normanhurst's stiff upper lip was beginning to curl a little when he walked in the front door, it almost rolled up his face and over his head when he stepped into the spare room.

‘Well, what do you reckon?' grinned Norton. ‘It's nothing marvellous, but at least you'll be safe here.'

Peregrine surveyed the room like it was the scene of an axe murder. ‘What do I reckon?' He had another look around the room then turned to Les. ‘Do you know how to get to Kings Cross from here?' Norton nodded. ‘Do you know the Sebel Town House?' Norton nodded again. ‘Right. Then let's go.'

‘You don't like this?' asked Les.

‘It's rather nice actually,' replied Peregrine, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I'm just curious as to who lived here before me. The hunchback of Notre Dame? Or do you use it to breed some sort of animals for scientific purposes?' Without waiting for a reply, Peregrine picked up his bags and tramped back down the hallway. They were halfway up Old South Head Road before Norton found the heart to speak.

‘Listen, Peregrine,' he said. ‘I don't know what anybody told you before you left. But I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight the whole time you're here.'

‘Then you can jolly well sleep on the floor of my room at the Sebel if you like,' replied Peregrine. ‘But I am
not
staying in that… kip.'

‘Okay. Suit yourself,' shrugged Norton.

In silence they arrived at the Sebel Town House. Les parked the car, picked up Peregrine's suitcase and followed him up the red-carpeted, marble steps of the Sebel into the rich brown carpeting and cedar panelling of arguably the finest hotel in Sydney.

‘Yes, sir. May I help you?' asked the smiling young man at the reception desk.

‘I'd like a room please,' said Peregrine, ignoring Les taking in the luxury and elegance of the surroundings.

‘Certainly, sir. Anything in particular you have in mind?'

‘Your best.'

‘Well, sir. The Presidential Suite is taken. So is The Hardy Aimes Split Level and the Penthouse. The Sir Robert Helpmann is available at $700 a night.'

Peregrine pulled out his wallet and produced a Gold American express card. ‘Tuesday morning we're going to this North Coast of yours, is it, Les?' Norton nodded blankly. ‘Good.' Peregrine turned back to the desk clerk. ‘Then I shall take the Sir Robert Helpmann for two nights.'

‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. What name is it please?'

‘Normanhurst. Sir Peregrine Normanhurst. The Third.'

Visibly impressed, the desk clerk began filling in the appropriate paperwork. Norton, also impressed, looked on in silence. Christ! he thought. Seven hundred bananas a night. This pommy cunt might be a snob but Jesus, he's sure got some style. Wouldn't Price love him?

The desk clerk summoned a porter who seemed to materialise out of thin air. ‘Room 1012,' he said briefly.

The porter almost snapped to attention. ‘This way, sir,' he said to Peregrine. Les went to say something but Peregrine cut him off. ‘Now, Les,' he said, with icy politeness. ‘I am going to my room. Alone, by myself, without you. I am going to have a light meal, a bottle of champers and in two hours I intend to have about fifteen hours sleep. Nothing will happen to me tonight. And I do not wish to be disturbed. May I suggest you do something similar and I shall see you on the morrow. Good day to you, sir.' Leaving Norton standing there, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III followed the porter into the lift. He didn't look at Les as he waited for the doors to close.

Well, how about that, thought Norton as the lift doors swished shut leaving him standing in the foyer. And good day to you too, sir. You pommy prick. Still, he mused, if I had a bundle of dough and the choice between my place and staying here I think I know what I'd take. Then a more disturbing thought occurred to him. Shit! I'd better ring Price and let him know what's going on.

Price had his answering service on. He didn't leave a message but rang Eddie instead. Eddie's phone didn't answer, so Les rang Price again, leaving a message to say where Peregrine was and everything was sweet. Oh well, nothing much else I can do now and Peregrine should be all right here, surely to Christ. It's as safe as a bank and he's only been in the country five minutes. He looked at his watch. Just on six. Couple of beers'd go down well. He got in his car and headed home.

Instead of going straight home, however, Norton headed down to Woolloomooloo. The crowd spilling out onto the footpath in Cowper Wharf Drive and a thumping version of ‘Pretty Woman' coming from the Woolloomooloo Hotel told Les The Eddys were revving up for another Sunday at the ‘Loo'. Yeah, why not? There was a parking spot not far from the pub. Les pulled in and joined the crowd; in no time he'd found some people he knew and was in a shout. The hotel was rocking. The Eddys had the crowd dancing in the street and on the median-strip too and the Hahn on tap was delicious. It was a great evening, but after about eight middies Norton thought it might be best if he went home and tried to ring Price again. He bought another shout and left.

When Norton stepped through the door of his house, Warren was sitting in the lounge room drinking Jack Daniel's and Coke with three of the best sorts Les had ever seen: a brunette and two blondes in the tightest-fitting, crutch-hugging jeans imaginable. Norton thought for sure his luck was about to change but the first words Warren spoke, without even bothering to introduce Les, told him who the girls had come to see.

‘Well,' said Warren, coming straight to the point. ‘Where is he?'

‘Where's who?' grinned Norton. ‘I'm right here. What more do you want?'

‘No, not you, Les,' sneered Warren. ‘Peregrine. What have you done with him?'

‘Yeah, where's this rich baronet?' trilled one of the blondes.

‘He's at the Sebel Town House,' replied Norton.

‘The Sebel Town House?' Warren rolled his eyes with mock disbelief. ‘You mean to tell me the ignorant pommy bastard chose to stay at the Sebel rather than take the spare room? I don't believe it.'