And De Fun Don't Done (60 page)

There was a tiled foyer flanked with heavy wooden beams and solid wooden panelling; a few roughly hewn wooden chairs sat round the walls beneath some old paintings and carved wooden pegs to hang your clothes on. A corridor ran off to the main room on the left, a set of stairs faced the front door and another corridor on the right ran past several closets and what could have been pantries to the kitchen. The rooms and hallways inside were wide and high and Sweet Ginger Hill's interior was much bigger than it looked from the driveway. Les was getting a bit thirsty again and figured that for $150 Jamaican a glass of water wouldn't be too much of an ask. He followed Trishet into the kitchen and she got him one from the fridge. There were two people in the kitchen. A tall, solid bloke, who was probably a gardener and minder, and a young girl, who was probably some other part of the staff that looked after the place when Dollar wasn't there. Joshua introduced Les as Mr Norton, a friend of Millwood Downie's, from Australia, an ancestor of the original family and a benefactor of the school. They courteously shook hands and showed Les some respec. Les sipped his glass of water and looked around. The kitchen had just about been fully modernised with a stainless steel sink, porta-gas stove, electric oven and other modern conveniences. But Dollar, or whoever he bought the home from, had left the rough sandstone floor, a huge old cabinet full of willow pattern crockery
and soup tureens plus an equally old fuel stove with a copper tap in front still in its original position set under a sandstone chimney. There was also a log of wood standing upright with a marble bowl set in one end. A long pole with a weight at one end suggested this was originally for grinding corn or maize. A microwave oven, sitting on a mahogany table underneath a row of ancient copper pots and pans, didn't look all that incongruous, more an unusual blending of the old and new. The main room was a little different.

Les finished his glass of water and followed Trishet back through the foyer where a massive door opened up into a wide, spacious room full of floor-to-ceiling bay windows that overlooked the grounds outside. It was all exquisite period furniture of velvet and tapestry, mostly pink or maroon. Ornate gold mirrors and old paintings were set into the walls and heavy blue velvet curtains covered the windows. Rows of thick wooden beams supported the ceiling and in between hung delicate crystal chandeliers. There were beautifully carved oak and mahogany sideboards and shelves running round the walls full of seventeenth-century bric-a-brac, like porcelain statuettes and shell and butterfly displays set in glass domes. It was just like stepping back in time again. Except that at the far end, next to a piano, was a quadruple-decked stereo system crammed with boosters, faders and a graphic equaliser. It stood beneath two monstrous Bose speakers hanging from one of the beams, a teak sideboard was packed with CDs and vinyls and several gold records were pinned to the wall. Les didn't bother going through Dollar's holiday music collection, but he did ask Trishet about some of the paintings on the wall. There was a woman in a crinoline dress about thirty with long dark hair and an attractive if somewhat triste face. A man about fifty, of Mediterranean appearance, in a black coat and wide floppy tie. A severe-looking woman about the same age in a blue bodice and white bonnet, and a young boy about twelve, in a high, lace- collared, cream vest outfit. Both males had reddish hair.

Trishet began to come to life when she realised Les wasn't just some mug tourist looking for something different, and began pointing different things out to him; she probably wanted to show she was in charge here, knew a bit about the place and was no mug either. The younger woman in the paintings was Elizabeth. The man was Stanley Norton and the other woman his wife Kathleen. The boy in the breeches was Eduardo when he was young. Les stared at the paintings, slowly rubbing at his chin. Stanley looked a lot like Uncle Frank, who the whole family always joked had a bit of wog in him. And young Eduardo was almost a swap for Murray's eldest boy Wayne. Even Elizabeth looked like cousin Judy when she'd go a bit quiet and they'd call her ‘Moody Judy'. It was uncanny. Les took a couple of photos and Trishet took him over to the staircase that wound upstairs past where Dollar had managed to bolt a monstrous alligator skin to the wall.

A French window let in light at the top of the stairs where it split into two more corridors. Trishet explained how she couldn't show Les Mr and Mrs Dollar's room and their private studies, but the kids' rooms would be okay. Which was fair enough, thought Les, and followed her along to Dollar's daughter's room, which was Elizabeth's old room. The biggest wooden four-poster bed Les had ever seen sat against one wall almost in the middle of the room; it was that high off the floor it had a small set of cushioned steps alongside it to climb up. There was a marble fireplace with an iron grate and more bric-a-brac displayed on the shelves and the cornice above. A thick square of brown carpet covered part of the floorboards, an oak wardrobe sat against one wall near a mahogany dresser with a marble top and shiny bronze candlesticks that caught the light streaming in from the French windows. It was a typical kid from the seventeenth century's room, right down to the wooden bidet in one corner. All except for a framed poster of the Munsters on one wall and a small stereo and TV set in another corner. Les took another photo.

Dollar had two boys and their room, Eduardo's old room, was down the other end of the hallway. The room was slightly bigger yet entirely different from Elizabeth's. Where Elizabeth's had a definite woman's touch about it, this one had a nautical influence and looked like the aft cabin on an old Spanish galleon. The windows were shaped like portholes, ancient wooden trunks with heavy iron locks stood against the walls or in the corners, black and white paintings of sailing ships and pirates hung on the walls and several carved wooden ships sat on shelves round the walls. Two smaller four-poster beds faced each other from opposite sides of the room among much the same kind of hand-tooled wood and marble furnishings as in the other bedroom. Dollar's two sons had added their own touch. Another small stereo, a TV computer game, toys, plus baseball and basketball posters on the wall and one of their father on stage in Nashville with his guitar. The room had a nice feel about it. In fact, the whole place so far had a nice feel about it. Dollar was a devoted family man and probably brought his family down here every now and again to get away from the American rat race and soak up a few old-fashioned values among the secluded peace and quiet of Sweet Ginger Hill. Les took a couple more photos.

The bathroom was all the original sandstone and copper with the same red tiles as the front verandah, except the plumbing and toilet were brand new. Trishet showed Les a few closets, another study with more old furniture in it and pointed out a few other things before taking him back down the stairs, through the kitchen, down a set of sandstone stairs and into the grounds at the rear of the house; or hacienda as Les had pictured it by now.

The grounds were much bigger than out the front and well landscaped up to where they edged off into the surrounding trees and scrub. In the middle was a swimming pool and near it was an old brass and sandstone sundial that had been well cared for over the centuries and looked almost brand new. Behind the pool was a
solitary tree, thick with branches and some kind of yellow fruit at the top. Les snapped off a couple more photos then got Trishet to take one of him and Joshua standing next to the sundial with the fruit tree in the background. There were palm trees and other trees where the grounds led up to another verandah at the rear of the house; Les followed Trishet up. It was made of the same red and white Pompeii-style tiles as the front one, beams jutted out of the white stuccoed walls and other beams supported the roof above. There were several bamboo chairs and tables but a good part of the verandah was taken up by bursts of beautiful flowers kept in small sandstone beds. Along the front of the verandah were five shiny brown ceramic containers; three were about a metre and a half high and half a metre or so thick, the other two were closer to a metre long and about half as thick as the others. They reminded Les a little of a Greek amphoras, only they were straight with a round lip formed over the top for a stopper and had lugs formed into the sides for carrying instead of handles. Joshua said they were Spanish jars and were used to carry spices and oils back in the pirate days. Whatever they were, each had more flowering vines of all colours growing out of them and looked quite beautiful with the old tiles in the background, so Les took a couple more photos. Out of curiosity Les asked Trishet how the old home got its name. She reached over to one of the beams with a blue and green vine growing on it and small red berries about the same size as a pea. She picked one off, squashed it between her fingers and held it under Norton's nose. It smelled like ginger. Les picked one off and took a nibble. It tasted like ginger, only with a bitter-sweet, chocolate taste as well. Trishet said another couple of weeks and they sweetened right up. Les thought they tasted pretty good as they were.

Les wandered round a little longer, taking photos till the film began to automatically rewind itself and he felt Trishet and Josh were giving him the hint he'd got his money's worth. Les wasn't sure if he'd discovered anything, but it
was well worth the effort; the old home, besides dripping with character, was just plain beautiful and how often do you come across something like that? He envied Billy Ray Dollar's good fortune. Trishet led him back round the grounds to the front gate, where Les gave her hand a squeeze and thanked her again for showing him around. Trishet said it was her pleasure, Mr Norton. Joshua said something to her in patois, too fast for Les to understand, then they got back in the car as Trishet locked the gate again and ambled back down the driveway.

The roads were no better, but it was definitely easier going back down. Joshua gave Les a bit more of a travelogue on the way; Les didn't say much, preferring to concentrate on the rocks and potholes again to make sure he didn't pull the diff out of the car. Before long they'd criss-crossed their way over other roads and were back at Rose Hill Great House, not far from where Joshua's workmates were still sitting on their backsides beneath the trees. Joshua told Les to pull up where he was, the A1 was straight ahead. Les knew what was going on and slipped Joshua the other fifty dollars in the car so the others couldn't see. They shook hands again, Les thanked Joshua once more, even if it was the easiest hundred bucks the little groundsman had ever earned in his life, said goodbye and slowly drove back along the driveway into Kenilworth, then turned left towards Montego Bay.

Well there you go, mused Norton, moving the little Honda around the frantic hitchhikers and the other cars on the A1. That was Sweet Ginger Hill. So what did I find out? Les absently turned the radio on to hear Blood Fire Posse coming out of some station, doing a pretty good cover of ‘Do You Remember', as he cruised along, deep in thought. Yeah, what do I know? Not much really. Except the old home was drop dead beautiful and there's some sort of Spanish influence in the family. And Eduardo was some kind of boat nut when he was a kid. As for clues? There might have been something in Dollar's room or those other rooms that were out of bounds. But stiff shit there. And after hundreds of years of different people
living there, everything would be changed around or damaged to a certain extent. Though I saw something there that reminded me of something somewhere else. But I can't think what it is. Anyway, we'll see what Millwood's got to say tonight. One thing I do know, by the time he gets there and we get to a restaurant and order some food it'll be after eight. I couldn't wait that long. Not on two lousy fried eggs this morning. I'm that hungry I'd eat a dead rat and make soup out of the trap. I'll get a hot dog or something when I drop these films off.

Les turned off the A1 to find the back way along Gloucester. He drove through some sort of gully with hills full of trees on one side and some kind of park with a crumbling concrete bus shelter, and couldn't quite believe what he'd just driven past. The road was wide, Les did a U-turn and pulled up near the bus shed. Across the road was a battered old blue van with a servery cut into the side. Most of the paint was chipped away or missing, the rest was bare metal tinged with rust. Across the top was written in white, ‘Meals on Wheels'. I don't believe it, smiled Les. I've got to have a feed there. Hope they don't give me food poisoning. No, not a chance, he thought, as he locked the car and crossed over. Knowing these bastards they'd charge you extra for that too.

There was a bloke in a white singlet and a faded pair of jeans at the counter; Les heard him order chicken jerky and a bottle of sweet sap. The maitre d, in a grease- and sweat-stained T-shirt, took his order then turned to Norton.

‘Yah, mon?'

Les nodded to the bloke in the singlet. ‘I'll have the same, thanks.'

‘Yah, mon.'

The maitre d moved across to the gourmet chef and gave him the orders; Les poked his head over the small counter for a look. Sitting just behind the driver's cabin was an old fuel stove with a blackened piece of grate over the top. Along a bit was an old wooden table with a block of ice covered by a sack on it, and some drawers and
shelves covered in food, spices, plates, etc. and other junk. There was no refrigeration. The gourmet chef tossed some small pieces of bone in chicken on the grate, slopped some reddish-orange sauce over the top, then proceeded to scorch the shit out of it while the maitre d got a rusty Phillips-head screwdriver and started banging lumps of ice from the block on the table. By the time he'd hacked off enough to fill two paper cups, the gourmet chef had nuked the chicken to waste and it arrived on the counter in a little cardboard carton on a bed of rice with some tiny nuts and shreds of cabbage or something in it. The sweet sap arrived in a Stone's Green Ginger Wine bottle, and, going by the condition of the label and the chips around the neck, young Harold had probably been collecting it for the last two years. All up, it came to the outrageous price of a little less than two dollars Oz; Les paid him cheerfully and walked back to the car.