Rosa-Marie's Baby Read online

  DEDICATION

  To the Bali victims. Ours and theirs.

  I’ll leave it at that.

  As usual, a percentage of the royalties from this

  book is being donated to:

  The Wombat Rescue and Research Project

  Lot 4, Will-O-Wynn Valley

  Murrays Run NSW 2325

  and Avoca Surf Club.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Books by Robert G. Barrett

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Firstly I have to thank everyone who came along to the Mystery Bay Blues book signing. Especially the people in Merimbula and Newcastle. They made me feel like visiting royalty. When I get down on my knees in front of the queue and say, ‘I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy,’ I mean it. And an apology to the woman in the bookshop at Narooma for causing her cash register to seize up. She sold more books in the short time I was there than she would in a month. Luckily my publicist was quick-witted enough to throw a bucket of cold water in the till and we got it going again.

  To all those nice people writing to me, I’m doing my best to write back. You haven’t been ignored. There’s just a lot of letters, that’s all. And to all the mad people who write to me — yes, you know who you are. It doesn’t worry me if you’re on medication and counselling. But could you please settle back, take another pill or whatever and try to write a little more clearly. I don’t mind deciphering gibberish and the ravings of people who are a strawberry or two short of a punnet. But if I can’t read it, it’s impossible. Fair dinkum. At times I believe the government’s Subsidised Prescription Drug Program has got a lot to answer for amongst some of my readers.

  Also, to my many readers enjoying a vacation care of Her Majesty and wanting books for their libraries, plus the people from Words On Wheels: I’m doing my best. But crime appears to be a growth industry at present, and there’s a lot of punters bunged up in various nicks all over Australia. I can only get so many books. Write to Bryce Courtney and ask him for some. He’s always waffling on about how good reading is. On second thoughts, don’t bother. The puzzle’s hard enough as it is, without clubbing yourself in the head with one of Bryce’s wheel-chocks. Ask your librarian to order in some books by Charles Bukowski. Charles tells it like it is.

  About this book: some of those churches around Lorne and Apollo Bay are real and some aren’t, I just changed the names around. But that radio station, 607.5 FM PBS, is for real. When I heard those dirty ditties I had to put them in the book somehow. But what a good radio station. Between the ditties and the Tibetan monks chanting mantras, they play some great music. If you live around Melbourne give it a listen and become a subscriber. If I lived down that way I would.

  Rosa-Marie Norton is a fictitious character, but Rosaleen Norton was a real person and an absolutely fascinating character, as well as a great artist who bordered on genius and gave the establishment of the day a well-deserved finger. The cover of this book is actually one of her paintings, The Goddess. If you want to read a book about a totally outrageous woman who was years before her time, Keith Richmond, co-owner of the Basilisk Bookshop in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy in Melbourne, is the authority on Rosaleen Norton. He should have a comprehensive biography on Rosaleen Norton, the Witch of Kings Cross, finished by the end of the year. After spending some time with Keith, I’m certain it will be a fascinating and interesting book, and I can’t wait for it to come out.

  People have been writing in to the publishers telling me it’s about time I got my finger out and updated my website. They’re right, too. I’m getting a bit slack. So I’m going to attack it shortly and you’ll see photos from my trip to the Norfolk Island Writers’ Festival, where I wowed them and Dr Colleen McCullough baked me a chicken dinner at her house. She fair dinkum did. And when I got back I addressed the troops of the DFSU at Randwick Barracks. The Deployed Forces Support Unit. What a great team of men and women and what a great day I had. These people make me so proud to be an Australian. Even when they got me and my publicist and shoved us into gas masks, Kevlar vests and helmets. We looked like Darth Vader and Mickey Mouse standing next to each other. The website is also the place to check out what’s going on with the Team Norton T-shirts and caps. Please note, the address is: Psycho Possum Productions, PO Box 382, Terrigal, NSW 2260. We’re cutting down on some of the T-shirts, so when you order, include a second preference along with your phone number so we can get back to you. Also, remember to put your name and address on the back of the envelope. It makes it easier for us. Ta.

  What more can I say? I hope you like the latest Les Norton. I had a lot of fun hanging out in Melbourne and travelling along the Great Ocean Road doing my research. It’s a beautiful part of Australia down there. Plus I think I rose to a new low in filth and sunk to new heights of violence to keep everybody happy. And Les managed to leave everybody happy in the end. Except him. I’ll do my best again next year. See you then, and thank you for reading my books.

  ROBERT G. BARRETT

  Summer was officially over and it was a typical autumn afternoon in Sydney towards the end of March. A light north-westerly was blowing, taking the edge from any heat and humidity still lingering around, while it pushed the air pollution out to sea along with whatever clouds were drifting across the clear, blue sky above the city. After training earlier in the day with Billy Dunne, and lunch at the Diggers, Les was seated comfortably on a banana-chair in the backyard of Chez Norton wearing a pair of blue shorts and a white T-shirt, casually tossing grapes to a pair of water dragons that had decided to make his backyard, with its small fountain, their home. On his lap was a copy of Nexus magazine and an article he’d been reading about water-fuelled cars, while on the stereo inside, the Alabama 3 were growling out country, acid-house rock off their CD Exile on Coldharbour Lane. Les finished the article, smiled and shut his eyes as the CD cut out in the lounge room. It was Tuesday afternoon and he didn’t have to be at work till Thursday.

  On Monday there’d been a fire and explosion in the German restaurant next-door to the club. Water from the fire-hoses had poured into the club, mixed with decades of putrid Kings Cross grunge from when the pipes burst in the old building that housed the restaurant. Price cursed the fire brigade and the owners of the restaurant to the heavens, threatening all sorts of diabolical retribution. But there wasn’t much he could do, except recarpet the club, get the smell out, then open up again on Thursday night before claiming five times the cost of repairs on insurance.

  Not that work worried Les. If anything, the job seemed to get easier all the time and Les often enjoyed sitting in the new front foyer talking to Billy and the punters. Price still had to grease the odd palm here and there, but by paying taxes on his substantial rake-off from the card games and easing up on the hits and limb dislocations, Price had the Kelly Club humming along that close to legal, Les and the others were starting to think they were solid citizens. Besides an amiable work environment, Les also had other reasons to smile.

  He was cashed up and fit as a fiddle. He still heard from Roxy, the friendly, good-looking blonde from Victor Harbor, who was now somewhere in Arnhem Land still working on her book. He’d been back to Narooma to see Grace and had a great time again down the south coast. He got on good with Grace’s daughter Ellie, and shouted them a week in Sydney at the Swiss Grand. With Grace wearing one of her T-shirts tucked into a pair of tight hipsters, Les took her up to the club one night where she wowed everybody with her figure when he introduced her around, then wowed everybody again when she won several thousand dollars playing manilla. Now Grace was in Cal
ifornia, taking Ellie to see Disneyland. She rang Les on Sunday night to say they were both having a good time except the queues were a bit punishing and driving around LA on the wrong side of the road was like a fun ride on its own.

  So life was good. Les was happy, Grace was happy, Roxy was happy and, despite the frozen looks on their faces, Les was convinced the two water dragons munching grapes in his backyard were happy. The only person not happy at the moment was Price. However, two of his horses had got up on the weekend, so he’d probably be happy when the club reopened on Thursday night. Yes, smiled Norton as he soaked up the last of the afternoon sun on his banana-chair, life’s good and everybody in the garden is rosy. Nevertheless, there was one person whose well-being gave rise to Norton’s concern. The boarder. Norton didn’t know if he was using the correct medical terminology, but he was firmly convinced Warren was an extrovoid schizophrenic.

  They’d both been watching Nero Wolfe on the ABC. Warren taped it for Les while he was at work and Les liked the TV show about the fat, pompous private detective, set in New York during the forties. Warren, however, had become besotted. Especially with Nero Wolfe’s dapper assistant, Archie Goodwin. Now the boarder was Warren Edwards, advertising executive by day, but when he went out at night he was Archie Goodwin, private eye. Right down to Archie’s double-breasted suits, art-deco ties and two-tone shoes. Warren had even effected Archie Goodwin’s mannerisms. His jaunty, shoulder rolling, chin up, elbows by his side walk — with added jaunt — and the way he spoke in clipped tones out of one side of his mouth. Les wasn’t sure what had sent Warren into the darkened nightmare world of schizophrenia. Work? Flashbacks from the magic mushrooms down at Narooma? The super-strong pot he was cunningly growing in the backyard concealed amongst a bed of mint? Les glanced across at the tiny heads ripening in the sun alongside the back shed. Certainly Warren wasn’t doing any harm, and he did resemble Timothy Hutton, the actor who played Archie Goodwin. And Clover didn’t appear to mind Warren’s dressing up like a 1940s private eye. Les also had to reluctantly admit Warren did look sharp when he and Clover stepped out at night, they’d even managed to get their photos in the social columns and ‘Sydney Confidential’. But Warren’s condition could become a worry. It wasn’t that long ago he was getting around in a Star Trek uniform with a tri-corder, convinced he was Croden, a humanoid fugitive from Rhakar in the Gamma Quadrant. What if Warren developed multiple personalities? What if he went drag? What if he decided to become Dolly Parton or Kylie Minogue? Les felt he’d better keep a close eye on Warren, AKA Archie Goodwin.

  And talking about Warren. Archie would be home soon to get changed. He was taking Clover to the opening of some new night spot at North Sydney. Les glanced at his watch as the sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds. It wasn’t getting any earlier and his stomach was starting to rumble like a pre-dawn artillery barrage. He folded his magazine and went inside.

  Les had a shave then walked out to the kitchen and opened a large bottle of Grolsch from the two cases Warren had brought home from the advertising agency. He took a mouthful and peered into the fridge. Dinner for one shouldn’t be too difficult. Frozen vegetables in the microwave and a juicy big T-bone in the George Foreman griller. Les soon got that together, ate it and was glancing through Nexus again and dunking arrowroot biscuits into a cup of Russian Caravan tea when he heard the front door open and Warren walked into the kitchen with Clover. Warren’s dark-haired girlfriend was carrying a small overnight bag and looked neat in a green top cut low in the front and a pair of green slacks. Warren was wearing designer jeans with a horizontal-striped blue shirt hanging out over the top. He was holding a letter in one hand and had an odd smile on his face as he caught Norton’s eye.

  ‘Hello Woz,’ nodded Les. ‘Hello Clover.’

  ‘How are you, sexy?’ replied Clover.

  Les dunked another biscuit in his tea. ‘I’m good. Especially when I see you, gorgeous.’

  Warren continued to stare at Les. ‘So,’ he said. ‘The truth’s finally out. You are an old drag queen.’

  ‘I’m a what?’ retorted Les.

  ‘You’ve finally come out the closet, Les,’ smiled Clover.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Les indifferently. ‘I used to be a cross-dresser. But I stopped, because every time I wore women’s clothes I couldn’t parallel park. What are you pair on about? I’m trying to enjoy a cup of tea and a biscuit in peace. Do you mind?’

  ‘So what made you pick Rosa-Marie for a drag name?’ said Warren.

  Les screwed up his face. ‘What?’

  ‘Here Rosa.’ He handed Les the envelope. ‘I’ve just been down the post office, and this came for you.’

  Les took a long manilla envelope from Warren. It was a little brown around the edges and addressed in neat, sloping handwriting to Rosa-Marie Norton, Post Restante, Kings Cross, Sydney, NSW. Under that someone had stamped a finger pointing and roughly printed on it, TRY POST OFFICE BONDI. Les turned the letter over. In the same neat handwriting on the back it said, From Emile Decorice, C/o PO, Te Aroha, New Zealand. Les examined the front of the envelope again then knitted his eyebrows at something.

  ‘Oh, I get the picture,’ he nodded to Warren. ‘It’s some sort of gee-up. You’ve gone into Archie Goodwin mode again and we’re playing back to the forties. You definitely need help, Warren.’

  ‘What?’ said Warren.

  Les handed the letter back to Warren. ‘Where’d you get the old threepenny stamp?’

  Warren looked in the corner of the envelope. Beneath the circular blur where it had been stamped by the post office, was a green stamp with a crown on it that said Australia, 3d. ‘Shit! It is too. I never even noticed. Hey, have a look, Clover.’

  Clover stared at the envelope. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ she said, genuinely surprised. ‘It is too.’

  ‘So just what are you trying to pull, kiddies?’ said Les, returning to his Nexus. ‘Though I will give you ten points for authenticity. The old stamp’s a ripper.’

  ‘We’re not trying to pull anything,’ said Warren. ‘This letter was in the box with two others for me.’

  Les took the letter and looked at it again. He used to get the odd letter addressed to him care of the post office at Kings Cross. So he told the post office to redirect any letters for Norton to the mail box at Bondi. However, he’d never received anything like this.

  ‘Rosa-Marie Norton?’ Les shook his head. ‘Never bloody heard of her.’

  ‘It might be one of your inbred relatives in Queensland,’ said Warren.

  ‘Why don’t you open it?’ said Clover.

  ‘You can’t go opening other people’s mail, Clover,’ answered Les.

  ‘Why not?’ said Clover. ‘It’s probably been lost in the dead-letter office or something.’

  ‘Dead-letter office?’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Warren. ‘These things happen. People often get letters and postcards sent as far back as the First World War. They get lost in the system.’

  ‘Going by the stamp and the envelope, that has to be years old,’ said Clover. ‘Go on Les. Open it up.’ She turned to Warren. ‘Ooh! This could be exciting.’

  Les stared at the envelope for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  Les reached over to the kitchen drawer and got a knife. He carefully slit the envelope open and removed the contents as the others took a chair each on either side of him. It was a neatly written four-page letter.

  Dear Rosa

  Well, dreadful witch of Kings Cross, I hope this letter finds you as well as circumstances can prevail. I sent it care of the post office rather than your flat because I don’t know how long you’ll be in Melbourne. And you never know with the police always snooping about. I’ll make this as brief as I can, but you know me. I am a poet who likes to express himself, so if I start to ramble I’m sure you won’t mind.

  They let me out of Callan Park just after you left for Melbourne. Those nervous disorders and headaches turned out to be a brain tumo
ur. So I decided to make a quick exit out of Sydney. I sold everything and I’ll be on the Wanganella back to New Zealand tomorrow. If anything should happen, I’d like to be with my family in Te Aroha. But what a time I had with you. We certainly showed them a thing or two in Australia. God, I wonder if this country, with its figleaf mentality, will ever change? Bugger them anyway.

  In the meantime, you’ve certainly got your share of problems with the stupid bloody police and customs department, now opening an exhibition in Melbourne and having to have another abortion at the same time. I think it is a better idea you having it down there. Apart from the money, getting one in Sydney is disgusting and I would dread to see you finish with blood poisoning again. God, you were half dead in the awful flat behind St Luke’s and the police still wanted to arrest you. It’s hard to believe what the police have done to you at times. And me. Especially that fat, loathsome pig of a thing McBride. And for what? But, Rosa my treasure. I have some great news for you. I managed to put one over on the bastards. I saved three of your paintings before they could burn them. When they released me, I managed to find out where they were. So I simply put on a pair of white overalls, walked in like I owned the place, then wrapped them up in a blanket and just walked out again. They’d taken them out of the frames so it was easy. I even caught the tram back to the Cross with them. I hid them at Talbot’s for a short while, then decided they would be better off out of Sydney altogether. The police are searching high and low for them. Especially round the Cross. They are absolutely livid. So I sent them to our dear friend Bernard in Lorne. I know we promised that dimwitted Bishop Elsworthy we would never go near Father Shipley again. But what can he do? And I’m sure Bernard will look after them. I sent him a letter with the paintings. Poor bloody Father Shipley. Fancy trying to save the Witch of Kings Cross when he was in Sydney. God we gave him a mass to remember. Black, white and every colour of the bloody rainbow. Photos to prove it, darling. So that’s where they are, and nobody knows except you, me and dear Father Shipley. Aren’t you proud of me?