relief on how wise they were not to have booked a ‘luxury holiday’ in the Caribbean after all.
*
An hour earlier, before afternoon had gone over into evening , Maldwin Carr stood on the verandah of Carib’s Rest and watched a strange dance, or so it seemed, take place round a ramshackle building by the scuffed track that runs parallel to the beach. He had his bearings by now – the lagoon with, above it, the old wooden house that had belonged to the cadet branch of the Allard family in the south; a flat stretch above the lagoon as far as the Coconut Bar, where yachts moored; above that the northern end of the island, where the consortium had built houses for winter visitors and sprinklers turned like dancers in a water ballet, forcing the coarsegrass green. Above that, the remains of old Allard’s house – but for some reason the consortium hadn’t wanted it and after sixteen years it is almost a ruin. And on the windward side of St James, where the great rollers come in and the sand is white as icing sugar, Man o’ War Beach and Laughing Gull Bay. Carr could see the village if he strolled to the southern part of the verandah that stretches round the first floor of the hotel, once the cottonhouse. And he did so, passing the hotel macaws in a cage and pulling a frangipani blossom that had strayed into the passageway and sticking it in his buttonhole.
Mrs Van der Pyck walked from the long principal room and joined the new visitor. He had requested a sea-view room and she had given him the best, looking straight out to sea over the store and on the right the Bar with its picturesque thatched hat. Now the visitor was asking for another vodka and some of that excellent fresh ginger beer and Mrs Van der Pyck was simpering and waving to the barman, who stood by the bar at the end of the panelled room.
‘It seems there’s one part of the island that can’t be seen from here,’ Maldwin Carr said. His tone he invariably kept dry and self-deprecating, as if he were the fool and would join quietly in the laughter when his foolishness was shown up.
‘No need to see that!’ said Mrs Van der Pyck, as she stood at what might be imagined to be an elegant angle to the verandah rail. With her dark, hennaed hair and white chiffon pleated dress she could have been an illustration – there were enough romances set in these parts, God knows – on the cover of a book of a beautiful woman and a distinguished man meeting somewhere in the equatorial islands and falling in love. But women were often quickly aware of Maldwin Carr’s sexual ambiguity; and Mrs Van der Pyck kept her distance still.
‘It’s an absolute slum,’ she said. She couldn’t think why Sanjay hadn’t had The Heights cleared years ago, when hecame into the land. After all, it was in the southern part of the island. But then, why did old Mr Allard make such a strange will? Why should Sanjay have only seventeen years or so? Of course, she knew the answer. Old Allard got a better price from the consortium if a shortish lease was attached to the southern half. At the same time, the island could remain to all intents and purposes British. He had seen independence coming, which would mean increased dependence on America. He was a clever old brute, everyone said so who’d known him here.
No, she hadn’t been on St James when the old man was alive, Mrs Van der Pyck said, as Maldwin Carr drifted just a foot or two away from her and took up a position by the opening to the elegant long room. She’d come to St James shortly after … It had been a terrible business clearing this place up and getting it going, as he must probably see. But it was worth it. They’d had the Vice-President’s mother down here with a party only last month. So, yes, confidence in these parts was returning. Well, look at the welcome the Americans had been given in Grenada. And she did pride herself on the best food for nautical miles around. It was nice too to meet an Englishman who
*
An hour earlier, before afternoon had gone over into evening , Maldwin Carr stood on the verandah of Carib’s Rest and watched a strange dance, or so it seemed, take place round a ramshackle building by the scuffed track that runs parallel to the beach. He had his bearings by now – the lagoon with, above it, the old wooden house that had belonged to the cadet branch of the Allard family in the south; a flat stretch above the lagoon as far as the Coconut Bar, where yachts moored; above that the northern end of the island, where the consortium had built houses for winter visitors and sprinklers turned like dancers in a water ballet, forcing the coarsegrass green. Above that, the remains of old Allard’s house – but for some reason the consortium hadn’t wanted it and after sixteen years it is almost a ruin. And on the windward side of St James, where the great rollers come in and the sand is white as icing sugar, Man o’ War Beach and Laughing Gull Bay. Carr could see the village if he strolled to the southern part of the verandah that stretches round the first floor of the hotel, once the cottonhouse. And he did so, passing the hotel macaws in a cage and pulling a frangipani blossom that had strayed into the passageway and sticking it in his buttonhole.
Mrs Van der Pyck walked from the long principal room and joined the new visitor. He had requested a sea-view room and she had given him the best, looking straight out to sea over the store and on the right the Bar with its picturesque thatched hat. Now the visitor was asking for another vodka and some of that excellent fresh ginger beer and Mrs Van der Pyck was simpering and waving to the barman, who stood by the bar at the end of the panelled room.
‘It seems there’s one part of the island that can’t be seen from here,’ Maldwin Carr said. His tone he invariably kept dry and self-deprecating, as if he were the fool and would join quietly in the laughter when his foolishness was shown up.
‘No need to see that!’ said Mrs Van der Pyck, as she stood at what might be imagined to be an elegant angle to the verandah rail. With her dark, hennaed hair and white chiffon pleated dress she could have been an illustration – there were enough romances set in these parts, God knows – on the cover of a book of a beautiful woman and a distinguished man meeting somewhere in the equatorial islands and falling in love. But women were often quickly aware of Maldwin Carr’s sexual ambiguity; and Mrs Van der Pyck kept her distance still.
‘It’s an absolute slum,’ she said. She couldn’t think why Sanjay hadn’t had The Heights cleared years ago, when hecame into the land. After all, it was in the southern part of the island. But then, why did old Mr Allard make such a strange will? Why should Sanjay have only seventeen years or so? Of course, she knew the answer. Old Allard got a better price from the consortium if a shortish lease was attached to the southern half. At the same time, the island could remain to all intents and purposes British. He had seen independence coming, which would mean increased dependence on America. He was a clever old brute, everyone said so who’d known him here.
No, she hadn’t been on St James when the old man was alive, Mrs Van der Pyck said, as Maldwin Carr drifted just a foot or two away from her and took up a position by the opening to the elegant long room. She’d come to St James shortly after … It had been a terrible business clearing this place up and getting it going, as he must probably see. But it was worth it. They’d had the Vice-President’s mother down here with a party only last month. So, yes, confidence in these parts was returning. Well, look at the welcome the Americans had been given in Grenada. And she did pride herself on the best food for nautical miles around. It was nice too to meet an Englishman who