Twelve Degrees North

The morning was a whirl of activity as Hillary simultaneously unpacked, made inquiries and appointments on the telephone, and readied to go into town. Not daring to drive until she knew her way around, she went with Timothy, better known as Tiff, her gardener and houseman. Speeding along the potted, spine-jarring roads Hillary bombarded Tiff with questions as he intermittently braked and zigzagged around the endless maze of pedestrians who popped up everywhere. There were women balancing baskets on their heads, mothers with babies, wool-capped gadabouts, cutlass-toting plantation workers, stray goats, truant chickens and as they lurched crazily to avoid it, a cow standing smack in the middle of the road oblivious to the stalled cars on either side of it. Bypassing the cow, they resumed their drive. Dodging neatly uniformed children with cricket bats darting in and out of his way, Tiff whizzed past a row of hillside shanties straining as if on tiptoe to reach a mercifully cooling breeze. Swerving around a hairpin turn in the road they passed a row of rusty, tin-roofed wooden shacks incongruously set against a majestic sweep of palm-fringed beaches. At a clearing Tiff pointed out Grande Anse Beach. Continuing on they rounded the bend next to the cricket field where they heard inspiration at work in the competent hands of the steel band practicing inside its headquarters. A little further up the street they paused at the crest of the hill. Spread out before them in a magnificent panorama Hillary could see the city of St. George nestled around the Careenage. The scene was as delightful as the most charming French impressionist painting. Fragile sherbet hues representing cliffside houses intermingled with splashes of white dotted with the rusty clay of Mediterranean rooftops were daubed into a background of rich green mountain ranges enlivened with the sparkling sheen of palm fronds set into a vibrant shimmer of movement by the off-shore breezes. Pale pink and buff historic buildings with their ancient tile rooftops lined the opposite shore reflecting soft colors into the smooth emerald green and teal waters of the sheltered harbor. The Careenage was bustling with the excitement of an exotic port of call. Cruise ship tourists in gaily-painted water taxis were being ferried through the still waters past the Gliding Star, an inter-island schooner loading for a trip to Trinidad. Sinewy black natives hoisted perishable goods from the jumble of confusion spread out on the pier below them onto the ship. The cargo coming aboard was comprised of wooden crates of sour sop, tamarinds, sapodillas, lemons and limes, baskets of coconuts, a small herd of goats, crates of squawking chickens and figs, stalks and stalks of green figs. Alongside the pier, set out in a wondrous array, was a pile of harvested lambie while nearby a discarded pile of shucked conch shells awaited burial at sea. The hub of all the commerce and activity was the Careenage of St. George’s, indeed the loveliest, most picturesque harbor in the world. With her Barclay travelers’ checks in her handbag and a shopping list in her hand, Hillary visited the bank and then crossed the street to the market square where a pandemonium of people and wares were spread out in a giant central market square. Guided by Tiff through the open air shopping stalls she selected from among the heaps of oranges, limes and lemons. Inviting Hillary to notice them and their produce the saleswomen called out, “Dearie, come see the figs,” and “Do you need paw paw, darlin’?” or “Madame, how about some callaloo.” Smiling uncertainly in the crush of humanity she made her purchases while allowing Tiff to negotiate prices and tote the basket while she paid in her newly acquired EC dollars. At noon she left Tiff with the groceries and the Land Rover and hurried off up Young Street, a narrow, crooked street edged with open drainage trenches. She was on her way to meet Jean Trumbull of Baird and Trumbull Properties for lunch. The Nutmeg Restaurant overlooked the Careenage of St. George’s Harbor. “These seats have the best view in town,” said Jean, “except for the prison,” she added as an afterthought as she pointed across the way to the long white Mediterranean styled building with the green roof which was high on the hilltop opposite them. Jean and Hillary were on their second drink when during a brief pause in their own conversation they couldn’t help overhearing the tour guide at the next table. “The historic buildings were constructed from the discarded ballast of the old mercantile sailing vessels. Gives a European flavor, don’t you think?” Hillary and Jean looked at one another and smiled indulgently. “Go on dear,” encouraged Jean, “finish your story.” “Well,” continued Hillary, “can’t you just picture us driving up in total darkness with the electricity out and Willard saying, “We’ll get in, baby, doan you worry.” “You took your life in your hands, you know,” said Jean gravely. “What do you mean?” asked Hillary, fear creeping into her eyes. “Willard!” Jean roared. “Why everyone knows Willard,” she screamed with the confidentiality of a bullhorn. “He’s the horniest stud on the island.” Hillary’s mouth flapped open. “But, he’s, his t-shirt,” she stammered, “you know, the one that says, “God Loves Gays?” “Oh that,” said Jean dismissively as she reveling in the gossip while shaking her head sadly. “Poor Willard. He’s so broke he’ll wear just about anything. Besides,” she added with a sly wink, “I don’t think Willard can read. He probably doesn’t even know what it says.” Suddenly Jean was staring intently out of the window. Smiling, she discreetly called Hillary’s attention to the sidewalk below them. As Hillary looked out of the window she caught sight of a familiar figure on the pavement below. It was Willard and pretty girls surrounded him. They weren’t local girls either, maybe they knew better. They were foreign girls. “Well, at least we can guess why he never learned to read,” snickered Hillary. “He probably couldn’t spare the time.”