Martin Hunter - Still Hunting: A Memoir

It was our first trip anywhere since we were married. I thought of London and Paris but Judy said she wanted sun, the hotter the better. She asked a friend who had grown up in Trinidad where we should go and her friend, who considered herself something of an authority on exotic holiday destinations, suggested a small island we had never heard of, an island visited by a few discerning travellers for its coral reefs, deserted palm-fringed beaches, and the opportunity to eat fresh mangoes and papaya, which in those days were not available in North American supermarkets. It sounded perfect. Judy called a tourist agent to book a flight and make a hotel reservation. With her friends only-too-willing participation, she chose two bright new bathing suits and a backless dancing dress, and we took off.

We changed planes in Barbados, then landed at an airport so tiny, we didnt see it till we were on the ground. A gangling black man who seemed to know our names and destination scooped up our bags and sauntered towards a dilapidated taxi. We got in and he tied the door to the frame with a piece of rope. He drove along the bumpy road at a dizzying speed, steering with one elbow and honking at every curve.

On our right was the sea, great waves rolling up across the white sand. Palm trees towered above, just as Judys friend had promised. The scarlet disc of the sun went down behind them at an alarming rate. In mere minutes, the sky changed from blood to ink. It was completely dark by the time we reached the hotel. A small parade of grinning black boys took our bags and led us to a grass-thatched hut on the beach. We fell on the bed and lay together holding hands, breathing in the moist tropical air and listening to the churring of tree frogs.

Four months earlier, Judy had produced our third child in three and a half years. Our domestic life was dominated by feeding times, diapers, and visits to the pediatrician, who scolded me for not helping my wife. Listen, I said, I do everything for those kids except suckle them at my own breast.

I was working as a junior in my fathers office. I was only home eight or nine hours out of the twenty-four. My weight dipped below one hundred and fifty for the first time since I was fifteen. Judy was so thin she had to give up nursing young Guy. Her doctor told her she should either spend a month in a convalescent hospital or run away to a desert island. I had a large overdraft, and the idea of leaving the chondroplastic dwarf who currently served as our mothers helper in charge of the kids was unthinkable. (She had been hired by my father-in-law to help out over Christmas, the only caregiver the agency had available. They told us we were lucky to get her.) Suddenly a friends miscarriage freed up a Scottish housekeeper, who agreed to come to us for three weeks. My father had made a bundle on a mining stock and gave us a thousand dollars. This combination of circumstances obviously meant we were intended to have a holiday. And here we were.

We showered and changed. Still holding hands, we walked through scented darkness towards the glimmering lights of the hotel terrace. Men in white jackets and women in floating, flowery prints clustered around the bar, sipping drinks and exchanging rippling laughs provoked by what I imagined to be witty repartee. I expected Noel Coward to put in an appearance at any moment.

A languid, deeply tanned man with thinning blond hair greeted us without taking his hands from the keys of a white piano on which he was tinkling Ive Got You Under My Skin. He smiled confidently and drawled, Hi, Im Andy Graham. Glad you could join us. Youre going to have a great time here. Youre going to learn how to spree.

Spree?

Native lingo for partying.

He nodded and a huge black man in a brilliant red jacket ambled towards us with two pinkish-coloured drinks in tall, sweating glasses. Welcome, sir, I be call Steadroy. I gonna look after you. His smile stretched beyond the bounds of probability. How you are this evenin, sir?

Fine, Steadroy, how are you?

I be any better, sir, I think I have to go see de doctor. Steadroy retired, still grinning. It occurred to me that the repartee practiced on the island might not quite be up to Noel Cowards standards.

A short, handsome man with a splendid moustache and a cultivated British accent came over and introduced himself as Tony Smith. He informed us he was here on his honeymoon. My third, as a matter of fact. Best so far. Brought along my mother-in-law. She and Melissa go shopping together so I can get in some tennis. Do you play?

My games pretty rusty.

Bridge?

Not really.

Ah well. He shrugged his shapely eyebrows in gallant resignation. Can I get you the other half? What about a decent drink? Whisky? They dont really know how to do martinis here.

You know the island pretty well?

I know the Caribbean. My mothers husband has a place in Barbados. Unfortunately, his son wants it. Anyway, there are too many goddamned English in Barbados.

You dont care for your countrymen?

Im a New Yorker.

I thought from your accent

You think all New Yorkers talk like Harry the Horse, I suppose. I went to Groton. I was used to being put in my place by Englishmen, but upper-class American snobbery was new to me. Frankly, this trip is an experiment. If we find enough entertaining people, we might consider buying a piece of land here. Wed have to train our own servants, but in the long run thats an advantage. Ah, heres Melissa.

Melissa had huge green eyes, heavy, serene brows and thick, dark hair in a plait that reached below her waist. It was no surprise to learn she was a model and had been photographed by Avedon. She let Tony kiss her and light her cigarette. He nibbled on her ear. She turned and blew smoke in his face.

Melissas mother turned out to be a rather fierce Montreal matron, whom Tony addressed as Mrs. D. She immediately began to quiz us about our acquaintance in Toronto. She was somewhat appeased to learn Judy had gone to school with the sister of her daughters husband.

Jenny seems to like Toronto. And I go there to visit her and a few old friends, Connie Matthews and Polly Armstrong. I sometimes feel really Ive been rather unfair to the place. Then I walk along Bloor Street and I think: this just isnt a real city and thats all about it.

Tony asked us to join them and we all sat at a round table decorated with hibiscus blossoms. There was fish served with rice and fried plantain. In Barbados they call this coolie food, said Tony.

I prefer it now that theyve sent their European chef home for the summer. All those failed French sauces were getting me down.

What do you think, Mel? You happy with a diet of rice and peas? Melissa had taken one bite, then lit a cigarette. After two puffs, she ground her butt into the mound of rice on her plate and let out a long sigh. A small band of shy-looking blacks dressed in country clothes had started to play island music: calypso with a slightly accentuated beat. Melissa started to move her shoulders languorously. She narrowed her eyes at Tony.