"Oi'll be damned. Harry Neptune. Oi tot ye'd bin run off the oisland for good, ye wicked divil ye! And who, might oi inquire, is the comely young lady?"
The little man was as full of blarney as a Limerick bar at closing time. He was anywhere from fifty to sixty years old, his rather cadaverous looking face deeply creased by the sun. Bright blue eyes squinted from beneath reddish brows and he somewhat reminded me of Peter Pan. Harry turned to me.
"Jay, I'd like you to meet Kismet Hardy, an old friend of mine. Kismet Hardy, this is my new wife, Jay."
Mr. Hardy's sparkling peepers almost popped out of his little head.
"Oi'll be boogered! Are ye pregnant, dear?"
"Certainly not!"
I felt quite put out that he should imagine unplanned parenthood would be the only cause for our impromptu betrothal. The leprechaun scratched his thinning ginger hair.
"No, that's never got our Harry down the aisle before. Are ye rich, then?"
This time, I glared at them both, Peter Pan and Captain Hook, who was doing his best to look innocent.
"Alas, no. And considerably better off before I encountered this rum-soaked reprobate!"
Mr. Hardy laughed, a high-pitched wheeze.
"Ah, but ye're in love! Oi can see that as plain as the pretty little nose on yer face! Harry, ye're a lucky man to be so utterly despoised and adored by this sweet wee creature here. Ye've never had that before, oi'll warrant, with yer barrow loads of trollops."
Harry adroitly changed the subject, picking up a badly Xeroxed pamphlet with a smiling sun on the front page.
"Ahem, anyway, it's dandy to see you, Kismet, old chap, but we're actually here to partake of one of your superlative sight-seeing tours. What's on the itinerary today then, old boy?"
The leprechaun placed a pair of rather rakish pince-nez on the end of his nose and peered at a dog-eared timetable. My impressions moved from the creations of J.M. Barrie to something straight out of "Oliver Twist."
"The Lord Nelson Experience is scheduled to commence at 10 o" clock, the good Lord and Rufus the relief bus driver willing. Ye're lucky oi've got just two tickets left – got a large advance booking from a party of Texan history buffs."
"Kismet, Hardy."
I looked up at Harry, as he delved in his wallet for a few notes. He had that look in his eye again.
* * * *
I blinked my eye until the bit of grit worked its way out, then contemplated the bus ride to English Harbour and Nelson's Dockyard. A competent European rally driver in a well-founded jeep could make it in forty minutes or so. An Antiguan bus driver would barely leave you time to do the crossword in the Daily Observer – say five minutes. I nerved myself.
"Now where the bejabers has that rascal Rufus got to? Oi can only droive one bus at a toime. Rufus! Rufus!"
Kismet Hardy raised his voice to a fog horn bellow, the legacy I happened to know of thirty years in the Royal Navy as a Chief Petty Officer and the scourge of ratings and midshipmen.
"Drunk, no doubt, and asleep in a shebeen somewhere. If his last name weren't Bird oi'd never..."
I saw an opportunity to survive the day's outing without becoming a road traffic accident statistic.
"Never mind, Kismet old pal. I'll take the second bus – know this island like the back of my hand."
Hardy looked at me suspiciously. I plastered an innocent expression on my face.
"And look at the state of the back of your hand – all hairy. Can oi trust youse to decant my paying punters in the right place? Hmm?"
"Of course you can, old thing. I'll take them up Fig Tree Drive and show them the sights. A guided tour of the best Antigua has to offer in the way of hinterland. Not to mention the drive along the coast to get there. And what a day for it!"
Hardy had to admit I had a point there. The sky was clear deep blue, nothing but a few stray blobs of cotton wool cloud to provide a welcome contrast. The Caribbean Sea would be many shades of lighter and darker blue, broken by little waves and the splash of diving pelicans.
"Are we all going to this here Nelson's Dockyard or are we all going to stand round here all day getting our butts roasted?"
A large woman in a Stetson and hideous clothes loomed over Hardy with an expression of Texan impatience on her face.
"Git goin' or we'll take our money back and find some other crook to take us to the sights."
"Now, now, milady, dere's no need for dat. Dis here crook'll take you everywhere youse need to go. All aboard for Nelson's Dockyard!"
Hardy indicated a pair of dilapidated buses (did you expect anything but dilapidated by now?) with Kismet Hardy Tours in barely legible letters on the side. He grasped me by the shirtfront and pulled me down to his level.
"Youse hired, Harry Neptune, but youse keep to the straight and narrow, youse hear me?"
I nodded seraphically.
"Come along my dear, I shall treat you to the full guided tour in the company of our new colonial friends here."
"Not likely! You're not driving me anywhere, Harry Neptune. I'll go in the other bus with Mr. Hardy."
I managed to look hurt, but it didn't wash. Jay climbed into the lead bus and settled herself down in the front seat next to the driver. Hardy ushered half a dozen Texan historians on board and climbed behind the wheel.
I rounded up the remaining seven or eight tourists, as mixed a bunch of Texan historians as you would care to meet, and started up bus number two. No one sat next to me in the front.
"Wagons roll!"
I thought a little bit of home might have put the Texans" minds at rest, but the effect seemed minimal. They looked doubtfully around them, both inside and outside the bus.
A Caribbean bus has as little in common with Greyhound as a Caribbean taxi has in common with a limousine. They are all Toyotas, modeled on the Volkswagen minibuses popular with hippies a generation ago. A sliding door at the side, seats for six to sixty depending on size and desire to breathe, torn upholstery, holes, and rust. Tire tread is optional.
The buses have names like Dread and Too Fast, which sums up the mentality of their drivers. Hardy had evidently picked up the local ambiance, evidenced by the rate at which he took off through the narrow storm-drained streets of St. John's with horn blaring. I put my bus into gear and followed suit.
A hand-lettered sign on the dash above a red switch proudly announced, "Air Conditioning." I flicked the switch and sure enough lukewarm air streamed from various vents.
We shot up St. Mary Street and turned right onto Independence Drive. From there it was a straightforward if hair-raising drive past the Memorial Garden and the new hospital (if it ever gets finished) and out onto the road to Jennings, Bolan's Village and Jolly Harbour. From there our route would take us past Darkwood Beach to Old Road, then up Fig Tree Drive to the interior followed by a leisurely (you must be joking) descent to Falmouth and English Harbors and our destination, Nelson's Dockyard.
"On our right, folks, the road to Five Islands and that delightful nightspot and cocktail bar, Henryk's. We are about to pass over the Chinese Bridge, so called because Beijing built it at minimal cost in exchange for some favor or other in the United Nations.
"Straight ahead, a cow. Notice that the cow has detached its chain from the stake it was attached to and is dragging it along the road in order to trip up cyclists. Hold tight..."
I swerved around the cow and regained the road just in time to avoid a goat.
"Thyat is th' ugliest sheep I ever did see!"
Stetson glared at the goat through the window. It glared back at her. They have acute hearing.
"That, madam, is a goat."
"How in the hell do yuh tell the difference?"
"Goat tail up, sheep tail down. There is no difference in taste."
Mutterings from the rear indicated that the Texan historians were not impressed by the bus, the scenery, the wild life, nor the driver. The scenery I could understand – Antigua's hinterland is somewhat scruffy – but we had the beauty
of the beaches to come.
I was driving on the wrong side of the road now to take advantage of the less pot-holed side (as opposed to the very pot-holed side) when a tall figure in dreadlocks and cut off jeans appeared out of a bush at the side of the road. He waved a hand vaguely in West Indian hitchhiker style.
I had an empty seat and I was getting fed up with twanging dissension.
"T'anks, mon. Yo goin' Old Road?"
"Certainly we are. Blow the smoke out of the window would you?"
My guest had a large hand-rolled cigarette cupped in his hand. The smoke smelled sweet. He rolled down the window and exhaled.
"Ah do declayuh, we all have paid fo' this excursion and ah see no reason to shayuh our conveyance!"
Stetson drew agreeing murmurs from her companions. I was getting really rather fed up with them, and we weren't half way there yet.
"A courtesy folks, a little Southern hospitality."
"We are from Texas, not Louisiana!"
There was a smaller switch beside "Air Conditioning," to bring in flow of air from outside or to recirculate the air inside the bus. I flicked the switch to "Recirculate."
"Exhale into that vent there, would you, old boy?"
Rasta grinned amicably and bent down. Nothing if not generous he reduced the joint by two or three inches and shared his bounty. I stuck my head half way out of the window to catch the draft.
The chatter and complaints in the rear of the bus died down until there was silence broken only by the sounds of the vehicle negotiating an Antiguan road at speed. Hardy and Jay were already way out of sight.
Rasta held up three fingers, then two, then one. As the last finger dropped a giggle came from the rear seat, followed by another, then another.
"Tail up goat, tail down sheep! Tail up goat, tail down sheep!"
Within a mile the passengers had put the words to music, something resembling The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Rasta beat out the rhythm on the dashboard and I punctuated the end of each line with the horn. We hardly noticed the speed bumps in Bolan's Village, but we had reduced speed to ten miles an hour by then.
A skinny man in a Rifle Association t-shirt was telling his third dirty limerick when we turned the corner and beheld Darkwood Beach. The limerick tailed off amid oohs and aahs. The view never fails to amaze me, as well, brilliant white sand and every shade of aquamarine water you can imagine. With the added stimulation my passengers had taken on board the effect was obviously even more magical.
We rolled along the beach in appreciation until we reached a small clump of buildings.
"Anyone thirsty?"
The loud reply was incomprehensible but affirmative. I turned off the road into the yard behind OJ's Beach Bar (Oliver and Jean, not the one you are thinking of).
"Rum punch for my friends and Red Stripe for Rasta and me!"
* * * *
A hooting horn dragged my attention back from the spectacle on the beach.
Rasta had organized the limbo dancing and Stetson was busy digging a pit under the bar so she could get her substantial bosom under it. The skinny gunman was chatting up the cook, while the rest of the party rumba'd to Bob Marley.
I sat on the deck on a palm-frond decorated throne, with a Red Stripe in one hand and a conch shell in the other. I waved imperiously to my subjects to carry on and turned to face the interruption.
"Harry Neptune! What the hell have you done this time?"
* * * *
My decision to take the trip with Kismet Hardy proved fairly pointless. We had barely traveled half a mile before he glanced sharply in his rear-view mirror and started shouting and swearing about "that roody Neptune" having taken a wrong turn. There was a sudden slamming on of well-worn squeaky brakes, accompanied by a rather impressive skidding U-turn, which I wouldn't have thought achievable in a large and cumbersome vehicle like Hardy's bus. There was a chorus of screeching from the Texans, who had been nervously clutching their seats, baseball caps and camcorders during the rattling ride through the center of town. I was beginning to get used to transport, Caribbean-style, and just giggled every time I got bounced out of my seat. At one point, my sun-hat flew off and slid away down the aisle but I knew better than to attempt to rescue it until the bus had come to a halt.
"Land sakes! Y'all need to take some driving lessons, Mister Hardy!"
Kismet muttered something blue under his breath and we took off in the same direction we had come from, then made a turning onto a road sign-posted "Darkwood Beach."
"Oi should've known better! What was oi thinkin' of? Oi must've been temporarily insane!"
I reached out to pat the little chap's arm.
"It'll be all right, Mr. Hardy. Harry's a dreadful mischief-maker but he wouldn't do anything really nasty. I don't think. Unless he's got it in for Texans or something. He never did like Dallas, come to think of it."
After much bumping, vociferous complaints from the Southerners and a steady stream of grumbling expletives from the driver, we arrived at an absolutely gorgeous beach. Spotting the other bus parked beside a waterfront bar, Kismet's expression relaxed a little.
"Oi could do with a nice cold glass of Guinness."
Without another word, he hopped out of the driver's seat and disappeared inside the building, which was, apparently, called OJ's Beach Bar.
"Well, that's just wunnerful! Highly educational, ah'm sure!"
I decided to make some attempt to save the day and, picking up my rather dusty hat, I struck a tour-guide pose at the helm of the bus.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that we have made an impromptu stop for refreshment. Hopefully, Mr. Simpson is not at home, but if he is, just keep your heads down and don't mention speeding violations. I would like to add that all drinks are courtesy of Mr. Harry Neptune, who will be the large gentleman in the Panama hat, propping up the bar. Have fun and please avoid putting ice in your drinks unless your hepatitis shots are up to date. Thank you."
There was a general fussing, the gist of which was related to the early hour of the day, so I left them to it. The bar was pulsing with reggae music, cranked up to full volume, and I ducked through the strangely giggly crowd to a large deck overlooking the bright blue sea. My beloved sat on a makeshift throne, in splendid isolation, looking every bit like his namesake, old man Neptune. All he needed was a trident and a team of horses.
"Harry Neptune! What the hell have you done this time?"
My husband grinned and I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were somewhat dilated. He had a can of beer in one hand and a large shell in the other. I wanted to laugh but I put my hands on my hips and pretended to be the outraged wife.
"Come here and sit on my knee, little girl. Santa has something special in his stocking for you."
I looked at the bulge in his shorts and smiled sweetly, hitching my sun dress up to my waist, then letting it fall.
"So I see, Santa baby. Well, now. I'd love to sit on your knee but I don't think this is quite the place for it. What a perfect view, my darling, quite sublime."
Harry squinted at the glittering water. He definitely seemed to be under the influence. Odd. I wouldn't have thought he'd had time to imbibe enough Red Stripe to make his eyes go funny. Suddenly suspicious, I leaned forward and sniffed at his breath.
"You've been smoking pot! You naughty boy!"
"Merely indulging in an intrinsic ritual of Caribbean culture, old girl. Get your knickers off, I want you."
Two large hands reached up my flimsy skirt and began to tug at my thin cotton panties. I took a quick step backwards and bumped into someone.
"Buenos dias, senora!"
"Clara! Good heavens!"
I turned to see the Colombian tour-guide, her slim, tight body rather deliciously presented in a deep blue sarong and a burnt orange bikini top. Harry leered and I pinched his thigh, but he wasn't to be silenced.
"Ah yes, the latest conquest in Mrs. Neptune's endless entourage of hapless victims! Am I to join the queue, old gi
rl? Or does your dear old man come top of the list? Hmm?"
I planted a loving kiss on my pouting spouse's forehead.
"You know very well I wouldn't trade you in for anyone. God only knows why but that's just the way it is. Now, shut up. Clara understands me. That's all. Now, is there time to have a drink here or do you have a packed program in store for this crowd?"
I looked at the Texan historians, who seemed to be having a wonderful time in a most un-academic manner. Harry smiled, enigmatically.
"I know just the place. Fuck Nelson. He can wait for another day. I'm going to take you to Henryk's brothel and get you naked. Your understanding girlfriend can come too. I'll call ahead and get them to rustle up one of their infamous buffet lunches."
My husband eased himself up from his throne and staggered off into the shady bar in search of a telephone. Clara slipped one arm about my waist and I wondered how accepting the Caribbean was when it came to single-sex relationships. Her nipples were hard and clearly defined against the thin orange cloth of her bikini top and she still wore her glasses. I turned to face the bright blue expanse of sea and leaned over the deck rail, enjoying the warmth of her skin against my thinly clothed body.
"Of all the gin joints in the Caribbean, you had to walk into this one. What are you doing here, Clara?"
Clara laughed.
"Actually, I live in Antigua, my dear Jay. I help out at OJ's when I'm not doing island tours. You could say I have fingers in many tarts. Talking of which, I had better warn you that Henryk's is something of a den of iniquity."
"Perfect!"
Ignoring the crowd, I kissed her softly on the mouth.
"Come to lunch with us, Clara."
"Oh all right, Jay, you talked me into it."
Her dark eyes were hungry again and I surreptitiously reached up to fondle her breasts. I knew what I was having for lunch and it wasn't fish cakes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: GOING OUT WITH A BANG
It took Harry quite a few attempts to extricate the Texans from the cozy conviviality of OJ's Beach Bar. He eventually managed it, finally having to borrow a megaphone from mein host, Oliver, and clambering up onto the bar to make a Very Important Announcement involving a Tsunami warning and the delights of Henryk's (which apparently included the talents of two young ladies called The Boobsy Twins). To our surprise, we bumped into the Black Widow, freshly arrived on a shocking pink Vespa, with bimbo toy boys in tow, while herding the historians back onto the buses, and Gigi decided to join the tour.
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 31
