St. Lucia
Part One
Certain details have been changed to protect anonymity
These events took place in the early ‘80s.
My boss in my younger years, the eminent veterinary surgeon Josephine Richards had semi-retired to the Caribbean island of St Lucia, and circumstances allowed Joy and myself to spend a year on the island. The obvious problem was what to do with our dogs. Fortunately, ours were extremely adaptable. With grown-up children in the house plus family members, dog sitting was not a problem. It was a wrench, but it was the chance of a lifetime, and the dogs would still be there on our return. They would be in their own environment with family members that they knew.
The only way to purchase a one-year open return ticket at a reasonable price entailed crossing the Channel, flying from Brussels to Martinique and taking a short hop over to St Lucia. The airline that carried the nickname “The Hippy Express” no longer exists and certainly was an eye-opener. We instantly noticed that we were, by far, the oldest passengers and that a number of the young ladies wore fairly long wide skirts that appeared to be totally unsuitable for travelling. The obvious advantage to the young ladies was that the voluminous skirts hid a multitude of sins. A prime example visible was the young lady in the row in front of us appeared to intermittently sit astride her male companion and bob up and down.
When we departed the plane, the young man appeared to have some difficulty walking and looked a trifle glassy-eyed!!
House Sitting
Within a short period of arriving, we were offered the chance to house-sit in a stunning location. It did come with a proviso. We were going to be required to care for a poorly dog and a broody chicken.
The house was halfway up the side of a mountain, L-shaped around a swimming pool and came with three staff including a cook, a pool man and a gardener/watchman who lived in a hut at the entrance to the property. The wages of the staff were to be paid by the owner of the property, a Mrs Bigalow, who was Canadian and who divided her time between Canada and St Lucia. The hen was sitting on eggs in a box in the kitchen, much to the irritation of Maria, the maid/cook. Just to make life interesting, Mrs Bigalow was a vegetarian and declined to have an oven, so all cooking had to be done on gas rings.
Just think about it, we were being asked to look after a house with a swimming pool, stunning views and with three members of staff whose wages were being paid. I didn’t need too much arm twisting!!
Maria and Joy got on famously. Maria was an excellent cook and something of an authority on Creole cooking, so the pair of them exchanged recipes and spent time together cooking.
Ricky, the pool man, came twice a day to sweep leaves from the pool and check that all was well. He didn’t stay long, and I never did find out what he did with the rest of the day, but then I wasn’t paying his wages, so I reckoned that any arrangements with Mrs Bigalow were his own affair.
Reno, the gardener/watchman, certainly didn’t do much gardening but was always in possession of what was known as a cutlass. This was a razor-sharp, very long machete. We were in no doubt that should the necessity arise he would have used it, and whilst crime was very low, the presence of Reno and his cutlass gave us an added sense of security.
Lighting up the house
However, he gave us one hilarious moment when we asked him to change the light bulb outside our bedroom door. He changed the bulb, waited until darkness had arrived and triumphantly turned it on. It was certainly very bright, and both Joy and I collapsed in hysterics as Reno looked on in puzzlement. The poor fellow looked crestfallen. His lighting-up moment had not received the approbation that he expected. We had to explain the significance of putting a red light outside a bedroom!!
The first problem was to do something about the chicken who went by the name of Riley. The eggs she had dutiful sitting on were not fertile; therefore, there was no chance of them hatching. However, it seemed cruel to just take them away, so we exchanged them for some fertile ones supplied by our newly acquired maid Maria. This was done on the understanding that no hen was caused any distress, and in the fullness of time 3 chicks hatched. Seeing a hen strutting its stuff by the pool whilst one was having an invigorating swim was quite common, and visitors were greatly amused. Regular readers will know that I am not the greatest fan of water and prefer terra firma, but even I was known to partake in a quick dip. Maria, however, thought that the whole idea of treating hens as pets totally bizarre, confirming her worst fears. Canadians and the English were particularly odd with a strange scene of humour. Chickens were for eating and providing eggs, and they were not designed to be pets. She accepted our whims with no more than a look that one would give to a naughty child. Her opinion of us must have taken an even worse turn when we named the new arrivals Clara Cluck, Chelsea Girl and Charlie Boy!!
‘CB’
Our other concern was a small crossbreed called CB, who had been badly treated as a youngster and still carried the scars before being rescued by Mrs Bigalow. She was a cheerful little dog but fairly undemonstrative and happily spent her days wandering around the property and sleeping in the shade. Due to the legacy of her abuse, she was not in the best of health, required constant medication and was not allowed to spend too much time in the sun, which is kind of difficult in a West Indian climate!! It became obvious that even a simple pleasure like going for a walk with the dog, a normal activity that most of us were used to, was not viable with CB, so walks went unaccompanied.
This was a strange experience for us, particularly me, as I always considered taking a dog was the whole reason for going for a walk. As we were taking our regular constitutional walk, we were, in fact, met with an unusual sight. Coming towards us was a man in a wheelchair being pushed by another man. Nothing unusual in that you might think, except that the man pushing the wheelchair was blind and the man in the chair was giving directions. We discovered that both men were residents in the old people’s home approximately a mile away, and this was their idea of fresh air and exercise.
Strange as it might seem, having three staff at one’s beck and call was all very nice but quite frankly, it became a little oppressive as there was no privacy during the day. We were informed when each meal was available and there it would be all laid out. Breakfast, dinner and tea and when we had finished, everything was cleared away and the washing up done. With this in mind, I decided that it was unnecessary for the staff to work at weekends. This was met with undisguised enthusiasm except for Reno, the watchman who expressed his concern that we would be unprotected. Reno, who would have spent most of the weekend in his hut anyway, agreed that when he wasn’t there, we would engage the use of the security bars over the doors and windows that were available but rarely used as the region has a reasonably low crime rate. I also introduced a number of holidays which included Easter, St George’s day, St Andrews day, St Patrick’s day and St David’s day, plus Armistice day, bank holidays and any excuse that I could find. The days all rolled into one. We entertained visitors, ate meals, swam, read books and generally lounged the time away. We continued to be accompanied by four hens who, I must say, were remarkably clean in their habits and rarely created any mess around the pool, plus of course, CB, who happily wandered around the pool and then retired to a shady spot for another bout of undisturbed sleep. A bit like us!!
In a future blog: Driving the car that lurched to the left, assisting the local resident vet, and hearing the dreaded words “You do know it’s a killer!!”
“Name one development in the history of mankind that has increased happiness more than the domestication of dogs.”
Aaron Easterly