Part Two: Sea Level
I woke up early in my four-poster bed, my body spread in rather extravagant diagonal across it and I could see across the room that Auntie A was enjoying her bed just as much. Quietly I helped myself to a bowl of her cereal and sat on the bathroom floor to eat it so as not to wake her. She had warned me she might sleep late so I padded round our beautiful Ralph Lauren-designed room on my tiptoes tying on a bikini, bright blue against my papery winter skin, and picking up some things to read.
It was just light outside (through cloudy skies) and only a few of the staff were around unfolding deckchairs and laying out the tablecloths. I took off my shoes and walked the short distance along the beach where rough waves were breaking on the sand and a little red flag warned it was not safe to swim. Along the path towards the hotel spa there is a little wooden swing hanging from a tree and I sat swaying for a moment or two, then continued until I found a hammock easily big enough for two where I rocked myself back and forth using the toes of one foot on the ground. Back by the infinity pool I spread a towel across one half of a pair of sun loungers and flicked through a magazine for some Christmas recipes I might use for a job on my return. How far away Christmas feels in the warmth of the Caribbean, how strange mince pies and brussel sprouts seem when just beyond the page I am using to shade my eyes palm leaves are waving against the sky.
It was near 11 (and still cloudy) when Aunt A joined me to swim lengths of the pool and have lunch in the Terrace Restaurant, nibbling on fried plantain crisps and tomato salsa whilst we waited for our plates of organic salads grown in the hotel’s own gardens.
After lunch, whilst A napped, I read again and watched whilst the clouds out to sea began to look stormy. I woke my aunt to join me for the complimentary afternoon tea that put the aeroplane scone to shame. Beautiful little cakes and sandwiches and coconut macaroons, so delightfully English, we agreed over cups of Earl Grey – a remnant of colonial times, the Caribbeans love teatime.
On Wednesday nights the main bar hosts the Managers Drinks Party and, sundresses off and evening ones on, Auntie A and I wandered awkwardly in. Joseph, the eccentric Austrian manager, went to kiss A’s hand on meeting her but never quite finished the gesture as he steered us to the bar in his well fitting trousers. We ordered rum punch and I looked at the charming black and white photos that lined the walls. The faces formed a chequer board that neatly matched the black and white stripes of the chairs below them; stylish ladies in the arms of dapper men and polo playing princes; Johnny Cash in one and in another Robert Maxwell looking handsome and happy years before he was to fall over the side of his yacht. Joseph assured us we would have a tremendous stay in this wonderful country, so vivid, so alive, and glided off to take another’s hand.
Sitting in the corner of the bar with our strong punches we accepted lobster canapés and mouthfuls of tuna as they went past us on plates, and watched others chatting but we didn’t stay long. We were leaving in the morning and weren’t in the mood to make friends. Plus we wanted to make the most of our white waffle dressing gowns and comfortable beds. Both of us did.