Captain Ahab stood in full uniform at the entrance to Ballahoo. I could not see his face beneath his cap, but the set of his shoulders looked distinctly defensive. He appeared to be looking around as if for a route of escape.
'Daddy!'
Surely the first cry had been from a girl? This sounded more like a boy? And the first had been from below, while this one was from across the square. The intrigue factor was rising. I waved for another beer and settled down to watch the fun.
'Daddy!'
'Daddy!'
A small girl in a red floral frock ran out of the shadows and clung to the Captain's leg. Across the square a boy about the same age with a puzzled expression on his face stared at the Captain from under a Miami Dolphins baseball cap.
'Daddy?'
A woman appeared behind the boy. She was dressed in a brightly patterned frock with a deep cleavage, shaved head, and a frown.
'Daddy?'
Another woman put in an appearance, this time below me. I recognized her as my waitress. She wore a short black skirt and white blouse, and long braided hair.
Captain Ahab tried to shuffle away, but the little girl hung onto him fiercely. The waitress grabbed him by the arm and swung him round to face her.
'Why dat boy say Daddy? Who he?'
Shaved Head strode across the square and stood in front of the Captain with her hands on her hips.
'Why dat girl say Daddy? Who she? And who dis trollop in de fancy clothes?'
The small boy had followed her over and now he picked up a fistful of fallen leaves and threw them at the Waitress.
'Trollopy! Trollopy!'
Ahab tried again to back away but by now he was surrounded. The little girl retained her grip on his leg and gazed up at him seraphically. The small boy, not to be outdone, stopped yelling at the Waitress and grabbed Ahab's other leg.
The little girl glared at the small boy round Ahab's uniformed leg and tugged. The small boy glared back and tugged as well.
I had heard stories from ancient Greece of execution by teams of horses running in opposition directions whilst attached to the limbs of the victim, but this was the first time I had seen it in action. Ahab did a creditable impression of a turkey's wishbone at Christmas and with an anguished cry collapsed to the ground. The two children collapsed as well and started crying.
Shaved Head and the Waitress looked at each other and solicitously helped the stricken Captain to his feet. Shaved Head brushed the back of his uniform and the Waitress brushed dust off the front.
Suddenly Shaved Head grabbed both Ahab's arms in hammer locks. The Waitress ceased brushing, drew back her fist, and landed a blow Cassius Clay's daughter would have been proud of in what must have been his solar plexus. Ahab would have fallen despite Shaved Head's grip on him when the one-two uppercut landed on his jaw. He shot bolt. I heard his teeth click together and wondered who his dentist was.
'Why dat child say Daddy?' demanded both women simultaneously.
Ahab gasped but could make no intelligible sound. The women realized it would be a while before he made sense and shoved him into the old British red telephone box on the street corner. They closed the door and leaned on it. The two children reconciled themselves to the situation and started searching for ants to insinuate under the door.
The Waitress started.
'T'ree year ago, Carnival.' The stress on the last syllable betrayed her Jamaican origins. 'He marry me here in St Kitt' on Boxin' Day.'
'Four year ago, CropOver.' Shaved Head was clearly from Barbados, the stress now on the penultimate syllable of the annual Bajan festival a dead giveaway. 'He marry me in Bathsheba on de beach.'
'An' after de weddin' night I never see he again!' they chorused as one.
The two women contemplated the imprisoned Ahab, beating on the door made immovable by a rope the children had thoughtfully wound about the telephone box.
The Waitress looked at Shaved Head.
'I know bon lawyer in Port o' Spain. He get us plenty alimony an' plenty maintenance!' Again the accent on the last syllable. Never mess with a Jamaican woman. She knows how to look after herself.
'An' my cousin he chief of police station here in St Kitt'. When we get all de Capt'n money my cousin t'row he in de jailhouse!'
The bigamized pair looked at Captain Ahab in his prison with satisfaction. The Waitress reinforced the knots the children had made in the rope, then the pair of them linked arms and headed up the road to a rum shop to celebrate. The children waved to Ahab and skipped after them.
OK, Harry Neptune. Which coconut palm are you hiding in?
I already knew the answer, without recourse to scanning the lush green hinterland of the beach. My dear husband had done a runner again. Or, given the gimcrack condition of his kneecaps, perhaps 'hobbler' was a more apt description. Impatiently, I took in the idyllic Caribbean scene. I've never been one for lounging around on the sand, largely because my skin is such that a prolonged sunbathing session is liable to render me as crispy as a barbecued chicken. The sun was still high in the sky and the available shade was occupied by a motley assortment of senior citizens playing Bingo and making an incredible amount of noise, like a hen house with a randy rooster on the rampage. It was stay out and fry or retreat to the tree line. I decided to beat a retreat, but not before I had experienced the simple pleasure of squishing a little soft and silvery sand between my toes. I sat down on a rock and unfastened my sandals. The whiteness of the beach was almost dazzling, quite breathtaking against the glittering turquoise of the curving bay. This was Paradise indeed. Gleefully, I stood up.
'Owowowowowowowow!!!'
The perfect, pristine sand was too hot to stand on. Hopping madly from one scorched foot to the other, I beat an unexpectedly speedy retreat to the beckoning shade. Once safely in the shade, I threw my sandals to the ground and jumped up and down several times.
'Bugger you, Harry Neptune!'
The degenerate lout was no doubt comfortably ensconced in some picturesque local den of iniquity, while I was forced to lurk in the undergrowth until the sun went down. Suddenly, I remembered Hermione and I glanced over my shoulder for outsize arachnids. To my surprise, I spotted that spider's namesake, the Black Widow, pressed up against the trunk of a nearby tree. Unbelievably, a good-looking young man crouched before her, enthusiastically licking and kissing her large, soft breasts. The bright pink swimsuit was pushed down to the woman's thick waist and her plump little legs ended in matching high-heeled mules. Voluptuously, Mrs. Goldfinkel raised her arms above her head and moaned softly.
'Oh yesss, Darrin! Oh, you are such a good boy! Now, if dear Troy will only add a little stimulation to naughty Gigi's love nest…'
Good heavens! There were two of them! Another young man, just as handsome as the first, although as dark as the other was Scandinavian blond, came forward from the shadows. Swiftly, he knelt between the Black Widow's legs and wrenched her swimsuit down to reveal her well-padded hips. With typical Latin gusto, he applied his face to the squirming woman's crotch.
'Oh, good boy! Oh! Oh!'
If I hadn't seen what they were doing, I would have sworn she was training a pair of dogs. They were far too involved to notice the silent observer who lurked nearby and I quietly crept behind the trunk of a tree to conceal my presence. It was quite exciting, even if it was Mrs. Goldfinkel. It wasn't long before the woman was naked and blond Darrin extricated a ten-inch dong from his skimpy, bulging thong. He was tall, deeply sun-bronzed and
