Still Hunting

A Memoir

By Martin Hunter

ECW PRESS

Copyright © 2013 Martin Hunter
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77041-126-5
CHAPTER 1

DANCING IN THE DARK

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 friend’s 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 didn’t 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 Judy’s 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 father’s 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 mother’s 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 friend’s 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