Mustique Island
Mustique is a private island in the Grenadines archipelago, 15 miles south of St Vincent. It is owned by Colin Tennant, ‘the King’, who bought it against his father’s advice in 1958 for £45,000. Of Scottish descent, the aristocrat had dreams of a cotton plantation. Today, he is the founder of up-market tourism for the Caribbean.
It’s 11.37 am. Time, of course, is totally irrelevant in the King’s world; he slips out of the hammock tied between two mahogany posts of the sprawling veranda which faces the sea. He is clad as usual in white Indian cotton kurta pajamas. His red silk Indian mojari sandals are nowhere to be found. He reaches for the Panama straw hat balancing amidst the chaos of empty flutes and goblets, a selection of open bottles of wine, stuffed ashtrays and bowls of nuts on the nearby wicker table whose top is weaved in the shape of Mustique.
The King: Afternoon Basil. What day is it? Basil, from Mayreau Island in the Grenadines, is officially the bartender, but he has many roles including that of Sancho Panza, drinking buddy, driver, valet, or whatever is required, depending on the King’s state of mind.
Basil:
Morning Sir. It’s Wednesday, Sir. Jump up
Cozier: And he has bowled him! Another wicket is down. Bowled neck and crop, clean bowled. He played right over it! Might have been the slower one. My, oh, my are the West Indies in trouble, 89 for 5, Larry Gomes, the lefthander from Trinidad, bowled by Peter Willey for 1. This is turning out to be quite a disaster here at Arnos Vale.
The King: Have the MCC [Marylebone Cricket Club] batted yet, Basil? Sounds like a jolly good show is in progress. You think you can get Mustique Airways to send that Cessna we booked to bring the blokes over later, to pick us up? I don’t think we have won a match in these parts since Slade-Lucas was here in the last century.
Ten minutes later, the old radio has lost the signal and Basil returns from the living room.
Basil: I am sorry sir, Mustique Airways says all the pilots are at the game. They will call if anyone shows up at the hanger.
The King (laughing his head off): Just my luck! Once in a lifetime chance to witness an MCC victory and I’m stuck in paradise! (He contemplates the ullages of the wine bottles, and selects a ‘68 vintage Banyuls.)
Basil: Sir, those wines are flat, let me get you another Bordeaux.
The King: How many times do I have to tell you Basil, I left open them so they can breathe, breathe, wine has to breathe. We have got the best air in the world right here. Close your eyes! Inhale! Ahhhhhhh! Heaven is right here. Remind me when I call that rascal, Monsieur Jules Fortescue, the negociant over in Martinique to replenish our stock, to arrange for your sommelier classes. There is more to life than rum, Basil. (There is a twinkle in his eyes) Speaking of which, what time is Sunset arranged for?
(The King tilts the flute and tastes the wine): Brilliant! Ohhh what length! Can you coax some life into that old bastard from the ‘50’s, Basil?
Of course, Basil is a West Indies supporter. He delicately caresses the dial whilst offering a silent prayer for rain. There is a crackle and then:
Reds Perreira: And the ball is fielded by Boycott at midwicket. The West Indies are listing at 110 for 7. Mattis is still hanging on with 49, Garner has 4... (The signal dies again.)
The King: Basil, did he just say Boycott? No, it can’t be Geoffrey Boycott. I remember seeing him play against the Australians in ‘64 at Trent Bridge in Nottingham, I think. Took two days to make 13 runs. Basil, he must be older than me. It must be his son. Oh gosh, Basil. Call our friend on Palm Island that American bloke with the seaplane. Call the bloody tower at ET, ask them to tell him that I am out of champagne or whatever the hell he imbibes. Just tell him to get here bloody quick!
The English team’s coach is parked against the airport fence.
Chatoyer is sitting in the coach in a state of utter depression. Every time he turns on the radio a wicket falls, and he feels personally responsible for the present state of affairs. He admires the label of the sealed bottle of the famous local rum in his bag, and wisely avoids the temptation. He abandons the coach in search of his favourite food vendor, Aunt Evelyn from the Grenadine Island of Petit St Vincent. Roasted breadfruit and fried Jack fish can resolve any problem. (Continued next week)