‘Cayman rum punch,’ she said, also taking one. ‘It’s the national drink. Either this or frozen mudslides.’
‘Frozen mudslides?’
‘A cocktail made from ice, vodka, Baileys, Kahlua, chocolate syrup and cream, all blended together. It’s absolutely brilliant.’
‘And incredibly fattening,’ I said.
‘It was first created here on the Cayman Islands, at The Wreck Bar at Rum Point. It’s famous for it.’
‘In spite of not having any actual rum in it?’
‘Shut up!’ she said, punching me playfully on the arm.
Martin and Theresa arrived and came to stand with us under the royal poinciana trees as we listened to a large choir made up of children from all the island’s schools singing a selection of the best-known Christmas carols. Everyone joined in for a rousing rendition of ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ as the finale.
One and all were in celebratory mood, wishing each other Merry Christmas, as the crowd began to disperse back to their cars.
‘Jeff,’ Sir Richard called. ‘Come and meet the governor.’
He introduced me to a short slim man with dark wavy hair that was just beginning to go grey at the temples.
‘Delighted to meet you, Your Excellency,’ I said, shaking his hand.
‘Please, call me Peter. I’m not one for formality, especially not on Christmas Eve. This is my wife, Annabel.’ He indicated to the blonde-haired woman with a small mouth and large blue eyes who was standing next to him.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ I said to her.
She shook my hand and smiled at me. ‘Is this your first time in the Cayman Islands?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But I hope it won’t be my last.’
‘That’s what everyone says,’ the governor said. ‘It’s very good for the tourist trade.’
‘Is it the island’s main source of income?’ I asked.
‘It’s certainly important, but our financial services industry is much bigger,’ he said. ‘There are over two hundred and fifty separate banks operating in Cayman. We have almost ten thousand different investment funds licensed to trade here. And we are one of the world’s largest insurance centres, with over seven hundred insurance companies registered.’
‘All of them trying to avoid paying tax?’ I said.
‘Financial institutions and companies will always base themselves in the most tax-efficient jurisdiction,’ he said, as if lecturing me. ‘If it wasn’t here, it would be somewhere else where conditions were favourable, such as Bermuda or the Bahamas. All Cayman financial services are fully compliant with both US and European directives and regulations.’
It sounded to me like a line he had used often before.
‘No suitcases full of dodgy cash, then?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘It is far more difficult to launder illegal money here than almost anywhere in the world. That, sadly, is a reputation that the Cayman Islands has unfairly acquired from the past. Nowadays, it is simply not true.’
I believed him. Thousands wouldn’t.
The governor and his wife moved on to some of their other guests.
‘Come on,’ Henri said to me. ‘Let’s go and have some dinner.’
As we were walking out of the garden, we met Derrick and Gay Smith, also on their way back to the road.
‘Weren’t those children great?’ Gay said. ‘I love hearing choirs sing.’
We all agreed with her.
‘Jeff,’ Derrick said. ‘Would you and Henri like to come for drinks on Boxing Day?’
Henri and I looked at each other and we both nodded.
‘We’d love to,’ I said. ‘Where and what time?’
‘Come to our place around six,’ Derrick said. ‘Then we could all go out to dinner afterwards at the Calypso Grill.’
What could be more Caribbean? I thought. All else it needed was the King of Calypso himself, Harry Belafonte, singing Day-O from ‘The Banana Boat Song’.
‘Henri, you know where we live, don’t you?’ Derrick said.
‘I think so,’ she replied uncertainly. ‘I’m sure we’ll find it.’
30
Christmas Day dawned sunny and calm, and Henri and I were out on the beach by seven o’clock in our swimwear and T-shirts. Even though the sun had only just peeped over the eastern horizon, the temperature was already in the mid-twenties, which gave every indication of a very warm day to come. As Quentin had said, it really was going to be a hot Christmas.
We walked up the beach towards Martin and Theresa’s place and found the dive boat was already there with a hive of activity going on around it. Bags of diving gear were being loaded on board from the beach, along with eight scuba air tanks. Martin Reynard was directing operations while two other men appeared to be doing all the work.
‘Morning,’ said Martin as we approached. ‘Merry Christmas.’
Henri gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘This is Truman Ebanks,’ Martin said, pointing at a large dark-skinned man standing on the sand. ‘He’s our dive master. And also Carson Ebanks.’ Martin pointed at the man on the boat. ‘He’s the captain and our safety officer.’
Truman was passing the gear to Carson.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Are you brothers?’
‘No, man,’ said Carson in a deep resonant voice.
‘I thought both being called Ebanks...’
He laughed. ‘Lots of people hereabouts are named Ebanks. Those that ain’t Boddens.’ I loved the way his local accent gave the words a rhythm, almost as if he was singing them.
‘I suppose we must be related somehow,’ Truman said with a similar lilt, grinning with his large white teeth showing brightly against his dark face, ‘but from way back.’
The equipment was almost fully loaded when Bentley came walking down the beach to join us.
‘I thought I’d come too,’ he said to Martin. ‘Just for the ride.’
Henri clearly wasn’t happy.
‘Fine,’ Martin said. ‘Let’s get going.’
I thought for a moment that Henri wasn’t going to come, so I took her hand and squeezed it. She smiled at me and shrugged her shoulders in acceptance.
‘OK,’ she said.
The dive boat consisted mostly of a single flat platform that ran right through from bow to stern, with the driver position situated in the centre, a bench down each side with dive-tank holders behind, and an overhead awning that provided shade to most of the boat. The bow had been run aground on the sand and Martin, Bentley, Henri and I now climbed a short ladder to get on board. Truman then pushed us off the beach into deeper water.
The trip out was wonderful with the movement of the boat causing a refreshing breeze to blow into our faces, keeping us cool.
From out at sea, I could assess the whole sweep of Seven Mile Beach with its array of hotels and condominiums stretching away into the distance in both directions.
‘Do most people live near the beach?’ I asked Henri.
‘Nowhere is that far away,’ she said, ‘but this is certainly the busiest end. Three-quarters of the whole population live in George Town or West Bay. Most of the eastern half of the island is just deserted mangrove swamp.’
‘Here you are, Jeff,’ Martin said, placing a blue mesh bag full of gear by my feet. ‘All you need is in here. Take the yellow guest tanks. The yellow will make it easier for Truman and me to keep an eye on you.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
All the scuba tanks I had ever used before had been a uniformly boring grey aluminium that came with the dive boat, but here we had eight smart brightly painted ones, two each in white, yellow, red and light blue. I’d heard of personalized number plates, of course, but I’d never come across personalized dive tanks before. The red ones had HENRI painted in large black letters down them; the white had MARTIN, the blue had THERESA, and the yellow, GUEST.