Mr. Hardy's sparkling peepers almost popped out of his little head.
"Oi'll be boogered! Are ye pregnant, dear?"
"Certainly not!"
I felt quite put out that he should imagine unplanned parenthood would be the only cause for our impromptu betrothal. The leprechaun scratched his thinning ginger hair.
"No, that's never got our Harry down the aisle before. Are ye rich, then?"
This time, I glared at them both, Peter Pan and Captain Hook, who was doing his best to look innocent.
"Alas, no. And considerably better off before I encountered this rum-soaked reprobate!"
Mr. Hardy laughed, a high-pitched wheeze.
"Ah, but ye're in love! Oi can see that as plain as the pretty little nose on yer face! Harry, ye're a lucky man to be so utterly despoised and adored by this sweet wee creature here. Ye've never had that before, oi'll warrant, with yer barrow loads of trollops."
Harry adroitly changed the subject, picking up a badly Xeroxed pamphlet with a smiling sun on the front page.
"Ahem, anyway, it's dandy to see you, Kismet, old chap, but we're actually here to partake of one of your superlative sight-seeing tours. What's on the itinerary today then, old boy?"
The leprechaun placed a pair of rather rakish pince-nez on the end of his nose and peered at a dog-eared timetable. My impressions moved from the creations of J.M. Barrie to something straight out of "Oliver Twist."
"The Lord Nelson Experience is scheduled to commence at 10 o" clock, the good Lord and Rufus the relief bus driver willing. Ye're lucky oi've got just two tickets left – got a large advance booking from a party of Texan history buffs."
"Kismet, Hardy."
I looked up at Harry, as he delved in his wallet for a few notes. He had that look in his eye again.
I blinked my eye until the bit of grit worked its way out, then contemplated the bus ride to English Harbour and Nelson's Dockyard. A competent European rally driver in a well-founded jeep could make it in forty minutes or so. An Antiguan bus driver would barely leave you time to do the crossword in the Daily Observer – say five minutes. I nerved myself.
"Now where the bejabers has that rascal Rufus got to? Oi can only droive one bus at a toime. Rufus! Rufus!"
Kismet Hardy raised his voice to a fog horn bellow, the legacy I happened to know of thirty years in the Royal Navy as a Chief Petty Officer and the scourge of ratings and midshipmen.
"Drunk, no doubt, and asleep in a shebeen somewhere. If his last name weren't Bird oi'd never…"
I saw an opportunity to survive the day's outing without becoming a road traffic accident statistic.
"Never mind, Kismet old pal. I'll take the second bus – know this island like the back of my hand."
Hardy looked at me suspiciously. I plastered an innocent expression on my face.
"And look at the state of the back of your hand – all hairy. Can oi trust youse to decant my paying punters in the right place? Hmm?"
"Of course you can, old thing. I'll take them up Fig Tree Drive and show them the sights. A guided tour of the best Antigua has to offer in the way of hinterland. Not to mention the drive along the coast to get there. And what a day for it!"
Hardy had to admit I had a point there. The sky was clear deep blue, nothing but a few stray blobs of cotton wool cloud to provide a welcome contrast. The Caribbean Sea would be many shades of lighter and darker blue, broken by little waves and the splash of diving pelicans.
"Are we all going to this here Nelson's Dockyard or are we all going to stand round here all day getting our butts roasted?"
A large woman in a Stetson and hideous clothes loomed over Hardy with an expression of Texan impatience on her face.
"Git goin' or we'll take our money back and find some other crook to take us to the sights."
"Now, now, milady, dere's no need for dat. Dis here crook'll take you everywhere youse need to go. All aboard for Nelson's Dockyard!"
Hardy indicated a pair of dilapidated buses (did you expect anything but dilapidated by now?) with Kismet Hardy Tours in barely legible letters on the side. He grasped me by the shirtfront and pulled me down to his level.
"Youse hired, Harry Neptune, but youse keep to the straight and narrow, youse hear me?"
I nodded seraphically.
"Come along my dear, I shall treat you to the full guided tour in the company of our new colonial friends here."
"Not likely! You're not driving me anywhere, Harry Neptune. I'll go in the other bus with Mr. Hardy."
I managed to look hurt, but it didn't wash. Jay climbed into the lead bus and settled herself down in the front seat next to the driver. Hardy ushered half a dozen Texan historians on board and climbed behind the wheel.
I rounded up the remaining seven or eight tourists, as mixed a bunch of Texan historians as you would care to meet, and started up bus number two. No one sat next to me in the front.
"Wagons roll!"
I thought a little bit of home might have put the Texans" minds at rest, but the effect seemed minimal. They looked doubtfully around them, both inside and outside the bus.
A Caribbean bus has as little in common with Greyhound as a Caribbean taxi has in common with a limousine. They are all Toyotas, modeled on the Volkswagen minibuses popular with hippies a generation ago. A sliding door at the side, seats for six to sixty depending on size and desire to breathe, torn upholstery, holes, and rust. Tire tread is optional.
The buses have names like Dread and Too Fast, which sums up the mentality of their drivers. Hardy had evidently picked up the local ambiance, evidenced by the rate at which he took off through the narrow storm-drained streets of St. John's with horn blaring. I put my bus into gear and followed suit.
A hand-lettered sign on the dash above a red switch proudly announced, "Air Conditioning." I flicked the switch and sure enough lukewarm air streamed from various vents.
We shot up St. Mary Street and turned right onto Independence Drive. From there it was a straightforward if hair-raising drive past the Memorial Garden and the new hospital (if it ever gets finished) and out onto the road to Jennings, Bolan's Village and Jolly Harbour. From there our route would take us past Darkwood Beach to Old Road, then up Fig Tree Drive to the interior followed by a leisurely (you must be joking) descent to Falmouth and English Harbors and our destination, Nelson's Dockyard.
"On our right, folks, the road to Five Islands and that delightful nightspot and cocktail bar, Henryk's. We are about to pass over the Chinese Bridge, so called because Beijing built it at minimal cost in exchange for some favor or other in the United Nations.
"Straight ahead, a cow. Notice that the cow has detached its chain from the stake it was attached to and is dragging it along the road in order to trip up cyclists. Hold tight…"
I swerved around the cow and regained the road just in time to avoid a goat.
"Thyat is th' ugliest sheep I ever did see!"
Stetson glared at the goat through the window. It glared back at her. They have acute hearing.
"That, madam, is a goat."
"How in the hell do yuh tell the difference?"
"Goat tail up, sheep tail down. There is no difference in taste."
Mutterings from the rear indicated that the Texan historians were not impressed by the bus, the scenery, the wild life, nor the driver. The scenery I could understand – Antigua's hinterland is somewhat scruffy – but we had the beauty of the beaches to come.
I was driving on the wrong side of the road now to take advantage of the less pot-holed side (as opposed to the very pot-holed side) when a tall figure in dreadlocks and cut off jeans appeared out of a bush at the side of the road. He waved a hand vaguely in West Indian hitchhiker style.
I had an empty seat and I was getting fed up with twanging dissension.