CAMILLE ROAD

It was in the mid-forties when I first saw Hanky walking next to his boss — Mr Scott who owned the lands in Boissiere Village. Ever so often the Boss Man would stroll through the streets like a monarch surveying all his lands, always with Hanky nearby. Mr Scott himself lived at the end of Boissiere Village on a hill top which commanded an awe-inspiring panoramic view of the entire Maraval Valley.

Hanky and his cutlass were inseparable. It was sheathed in a leather scabbard at his side. He walked like a gunslinger — not with a gun but a rope in his hand. No doubt about it, he was Scott’s bodyguard. The word was not much in use in those days, so most people called Hanky, Scott’s “handyman.”

Hanky was the one-man bulldozer who cut away a whole hill. At the corner where the Saddle Road meets Anderson Terrace, there is an old gas station on the right with the hill hovering over it. The entire area was hacked away by Hanky, with a pickaxe, chipping away and cutting the hill unceasingly.

As I rode my bicycle to school every morning from Camille Road to Roberts Street and back in the evening, I would see Hanky, hard at work, high up with ropes round his torso. Sometimes there would be another guy at the bottom emptying buckets of stones. It took him months but if ever a man could claim to have moved a mountain, Hanky could, after that Herculean feat.

The fellas called her “Winnie —The Winer” — for very good reasons. Rake thin Winnie, probably into her forties, was always dressed up like a Christmas tree. Her small wooden house was not far from ours. She ran a one-woman business working for the Yankee dollar. She never spoke to anybody, or rather nobody spoke to her.

Ever so often, a jeep with about five or six American sailors would drive up and park under a huge sapodilla tree.

All of them seemed to be in high spirits as one after another would go to her room and carry out some sort of transaction much to their mutual satisfaction.

There were times when she would leave her house and return with her customers in a Land Rover.

While one soldier was at work, the others would be drinking rum and Coca Cola in the shade. When the Yankees left, nobody took over. Winnie — the winer simply shut up shop in more ways than one and disappeared from the scene — never to be seen again.

At that time, Camille Road led to Tapia Savannah where all the cricket and football games were played. Quite often, track events would be organised for sports day. Tapia was a hub of activity with the fellas involved in all sorts of games from kite flying, pitching marbles, hunting birds in the bamboo patches or catching fish in the Maraval River flowing gently nearby.

There was one teenager who never participated in anything, although he lived very close to the savannah.

He used to look out from the large verandah at the activities taking place. We would see him walking well dressed going to church. At times, he wore a white acolyte gown and carried a black prayer book in his hand. He seemed destined for greatness.

Several years later, a priest came to St John, the Baptist Church in Diego Martin and everyone was captivated by his impressive soul-searching sermons. Later on he became the parish priest of the Cathedral and St Finbar’s where he spent a number of years. The last time I heard of him, he was still going strong. That bashful boy became the beloved charismatic priest Fr Reginald Hezekiah.

Here’s a little story. Once there was a terrible accident on the Highway. The three men who died went to St Peter to see if they could get into heaven. St Peter came to the first man and said, “Speak for yourself. Why do you think you should be allowed to enter the pearly gates into Paradise?”

The first man said, “Well, good St Peter, I have been an Anglican Minister for 20 years and I really talked about the horrors of hell.” St Peter replied, “Stand aside. We have to enquire into your case further.”

The second man’s answer to St Peter’s question was, “Holy Father, I have been a Catholic priest for 30 years and I have been telling sinners about the fires of hell and damnation and things like that.” St Peter told him to stand aside also.

As soon as the third man said, “Well St Peter, I was a taxi driver,” St Peter came in right away. “Enter into the pearly gates, my son.” The Catholic and Anglican priests found his judgment unfair and began to question the decision.

St Peter overheard them and explained, “You don’t understand, my children, that taxi driver scared more hell out of people in one day than both of you have done in 50 years.”