A new Experience - Living in a house
September 1979
The Old House
With the boat sold we were homeless. Fortunately a friend of my parents was away and offered us the use of his house. Certainly for me as the youngest, this was a novel experience. As far as I could remember it was the first I had ever lived in.
Pierre's house lay at the top of a long washed out driveway, a mile or two south on the main road from town to Grand Anse beach. It overlooked the Caribbean sea a quarter mile down the hill to the West. A large old two storey colonial house, a crumbling ruin, cracks zig zagged the walls, through paint which had long since relinquished all grip. Outside the house wilderness reigned, with no attempt at a garden.
The first floor was an art workshop for Pierre and another artist, Benny, who frequented the yacht club bar so I knew him well. He had been a submariner in the war. Pierre was a painter and Benny a silk screen artist. I didn't know Pierre well.
Pierre's home was on the second floor. The original staircase had long since collapsed and had been replaced by a makeshift set of wooden stairs. The whole building had basically been gutted, and the shell minimalistically repaired. The floor was open plan, with a central support pillar, except for a separate bedroom at the southern end. The was no glass in the windows though most had louvered shutters that could be swung closed. In the warm climate windows were simply left open all the time, for the cool breeze to carry through the house. A crumbling balcony overlooked the sea. The only plumbing was the kitchen tap, fed from a pipe led in through the window. Hot water came from the kettle. Shower and toilet were in the basement.
The place was furnished in a rustic fashion. An odd but pleasing collection of bits and pieces adorned the bare wooden floor and faded walls. Antique chests of drawers, straw floor mats, coloured cushions. An empty bamboo bird cage, a rusty old anchor and a ceiling fan hung from the high rafters. An old mannequin stood in a corner. Mirrors, various art objects and bunches of dried flowers decorated the walls. A sectagonal, three poster bed held prominent position, a mosquito net tent hung from above. The finely carved posts had obviously come from an old four poster. By day the bed was covered in coloured cushions and used for lounging on.
Birds flew freely in and out of the open windows. In and out they flew, carrying sprigs and fluff; nesting in the bunches of dried flowers on the wall. We played a lot of Scrabble, lying on the three poster bed, accompanied by the squeak of hungry baby birds, calling for mother from the nest. Mother bird flew tirelessly, slave to their needs. When they were of age, they teetered on the edge of the nest. A brave flutter of tiny wings followed by a crash landing on a triple word score. Having grown up in the room with us they had little fear. They hopped and fluttered around us as they struggled through flight school. When they flew the nest for the last time, it remained, blended perfectly to the rustic decor of the room.
My brother and I slept in the three poster. With the net hung all around us we hunted entrapped mosquitoes before lights out. Cocooned in a white veil, we whispered and waited, for the house came alive at night. Before long we would hear the scamper and scuffle of tiny feet on the bare boards. Shadows darted across the floor. They had arrived. They scurried around the kitchen, on the prowl for anything edible we had forgotten to hide. Heavy footsteps thumped on the stairs; my brother and I started in alarm. It was only a rat, a foot long from nose to tail. Bouncing a raison bun down the wooden stairs, home to the basement, food for the family.
Nothing was safe. We hung our food in bags, from the anchor suspended from the ceiling. Our rats could smell it. They scaled the wardrobe and leaped through the air, falling short, landing on the floor with a thud. My brother and I lay on the bed with catapults and a jar of dried corn kernels. We shot them as they came within range. When hit, they squeaked in alarm, tumbled head over heels, and scampered away. We did them no harm. The corn was too light to do any damage, but the sport was good. We were unafraid of the rats and saw no need to try to get rid of them. We simply accepted that food not kept out of reach was fair game.
Water was a problem. With the tap only working for an hour or two a day we filled every available container. An old bath and assorted galvanised tubs were kept on the balcony. When it rained we channelled water from the roof. At times we had to carry water up the drive from a stand pipe on the main road, as did the local people. They carried great steel buckets balanced on their heads.
The shower was in the basement, lit by a naked bulb. Damp, dark and full of nasty creatures, I didn't like to shower there. I preferred when the tap didn't run as we washed on the balcony, in the open air. No-one could see us.
My brother and I were a bit misplaced. We were cruising kids with no boat. All my friends were in the marina. I was often down there as we weren't in school at the time. We always kept ourselves entertained without many conventional toys. We made our own toys from whatever was to hand. In the old house we took to building model gliders. I started the phase with a crude model I made to throw from the balcony. My brother took interest and designed a proper model. We made two large gliders with wing spans of three and four feet, carving the fuselages from a solid length of soft light wood. The gull wings were teak spars with aerodynamic section formed from cardboard, cut from Weetabix packets. The wings were covered with airmail paper. When balanced they flew well, soaring gracefully, the entire length of the drive. When we finally left the old house we left the gliders for Pierre, hung from the ceiling on the mosquito netting above the bed.
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