Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
The Air France flight was delayed; Barton had half expected it. In the first class section he found himself seated alongside a fellow passenger who appeared to be another Brit who had also boarded in Miami.
A charming hostess offered them Champagne and an assortment of appetizers announcing lunch would be served soon after take-off.
Looking at his neighbour he seemed vaguely familiar.
‘I’m Tom Barton. We’ve met before?’
‘Yes…where?’
‘Sergei Tarasov! That’s it.’
‘Yes, his boat. Of course. Santorini. What a pleasant coincidence!’
‘It’s a small world.’
‘Have you been staying in Miami?
‘No, New York, I started this morning and changed flights in Miami. It’s complicated getting a connecting flight to Dominica.’
‘Ah, you’re going to Dominica!’
‘Yes. I have business there — and you?’
‘Well to be honest I’ve never been there. I’m in consulting, I’m interested in looking at property there,’ he replied. Barton had discovered the title of consultant covered everything and avoided a lot of unnecessary explanations.
‘Interesting,’ said Fitzwilliams studying Barton: a friend of Tarasov’s, obviously a world class traveller, tanned and dressed well, wearing a Blancpain Brassus chronograph. Being a good judge of people was primordial in Fitzwilliams’ world.
He held out his hand and to refresh Barton’s memory added, ‘Michael Fitzwilliams.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Dominica is very small, I’ll introduce you to my good friend Malcolm Smeaton, he’s been living in Dominica for years, knows the island like the back of his hand, in banking — like myself.’
Fitzwilliams opened his wallet and handed a business card to Barton.
‘The Irish Netherlands Bank, in the City,’ he read, thumbing the card appreciatively for Fitzwilliams’ benefit. He was familiar with the name, but not much more; it was not one of the top high street banks, though he remembered they had been quite active with in the mortgage business at the height of the housing boom.
‘Yes, I also have banking interests in the Caribbean.’
‘Are you going directly to Dominica from Point-à-Pitre?’
‘Yes I have a connecting flight, a charter.’
‘I was planning in going by boat from Guadeloupe.’
‘That’s fine if you have time for tourism, why don’t you join me? It’s a twenty minute flight. I’ll telephone to Malcolm to see if there’s a spare seat on the charter.’
‘Why not,’ said Barton taking the opportunity of benefiting from Fitzwilliams experience.
Fitzwilliams used the onboard telephone and after speaking with Smeaton confirmed his offer.
Four and a half hours later after a pleasant flight together they landed at Point-à-Pitre in French Guadeloupe. After formalities they headed to the SVG Air-Grenadine Air Alliance desk and were informed their charter was waiting. They were the only passengers for the five seater twin engined Aero Commander.
The plane was barely airborne when the pilot pointed to a hazy grey-blue outline on the horizon; the mountains on northern point of Dominica. Twenty minutes later, after flying down the rugged western coastline of the mountainous island, they approached the tiny Cane Field Airport.
Barton was struck by the dense forest covered mountains that swept sharply down to the sea, at certain points ending in abrupt cliffs and at others in small sandy coves. The sparse built-up areas they had passed consisted mostly of small homes hugging the slopes bordering the shore. To the right side were the blue waters of Pringles Bay and the Caribbean, and ahead to the left, Fitzwilliams pointed out, was the small town of Canefield, set against a backdrop of forest covered hills culminating at Morne Trois Pitons hidden in a crown of white clouds almost 1,300 metres above.
The airport was just fifteen minutes by road from Roseau, the capital of the Commonwealth of Dominica. It was not Point-à-Pitre, as Pointe-à-Pitre was not Miami. In just a few hours Barton found himself in another world, a world of tranquillity, a lush easy going tropical paradise, without the crowds and the urgent hum of Asia, a place where time was unimportant and life was good.
A small slim man sporting a flowery Caribbean style shirt, wearing horn rimmed half frame glasses and a Panama, was waiting for them. He was accompanied by a uniformed customs and immigration officer. The plane taxied to its parking position in front of the small terminal, stopped, and the passengers climbed out.
‘Hello Malcolm, nice to see you,’ said Fitzwilliams shaking Smeaton’s hand warmly and beaming at the customs officers who welcomed him back to Dominica. There were few flights and even fewer formalities at Cane Field International Airport.
‘This is Tom Barton, I can vouch for him,’ he said turning to the official.
The formalities took no more than the time their baggage was unloaded from the aircraft and put into the waiting Land Rover.
‘Tom is planning to stay for some time, looking for property here,’ he told Smeaton.
‘Excellent Tom, where are you staying?’
Barton was a little embarrassed, he had not booked a room, thinking he had planned to overnight it in Point-à-Pitre.
‘Why don’t you stay at my place until you’ve got your bearing?’
Fitzwilliams gave an approving nod.
‘Well I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘There’s no trouble Tom, Malcolm’s got lots of space as you’ll see.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Barton turning to Smeaton. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ Smeaton replied gracefully.
They climbed into the Land Rover and the driver set off in the direction of Roseau.
The City
A charming hostess offered them Champagne and an assortment of appetizers announcing lunch would be served soon after take-off.
Looking at his neighbour he seemed vaguely familiar.
‘I’m Tom Barton. We’ve met before?’
‘Yes…where?’
‘Sergei Tarasov! That’s it.’
‘Yes, his boat. Of course. Santorini. What a pleasant coincidence!’
‘It’s a small world.’
‘Have you been staying in Miami?
‘No, New York, I started this morning and changed flights in Miami. It’s complicated getting a connecting flight to Dominica.’
‘Ah, you’re going to Dominica!’
‘Yes. I have business there — and you?’
‘Well to be honest I’ve never been there. I’m in consulting, I’m interested in looking at property there,’ he replied. Barton had discovered the title of consultant covered everything and avoided a lot of unnecessary explanations.
‘Interesting,’ said Fitzwilliams studying Barton: a friend of Tarasov’s, obviously a world class traveller, tanned and dressed well, wearing a Blancpain Brassus chronograph. Being a good judge of people was primordial in Fitzwilliams’ world.
He held out his hand and to refresh Barton’s memory added, ‘Michael Fitzwilliams.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Dominica is very small, I’ll introduce you to my good friend Malcolm Smeaton, he’s been living in Dominica for years, knows the island like the back of his hand, in banking — like myself.’
Fitzwilliams opened his wallet and handed a business card to Barton.
‘The Irish Netherlands Bank, in the City,’ he read, thumbing the card appreciatively for Fitzwilliams’ benefit. He was familiar with the name, but not much more; it was not one of the top high street banks, though he remembered they had been quite active with in the mortgage business at the height of the housing boom.
‘Yes, I also have banking interests in the Caribbean.’
‘Are you going directly to Dominica from Point-à-Pitre?’
‘Yes I have a connecting flight, a charter.’
‘I was planning in going by boat from Guadeloupe.’
‘That’s fine if you have time for tourism, why don’t you join me? It’s a twenty minute flight. I’ll telephone to Malcolm to see if there’s a spare seat on the charter.’
‘Why not,’ said Barton taking the opportunity of benefiting from Fitzwilliams experience.
Fitzwilliams used the onboard telephone and after speaking with Smeaton confirmed his offer.
Four and a half hours later after a pleasant flight together they landed at Point-à-Pitre in French Guadeloupe. After formalities they headed to the SVG Air-Grenadine Air Alliance desk and were informed their charter was waiting. They were the only passengers for the five seater twin engined Aero Commander.
The plane was barely airborne when the pilot pointed to a hazy grey-blue outline on the horizon; the mountains on northern point of Dominica. Twenty minutes later, after flying down the rugged western coastline of the mountainous island, they approached the tiny Cane Field Airport.
Barton was struck by the dense forest covered mountains that swept sharply down to the sea, at certain points ending in abrupt cliffs and at others in small sandy coves. The sparse built-up areas they had passed consisted mostly of small homes hugging the slopes bordering the shore. To the right side were the blue waters of Pringles Bay and the Caribbean, and ahead to the left, Fitzwilliams pointed out, was the small town of Canefield, set against a backdrop of forest covered hills culminating at Morne Trois Pitons hidden in a crown of white clouds almost 1,300 metres above.
The airport was just fifteen minutes by road from Roseau, the capital of the Commonwealth of Dominica. It was not Point-à-Pitre, as Pointe-à-Pitre was not Miami. In just a few hours Barton found himself in another world, a world of tranquillity, a lush easy going tropical paradise, without the crowds and the urgent hum of Asia, a place where time was unimportant and life was good.
A small slim man sporting a flowery Caribbean style shirt, wearing horn rimmed half frame glasses and a Panama, was waiting for them. He was accompanied by a uniformed customs and immigration officer. The plane taxied to its parking position in front of the small terminal, stopped, and the passengers climbed out.
‘Hello Malcolm, nice to see you,’ said Fitzwilliams shaking Smeaton’s hand warmly and beaming at the customs officers who welcomed him back to Dominica. There were few flights and even fewer formalities at Cane Field International Airport.
‘This is Tom Barton, I can vouch for him,’ he said turning to the official.
The formalities took no more than the time their baggage was unloaded from the aircraft and put into the waiting Land Rover.
‘Tom is planning to stay for some time, looking for property here,’ he told Smeaton.
‘Excellent Tom, where are you staying?’
Barton was a little embarrassed, he had not booked a room, thinking he had planned to overnight it in Point-à-Pitre.
‘Why don’t you stay at my place until you’ve got your bearing?’
Fitzwilliams gave an approving nod.
‘Well I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘There’s no trouble Tom, Malcolm’s got lots of space as you’ll see.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Barton turning to Smeaton. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ Smeaton replied gracefully.
They climbed into the Land Rover and the driver set off in the direction of Roseau.
The City