36

Bermuda is shaped roughly like a fishhook and is composed of numerous islands, with the Royal Naval Dockyard at the sharp end. From there, one follows a limestone road, crossing Boaz Island and Ireland Island over the Waterford Bridge to the village of Somerset. On the other side of the village the road forks, leading right around Mangrove Bay to the Somerset Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. Next to the Club stood the MacQueen house, a sprawling, high-ceilinged, one-storey structure named “Moville”. It was centred in a two-acre lot, with a former slave cottage that sat under a spreading Pride of India tree.

James Edward MacQueen, MD, had bought this property in the early 1930s, following his appointment as medical officer with the Bermuda colonial government. There he had lived with his wife, two sons, and a daughter, while attending to government business at the dockyard and running a small private practice on the side. He had maintained an office in the local courthouse building not far away, through a grove of banana trees. His locomotion had been by horse and carriage or bicycle, as automobiles or motorbikes were forbidden. Public transportation was by ferryboat or the Bermuda Railway, which spanned the islands for twenty miles from Somerset to St. George.

Mrs. MacQueen now resided in one portion of the Moville house, a small apartment attached to the side, the rest having been rented out. She was a social being and widely respected for her diplomacy and charm. The ambiance of the colony and her assured place in its social structure suited her fine. Her introverted husband had found it burdensome, and the death of their only daughter had finalized their growing estrangement. The two boys had already been attending school in Canada when they received news of their parents’ separation and their father’s departure from Bermuda, which had still been some months before the outbreak of World War II in September 1939.

Mrs. Eva Irene MacQueen (née O’Neill) had been more upset by the exodus of her exotic friends at the start of the war than by the frantic departure of her sons to go and fight in it. Moville had been leased to a local guesthouse for overflow, so her boys had spent that last summer of 1939 together on a small island. The island was dominated by a Spanish-style mansion that had been built by the Crane bathroom people. The MacQueen boys were guests of a lady named Vivienne von Bernstog, although their hostess never once appeared, as she was in Europe attending to the funeral of her latest husband (who was then demoted to the title of “Husband Number Two”. Nothing is known of Number One.). Patrick never met her, although he had enjoyed her motor launch, sailboat, and even her wine cellar. It was there that he had eagerly lost his virginity.

That island was now a part of the new American naval base, and the Spanish-style mansion had since been demolished. Bermuda had filled with exotic refugees from Europe. As it was on the perimeter of the sterling area, the grouping of countries that utilized the British pound as currency, they couldn’t take their money any farther.

Eva Irene MacQueen hesitated for a dramatic moment at the top of the gangway leading from the wharf into the purser’s square of CNS Lady Hawkins. She held her wide-brimmed hat in place with one gloved hand. With the other hand she graciously accepted the offer of the bosun’s mate to alight onto the waxed deck. She blinked from the contrast of bright sunlight and the artificial lighting within the ship. No one else came up the gangway following the customs officials, but no one ever thought of stopping Mrs. MacQueen.

“Patrick, my son!” exclaimed his mother. She stretched out her arms as Patrick rose awkwardly to his feet. He threw his cigarette into a large brass ashtray and nursed his arm, which was back in a sling. The sling came between them during the embrace, and he winced, then laughed reassuringly. Their lips met, and he was engulfed once more in his mother’s bewitchment. Ever since he had first opened his eyes to reveal hazel irises identical to his mother’s, instead of the overwhelming family blue of his father and siblings, their relationship had been a conspiracy. There was never anything final about this woman, which paved her way with devoted male admirers and jealous females.

“Let me look at you. My dear, you are so thin!” She embraced him once more as the chief purser announced passport inspection would take place in the music lounge. Patrick’s cabinmate of the voyage glanced appreciatively at his mother.

“Take care, kid,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. He left with the two men from the American consulate.

“You’ve grown,” said his mother as they mounted the stairs under the portrait of Admiral Hawkins. “Your father wrote that your arm is healing—does it hurt? His letter was cut to ribbons by the censors here, but one of them is a friend and mentioned something about the Surcouf? It was here and only left a few days ago…such lovely boys, those sailors! All of the young ladies in Somerset fell in love!”

“All of that is secret, mother,” protested Patrick MacQueen. “I’ve been warned not to talk about it.” He placed his passport on the table to be stamped. The customs official rose and proffered his hand to Mrs. MacQueen with a bow.

“We won’t hold you up, madame,” he said, knocking his white sun helmet off the table. His face turned red. One look from her hazel eyes and he would have let her pass with a satchel of cocaine.

“Thank you, Captain,” she answered. Eva MacQueen was totally unaware of gradations in rank but unconsciously promoted everyone, which left a wake of warm memories behind her.

“I see you’ve met Bill Cyples, mother?” said Patrick. He pointed out his cabin luggage to an officer; it was immediately chalked O.K.

“Met him? Dear boy, your father sent him to me!” his mother replied. Patrick gasped. “They talked on the telephone after your accident and your father arranged it with Jack in Ottawa. He just shuffled some papers or something.”

MacQueen gave the pageboy five dollars and received a wide grin in return.

“My dear boy,” whispered his mother. “You are ruining the help. I hope your father sent something for me!” They were about to mount the steps onto the gangway when she hesitated, then took Patrick’s arm and led him back into the crowded purser’s square.

“I have Vivienne with me,” she said earnestly. “She has reverted to the title of countess, which isn’t bad for a girl from Texas. She is living with us at Moville, and proving to be something of a problem.” Countess Vivienne had agreed to move into Moville’s former slave cottage, now newly renovated, so that Mrs. MacQueen could accommodate Patrick with her in the side apartment attached to the big house. The big house was being rented to the wife of an Australian author. “Keep away from her, darling—she’s too rich, and rather coarse. That Grenadier friend of yours would be ideal for her, but they circle one another like panthers. I’ve lined up a job for you at your old school. As always, I am broke. Did your father send anything?”

All of this was a lot for Patrick MacQueen to digest in one breathless moment. He reached into his pocket and passed an envelope to his mother. She immediately tore it open, ignored the letter with a second’s irritation, and looked at the cheque.

“It isn’t much,” she said cheerlessly, “but it will buy us some drinks at the Twenty-One Club across the street. Come along, and remember your manners. You were Vivienne’s guest for a summer, so don’t spend all of your time listening to Bill Cyples’ dirty stories.”

The captain of the Lady Hawkins emerged onto the purser’s square, the four stripes of gold braid glinting on the shoulder boards of his white uniform. MacQueen handed the captain a letter, in which he fulfilled his promise to Lieutenant Barney. Captain Griffith accepted the letter and assured MacQueen it would be passed up the chain. He then personally cleared their path to the gangway, the bosun’s mate saluted, and the MacQueens left the ship in a flurry of goodwill.

The Lady Hawkins was torpedoed and sunk a few months later.