ON SEPTEMBER 7, 2005, two months after I had returned to Grenada and settled into my bungalow at the north end of Grand Anse, the best beach on the island, I received an email from an old friend in Barbados, Wayne Webster, warning that a hurricane was headed my way. Generally speaking, Grenada is off the hurricane path. The only one I could remember, Hurricane Janet, occurred in 1955 when I was a child. It was rare, but it had a devastating effect that was felt for years.
I turned on the radio and heard that Hurricane Ivan was predicted to hit nearby Barbados sometime that afternoon. I decided to prepare for any eventuality. I went shopping and found candles, flashlights, but only a limited supply of batteries. As the day progressed, the wind picked up and so did the sea. By dusk the wind was howling.
I received a call from two of my nieces, inviting me to stay with them. They were concerned that I was too close to the beach. They both lived in solid, hillside buildings, which offered more protection and better drainage. Grateful as I was for their kind offers, I was concerned that leaving my place would leave me open to theft and other problems, so I declined.
At about ten that night, Grenada was hit by Ivan, a category-three hurricane. The winds, at 160 kilometres per hour (100 miles per hour) were shrieking. I did not feel safe in my house. I filled a large garbage bag with my valuables and important documents, picked up my small, frightened shih tzu dog, Kuta, and ran out to my car, partially protected by a carport. There, Kuta and I waited out the worst. She was so scared by the wind and driving rain that there was no hope of sleep (she would be traumatized by every subsequent storm). It was one of the longest nights I remember. I prayed for the Lord’s protection and guidance in the moment, and in the future, because it was clear I would need all the help I could get when Ivan passed. By morning, my newly purchased bungalow was practically demolished.
Pommie, still in Trinidad and reliable as ever, came to my rescue. Within hours, my sister had emergency supplies, including tarpaulins, on their way to me by boat. I was to pick them up at the dock at six the next morning. While I had lost a roof and would have to vacate my derelict property, it was evident once I arrived at the dock that others were in far worse shape.
Recalling that the United Nations had a division of its Global Development Network in Barbados, I placed a call to see what aid could be arranged for Grenada. I was put through to the managing director, whom I had known from my CIDA days in Ottawa. Rosina Wiltshire was happy to know that I was in Grenada and immediately asked me to accept a temporary assignment to assist with an aid effort for Grenada. Without too much thought about what would be involved, I agreed to do all I could. I was almost immediately serving as the contact between the United Nations and the Grenadian government.
Power was out all over the island, buildings were damaged and most government offices were unable to function normally. The prime minister’s office was operating out of the prime minister’s home. Fortunately, the National Disaster Management Agency (NADMA), responsible for coordinating emergency services and supplies in times of crisis, was situated in one of the oldest and best-preserved forts on the island, Fort Frederick, built by the French in 1779 at the top of Richmond Hill. The agency had been spared the worst and was functioning well.
For the next three months, I was absorbed with coordinating relief efforts, which included Grenadian agencies, the United Nations, as well as Britain and the United States, and fighting to avoid overlap and achieve maximum effectiveness. This meant a lot of meetings, note taking and reporting back to the UN. Our priority was to keep lines of communication open and aid moving, despite so much of the island’s infrastructure having been damaged or destroyed.
I enjoyed the work and felt useful in the early days of the relief; but it eventually became clear to me that I was having my own delayed response to living through Hurricane Ivan, and it was starting to take its toll. My weak spot, since my Bangladesh days, was my back. I found it increasingly difficult to sit through long meetings and stay at my computer hour after hour. After several months, on the advice of my doctor, I resigned my temporary position with the UN. I had done what I could, and by then, others had joined the team from overseas and were able to take our efforts to another level. I now had to attend to my own rebuilding needs.
Erik Johnson, a friend and local architect, came to my rescue. He prepared a damage estimate for my insurance company. The insurance money would enable me to plan a new building. I decided on a structure suitable for a bed and breakfast. In the weeks ahead, I lived in rental facilities nearby and helped supervise the construction of what would later be Jenny’s Place.
Jenny’s Place opened in August 2005, and I ran it as a bed and breakfast, with bar and restaurant, for a decade. Operating a small business in Grenada, with its layers and layers of red tape, was a challenge, but we developed a good reputation and became a popular destination for visitors from all parts of the world.
When I sold Jenny’s early in 2018, I received many letters from people who had stayed with us over the years. They were disappointed that one of the last few locally owned properties on the island had been sold. It was time for me to move on, however, and spend more time with my family.
I had tried marriage twice more after David Craig. Both efforts were unsuccessful, despite my best efforts. My second husband was British and Australian. He joined me in Bangladesh and for a while in Grenada but due to numerous challenges, we divorced and he returned to Australia. My third attempt was made with optimism but rather impulsively before I was to have knee surgery. Before long, we found we were severely incompatible and parted. Both marriages were for the wrong reasons, one on the rebound, the other for practical reasons rather than love. They taught me a great deal about myself and what it takes to have a successful marriage.
Because my children were in Canada with families of their own, I headed north and reinvented myself once more. In 2009, at the age of sixty, I began a degree in psychology and trained to be a psychotherapist. Before completing my thesis, I secured a practicum position with Native Child and Family Services of Toronto. I had always been interested in Canada’s First Nations, and this position enabled me to get a much better understanding of the culture and challenges they face. After completing my degree requirements, I obtained my first counselling position with Addiction Services for York Region. It surprised me that the issues of addiction were so widespread in what was generally considered an up-and-coming part of the greater Toronto area.
Despite coming to this field later in life, I have enjoyed my work as a psychotherapist and counsellor. I do believe it is never too late to do something that really interests you. So much the better if it allows you to assist others. The opportunity to listen and develop what is called a therapeutic relationship, based on trust and respect, is fundamental to bettering ourselves and those around us. I can honestly say that I have benefited as much from my clients as they have from me. In this way, I feel that I have been doubly blessed.
In 2010, I received a phone call from someone at BBC Radio 4, who said the network wanted to interview all of the key participants in the Miss World 1970 program, including myself, the women’s liberation activists, Sally Alexander and Jo Robinson, host Michael Aspel, and Peter Jolly of Mecca. The title of the program was The Reunion, hosted by radio personality Sue MacGregor, and the episode would air in September 2010.
The interview was significant in several ways. It was my first opportunity to see some of these individuals after so many years. It was also the first time I met Sally Alexander and Jo Robinson and heard them speak. They still denounced pageants and stood by their protest. While I agreed with them on the need to promote women’s rights, I still found them reactionary during the interview. (They chastised Peter Jolly on air for the harmless offence of saying “ladies” rather than “women,” which to me is nitpicking—there are far more important issues facing women.) But despite decades of being placed in opposition to one another in the narrative that resulted from the 1970 pageant, we found we had more in common than we expected. We finally had an opportunity to connect as women. We came at things from different experiences and perspectives, but we shared deep concern for women’s rights and racial equality.
“Miss World 1970” received great feedback. I was contacted by a California group seeking the rights to produce a stage play on the pageant as well as by others who saw the story as a documentary opportunity. There was also an inquiry from Left Bank Pictures in the United Kingdom. This up-and-coming film company, now best known for such well-regarded films as The Damned United, and the sensational Netflix series The Crown, wanted to secure the rights to my story as Miss World 1970.
I contacted an entertainment lawyer in Toronto and contracted to give Left Bank Pictures the rights to portray me in what would eventually become the movie Misbehaviour. And then, apart from a couple of contract renewals, nothing happened. Not a peep. I had just about forgotten the contract existed when eight years later, I was advised that much, in fact, had happened: a script had been approved, intensive research had been conducted, and the funding had come through. The movie was scheduled to start filming in 2018.
I was visiting my brother in France when the producers of the film requested my presence in the United Kingdom to discuss the project with its director and other key figures. In June 2018, I travelled by train from downtown Paris, Gare du Nord, to St. Pancras station in downtown London and had my first in-person meeting with the people to whom I’d signed over my story.
I was shown the draft script and asked to provide comments. I was assured that the production would portray me and others accurately. I was told that the story was being pitched as a drama-comedy and that, to my surprise, my character would be a leading one in the movie. I had originally thought it would be about the protests and that I would be a bit character.
The actress due to play my part, I was informed, was Gugu Mbatha-Raw, a British actress of mixed racial heritage like me. Her name was not familiar to me, but when shown a photo of her, I recognized her from several recent movies. One that particularly stood out was Belle, a true story based on the campaign to abolish slavery in Britain, in which Gugu had played the leading role of Daido. I was pleased to know she would be portraying me.
In late October, I received an email from the movie’s director, Philippa Lowthorpe, asking me if she could give my email to Gugu, who wanted to contact me. I replied that I would be happy to talk with her. To my surprise, Gugu wanted to meet me and see where I had grown up in Grenada as part of her research to play my role in the movie. “I have never before played the part of someone who is actually alive,” she said.
After some consideration and discussion with my daughter, Sophia, it was decided that she and I would travel together to Grenada to meet with Gugu and her delightful mother, Anne Raw, a retired British nurse. It was a memorable visit. We got to know each other over the course of a week, staying at one of the locally owned hotels on Grand Anse Beach. We swam daily, had long chats and explored the island, including the Church Street home over my father’s law office where I had lived throughout my childhood.
I mentioned to Gugu when we were together that I still had the gold dress that had been stolen and eventually found on the night I won the Miss World contest. She was intrigued and asked if I would consider lending the dress to the film crew for the movie. I was happy to do so, and some weeks later, I received a request from one of the producers and the director to loan them my dress. Arrangements were made to transport it to the film studios in London. Gugu, whose size is similar to mine in 1970, tried it on, and it fit her very well. I was excited at the thought of this piece of my history being of use so many years later, but apparently, the dress did not make the movie’s final cut.
I never felt Gugu watching me, scrutinizing me, during the time we were together on the island, yet I saw a preview of Misbehaviour in January 2019 and was spellbound. Gugu played my part to perfection, every tic and gesture, and even my accent. I am confident the movie will be a success.
It is amazing to me that fifty years later, the Miss World 1970 contest is still a piece of my life and still of interest to others. It is humbling to think that some very smart film people believed it warrants a feature movie that will bring those events to an entirely new audience today.