Behind the Golden Gate

By Ann Whelan Devaux

Irish artist Richal Ryan travels to the tropical island of San Sebastian in the West Indies to meet her pen pal Daniel San Laurant. She thinks she has finally found the man of her dreams, and sparks indeed fly as soon as they meet face-to-face. The two hit it off after only a brief holiday in the sun. Daniel asks her to return to him, and love-struck Richal is happy to oblige.

She gives up her job in Dublin and begins a new life with the handsome Daniel. Together, they live in a magnificent oceanfront home, travel the world, and lead a charmed life many would envy. They eventually start a family, but soon after, the cracks in their whirlwind marriage begin to show. Richal realizes too late that she has lost her identity and independence by mistaking Daniels extreme control over her for love.

Their relationship becomes so estranged that they are now total strangers with four young children. As Daniel battles to keep his fortune, he uses the kids as pawns to ensure his wealth. From this point on, Richals nightmare battle is only beginning as she struggles to hold on to her beloved children and leave her abusive marriage behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546292135

Ann Whelan Devaux

Ann Whelan Devaux is an Irish artist and graduate of the National College of Art & Design in Dublin where she grew up. As an engraver, she worked in Ireland and New York doing calligraphy on Irish Crystal. A mother of four, she now divides her time between her native Dublin and the Caribbean, where she continues to do freelance writing and art.

Book preview

Behind the

Golden Gate

ANN WHELAN DEVAUX

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AuthorHouse™ UK

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Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

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© 2018 Ann Whelan Devaux. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/02/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9215-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9214-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9213-5 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

As I sit here and look out of my window at the white-capped waves of the ocean where the Caribbean Sea meets the Atlantic Ocean, a view that is all so familiar to me but now feels poignantly different. Different, because just like the strong currents mixing hues of blue waves that are now blowing to the west, my life too is now heading in a new direction. My only hope being a better and more positive one.

For seventeen years I have awoken to the same picturesque view that was almost predictable daily save for a few variations in the weather, but mostly endless glorious tropical sunshine that befits most of the West Indian islands. The little tropical volcanic island of San Sebastian was no exception. Mostly I opened my eyes with the sunrise and never once did I look out and not be in awe and appreciation of the beauty of the view that lay beyond the wall-to-wall windows of my room. The Master Bedroom in our home was situated on the top floor of the three level house and from there a magnificent panoramic view of the ocean, the rugged cliff slopes to the left of the property and directly in front the grassy point of land that jutted out as though it was embracing the ocean. Our home looked out directly onto the island of Martinique and on a clear day you could see the island vividly. On such a day you could see Diamond Rock to the left off the coast of Martinique near the Capital city of Fort-de-France, the beaches, the outline of the fields and scattered buildings on the hillside. You could see the little clusters of buildings where the towns were situated and at night when the outline of the island was lit up and you could see the lights of the moving traffic as it flickered like Christmas tree lights at what almost felt like at arm’s length away. It was amazingly beautiful, magical and enchanting to the eye.

I loved gazing out towards Martinique when it was visible with such clarity and scan the terrain envisioning who lived there and what kind of lives they had. I often wondered if someone somewhere over there was doing the same on that side of the ocean as they looked over in this direction and saw the tiny white dot of a house where we lived. I’m sure that someone’s imagination had to reach that far in thought. I had even thought maybe it would be possible for me to be looking over at a particular house there and wondering what kind of people lived there and what were their lives there was like, at the very time when someone over there was doing exactly the same as they gazed over here in this direction. Did they have happy contented lives or did they live their real lives behind a veil as often I felt I did? A life that looked picture perfect and often enviable on the exterior but beneath the surface lay a reality that was in a stark contrast to that as the years passed and deepened.

We were fortunate enough to live on the oceanfront in a real life slice of paradise and call this our home. The ocean was our extended garden where I could look out and see whales swim by and play during the month of March and the white sails of the yachts pass by on a daily basis. Even the ocean was seasonal in the sense that at certain times of year it would be more active than other periods. During November to December there was always the annual ARC, the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers, a nautical sailing race for avid sailors that began in the Canary Islands and finished in the West Indies. I enjoyed watching these boats come in over the horizon during this time and see the ocean spring to life with a renewed vigour after the slow season. I loved looking out at the various boats and seeing the people on them and thinking how excited and eager to set foot on land they must be after their time away at sea. My mind has always been the kind that wondered and looked beyond what I saw. It was always the kind of mind that would think of what went on, on the other side of something. I would often wonder what it felt like to be in someone else’s shoes. If it were me sailing for over a week, seeing the first sighting of land as we neared and felt tangibly close to it, just what thoughts would race through my mind as we passed the various homes along the coastline and made the approach to our final destination. I use to think of how I would feel if that was me and I knew every time exactly how I would feel. I’d be exhilarated, ecstatic and so relieved to have reached land and the relative luxury of civilization again. Even though I’d rather look out at the sea than be on it. As they sailed past the beautiful homes and the local scenes I always thought that they would be thinking of who must live in such homes and what kind of lives must they have? That is the very thought that would capture my own imagination because by nature I am inquisitive of what makes people tick. I love anything that stimulates the mind and holds your interest.

The front of our garden was lush and green most of the year round. There was a rockery to the left that was filled with larger than life size cactus which seemed to thrive there by the sea. I had found it impossible to grow any variety of flowers in this area because of the sea salt and the Trade Winds though the latter brought a constant breeze of coolness to where we resided making life so much more bearable in the tropical heat. There were only a few varieties of flowers that in all the years had even survived or in the rare case flourished in this particular section of the garden. This had kind of disappointed me as I had such visions for what I wanted for this garden which was lush with perfection but I never gave up trying to achieve the dream I had for even my garden. I had harboured secret visions of my own private oasis that would blow even my own mind away with its exquisite natural beauty. On the other side of the rockery was our Guest Cottage, a three-roomed luxury residence that we rented out throughout the year. The cottage comprised of a self-contained kitchen, dining & living room area. It had a bedroom with a romantic four poster bed that was en suite and a large private deck that had a large luxurious outdoor deep turquoise Jacuzzi. I would consider it beautiful like a little favourite gem that you love and feels special to you. The cottage reminded me of a private haven of paradise and a sanctuary of peace. It was the place where many of my friends who visited me from Ireland and abroad throughout the years, had stayed as my guests when it was vacant. It was a place that allowed them privacy and their own personal space while still being on the doorstep to where I was. It gave them a taste of luxury and being pampered for the time that they were here with me. I loved sharing that element of my life with them because for me sharing brings happiness. It always did because it was in my nature to share and get pleasure from that.

The back of the garden, situated on a hill going upwards, was equally as beautiful to me and had ocean views. Directly outside the kitchen area was a dining area with a large glass table and chairs that seated six for outdoor dining but which in reality was rarely used. Beyond it was a pretty ornate gazebo complete with gingerbread trellising, shingled roof and a little white latticed fenced area that was enclosed. This is where our tiny family dog Nutmeg resided even though in this restricted little fenced off part of the garden there was also a cute little dog house complete with veranda which she never spent a lone night in. She preferred the luxury of the gazebo and sitting up on the seat in there where she had a bird’s eye view of the world and more importantly my office and room which she kept a vigilant hazel glossy eye on. On either side of the outdoor dining area were terraces of tropical flowers, plants, shrubs and trees. The garden was a haven of fruit trees such as bananas, mango’s, avocados, breadfruit, sapodilla, almonds, coconuts to name but a few. These fruits all flourished without fail as did tomatoes and basil so I always had an abundance of homemade pesto when I had my thriving herb garden there. The higher you walked up the steep garden slope the more spectacular the view became with ever increasingly breath taking panoramic views of what had come to be part of the only life that I had ever known there. Every part of the garden had its own special and unique viewing points that looked out onto the ocean and the distinctive beauty of the Caribbean Sea. If a view and a garden could be regarded as a taste of heaven, then this majestic property was exactly that.

As if clockwork each afternoon at around four o’clock a flock of black frigate birds would fly over the point towards the rocky dry cliff side as though gently floating. They were amazing to watch as they hovered overhead with their enormous wingspan and often you would see one dive deep down into the ocean for fish or fly past with a fish in its beak. They are also known as the pirate birds and a native of the tropics. Daniel had told me that their wingspan often exceeds two meters in length. I use to look forward to seeing them each day and if I was in the garden or near a window in the house as they flew by I could never resist casting my gaze on them. We truly lived in a picture perfect postcard setting alongside nature except as the years unfolded the picture perfect life unravelled and disintegrated with the passing of time.

As the years rolled past I have often reflected on the early years when I was first here and spent time in the garden attending to the rockery and flowers. Up by the Point where we lived, tour buses would come up almost on a daily basis with flocks of mainly American tourists to see the view, take photographs and look out to Martinique. They would all disembark from the buses and most of those who were on these particular tours seemed to be of the aged variety and not very mobile from what I could judge. Before the property was all fenced in, had towering walls erected and the large wooden electronic gates installed, it was open to the road side. These tourists often tended to forget that this was private residential property, a family home and not public property. They would think nothing of meandering in and roaming around the garden, having a Kodak moment or two and often asked me to take their photos for them! I felt like I should have been the resident photographer there and made a killing for what it was worth! The most frequently comment remarked on was what a beautiful home it was and how fortunate I was to live there in such a lovely house and on such a beautiful island. In the beginning I use to indeed agree whole hearted in my mind and in my heart with how fortunate I was being surrounded by such intense idyllic beauty during the early halcyon days. As time moved on though I found myself thinking more and more that often the life that others perceive is not as perfect as it may seem behind the scenes. Often as the buses pulled away years later leaving the emptiness again I use to think to myself ‘If only you knew’. There was loneliness to the life I lived but I did not quite understand its full depth in the early stages or how it would manifest itself later on. I never realized just how very isolated I was or was yet to become in what would often become what felt like a gilded prison to me. A prison that was saturated with loneliness and emptiness in a material world of what some would consider excessive wealth and this made it more difficult to comprehend. The isolation felt more and more tangible with the passing of time and bore heavily on my heart that had always been so light, free and airy. I felt like a trapped butterfly with no way out of the constraints of an invisible prison to the world at times. I was vividly aware and conscious from early on that there was something from the reality of how I was living was missing. At this time I was trying to gage quite what it was and adapt to perhaps the awareness of this new life while fitting in as naturally as I could simultaneously.

I had met my husband in the most innocent of ways and probably the most destined of ways for me also and by that I mean that it was meant to be. All my life I believed in fate and destiny and that everything happens for a reason and not by accident, chance or design. I can recall quite vividly how it all unfolded and the way our very first contact ever began. I was in Ireland and sitting on the floor of our back family room next to the radiator where I always sat after I came home from work in the evenings, relaxing with my parents who were watching TV. I was flicking through the evening ‘Herald’ newspaper as I often did more out of sheer boredom than for reading anything that was educational or news worthy. When I took up the newspaper I usually read my Horoscope first and if it was good or showed any positive signs of being interesting I believed in it until the next day and if it was uninteresting I dismissed it as being pure and total senseless rubbish. Usually it was always the latter. Then my next favourite read was the personals, jobs section and adverts which tended to dwindle away time for me when I was at a complete loss of something to do. It was my form of entertainment for me. On this particular night I saw an advert for a ‘Pen Pal’ and as most of my life I had written to various pen pals and friends around the world, this caught my eye. I read and reread the advert several times and there was something about it that made me think that maybe, just maybe, this may be an interesting person to correspond with. I left the paper aside for a while and then went back to it; reread it one more time before reading it aloud to my mother and asking her what she thought. I asked her if she thought it would be a good idea to write to this person or not and her opinion was that I had nothing to lose by it. Seventeen years later as I am writing this, those very words ‘what have I to lose by it’ seem so very utterly ironic considering I am standing on what appears to be the darkest most frightening crossroads of my life where the answer to that very question is quite simply; I have everything to lose - my children and my life. Back then I never dreamt how on that easy going care free night I was about to do something that would be literally life altering in a cascading effect of ways as in good and in bad and even detrimental. Having read the advert and being interested enough to contemplate writing my main concern was where the hell were the West Indies? I decided to get a map out after my father started bringing Christopher Columbus into equation and telling me that he sailed there on the Santa Maria and my mother was off in tangents somewhere over in the complete opposite direction, in the Orient somewhere. I am sure that she was even en route there via the ‘Orient Express’ knowing her imagination which knew no bounds. I eventually located them in my World Atlas, wrote a letter, sent it off and thought no more about it. At the time it was about the month of October or November and I was dating someone a couple of months so romance via this outlet was the last thing on my mind. I was later to discover that my husband’s brother who was working and living in Dublin as a doctor at the time was the one who placed the advertisement on behalf of my husband, in the hope of him meeting a woman. Little did I know back then that it would be me or that he would become my future husband?

I completely forgot all about the letter and because I had embarked on a new romance at home in Dublin I was much more interested in what was happening in real life than what could happen in the fictional life of a letter. Within about two weeks I received a reply and whereas my letter had been very open, chatty and descriptive I found his one to be very closed. I was voluntary giving out information about my life but with his letter he would say he had three brothers and three sisters but there was not a mention of their names, what they worked at or anything that was personal. It was aloof, vague and devoid of any life or personality. In hindsight when I think of it now, having got to marginally know his family and come to realize that they were never close nor really ever knew what the meaning of a true family was, it is now very easy to see why his letters were so utterly clinical like that. There was a sterile distant quality to them that I did not fully understand at the time. He knew no different. That was his life and he was displaying the truth at the time. We corresponded for a few months and I kind of lost interest to some degree when I felt that I was opening up my mind and heart in writing and communications but I did not feel that it was reciprocated. It turned out that for the greater part of our marriage; it was no different.

In the February of the following year just a few months later, I went out one Sunday afternoon to meet a friend of mine in Bray, which was a seaside resort in County Wicklow. It was not really the kind of place that I would normally frequent but I just went out to get out of the house for the day. Upon my return a very happy and excited mother greeted me at the door to tell me that there had been a phone call for me from the West Indies and that she had the phone number which the person had left for me in order to call back. For the rest of the day my mother continuously went on about what a nice guy he seemed to be, how pleasant he was and consistently asked me would I not phone him back even though I was initially not all that bothered. It was about two or three days before my birthday and she said that maybe he was calling to wish me a ‘Happy Birthday’. My mother tended to be blessed with a vivid and over active imagination at the best of times never mind when there was hint of a prospective romance on the horizon. She had kind of convinced me that perhaps he was indeed calling in connection with my birthday which I must say I thought would be very thoughtful. I also thought he had no other reason as to why he should call me out of the blue like that and what would he be calling for otherwise, so at 10pm on the dot that night while I was lying all tucked up in my cosy warm bed I brought the phone upstairs and called him. I was quite nervous getting on the phone and didn’t know what to say initially but I knew that I was only replying to his call and being courteous. We chatted quite amicably and at ease and I thought that he had a beautiful voice. Nice voices were and always have been something that was very high on my ‘Like’ list with people. He said that he was calling to invite me over to San Sebastian and I basically took that with a grain of salt and not too seriously since we in reality did not really know each other. I also knew that if I was going over there, that I would be paying for myself and be beholden to no one whatsoever. I was retaining my independence.

The relationship that I was involved in fizzled out and as it came to an end I thought that I would like a refreshingly new chapter in my life. I looked towards my future with a renaissance eye and at this particular time felt that I was very much in control of my own destiny and the direction of my own life. I don’t know why but I thought that a break away from the Irish scene and the experience of a new culture might be just what I needed to uplift my spirits. I longed for the distraction of something new that would engage my mind and refresh my life. As I was contemplating this I received a tourist magazine about San Sebastian in the mail from Daniel. As I flicked through the pages and looked at the photos I was submerged into what may lie behind this perhaps, once in a lifetime opportunity. I remember one image in particular that had a distinct impact on me and that was a picture of Mango Bay which is a very beautiful natural lagoon just a short drive south of the Capital. It represented everything that was lush, green, tropical and fertile and what I envisioned the Caribbean to be. That one picture alone made my mind up for me and I wanted to see and savour this in real life so I decided to check out flight prices and then go. I can’t recall the exact date that I came on but it was sometime I think, around early May and I went laden with lots of gifts and goodies that I thought might be nicely appreciated.

The first time that I went to San Sebastian I was more excited about the prospect of going and looking forward to a whole new experience there that would be, in my mind, refreshing and new. I was not looking for a romance or ever even harboured the remote idea of having one there while I was away. In my eyes I was merely going on a holiday to meet someone who could possibly become a friend and I was happy with that idea and notion. I never looked beyond that thought. On the day that I arrived in Antibes International Airport for the first time I remember distinctly the intense wave of hot air that was almost overwhelming as soon as I stepped out of the door of the plane. The heat was amazing and I was suddenly excited about this new adventure that I was about to undertake and hopefully enjoy. Daniel had said prior to my arrival that he would meet me at the airport as he was bringing down a Belgian friend of his Lars who was leaving the island that same day on the British Airways plane I had just arrived in on. Lars had a neighbouring villa near the home in Calabash Estate where Daniel was building his new home overlooking spectacular ocean views. Upon arrival outside the airport I walked out from the arrivals hall and walked over to where there were crowds of people mostly casually dressed who were obviously awaiting passengers from the flight, stood. The airport was much smaller and more intimate than I expected. Nothing like what I would expect an international airport to be like. Tour guides and taxi men stood in line with tourist and people’s names handwritten on boards or pieces of card that they were due to collect while representatives from the various hotel resorts waited holding the name of the hotel where they were to collect tourists who would be residing with them. As quickly as I arrived out, Daniel was in front of me and before I knew it he was pulling my suitcase behind him with his right hand as I followed him not quite knowing where exactly we were going or what was happening. He was wearing a pair of crisp white cotton shorts that had a tiny embroidered emblem of pale dusky pink flowers on the back right hand pocket which I thought was very cute. He later told me that his brother Christopher who was the same brother that we had met through had given them to him because they were too small for him but they fit Daniel perfectly with his slim delicate frame. We walked across the road and there by a small white wooden fence stood his Belgian friend Lars who was casually leaning against the fence smiling. He was rounded and stocky with pale skin, long wiry brownish wispy hair, a shaggy beard and matching moustache. He had a hippie Woodstock vibe to him and was dressed in an almost kaftan type loose orange and brown ‘Flower Power’ top that silently screamed ‘Peace Man’. He was so laid back and seemed to be so very much in his own zone that he appeared to be in stark contrast to Daniel who looked very French, very reserved and I thought exceptionally handsome. I remember the thought crossing my mind that I was glad that I had taken this chance to come down here and make this trip. I felt like I had done the right thing by coming here. Daniel introduced me to Lars who asked how my flight had been and we basically just briefly spoke about flights, where I had come from and where he was going. He seemed nice, pleasant and easy going, and I instantly liked him and imagined him to be a nice person. We wished each other well, said goodbye and that was the first and last time that I was ever to see Lars. Little did either of us know upon saying a casual happy go lucky ‘goodbye’ that this would be the very last time that we would both see Lars alive. Daniel and I made our way to his new red Dodge pickup truck where he put my baggage in the back and then we hopped into the front. I had not got a clue where I was nor where I was going but it felt dangerously exciting in the nicest possible way. I was delighted to be where I was and looking forward to my holiday and yet there was another little part of me where a tiny voice inside my head was asking me if I really knew what in the name of God I was doing and if I was safe. I did think that it was a bit late in the game at this stage to be wondering if I was safe considering I was in a truck with a complete stranger but then I also thought I had put myself there by my own choosing. My gut instinct assured me I was in safe hands so I listened to that as per usual.

We drove out of the airport down by Vale Fort along the coast road and through the villages of Bayeux and La Rochelle into the rich rain forest areas of Foix and Fond St Pierre’s. This is where Daniels mother’s countryside ‘Villa St. René Marie’ was. It was situated on the outskirts of Beauvais town amongst the lush green fertile mountains that were densely covered in endless hues of tropical coloured foliage. ‘Villa St. René Marie’ was just on a little side road off the main road that would lead down the sweeping, twisting and intertwining steep roads that curved down to the town of Beauvais which was nestled below the majestic twin peaks Les Haute Montagne’s.

When we arrived at the Villa, Daniel opened the heavy wooden pale blue gates and we drove into this little hidden little jewel of an oasis with a wooden gingerbread one level building that looked like something that time had forgot or swept over. It was a rather rustic and simple little Villa with a wraparound veranda that had clusters of old painted little rocking chairs in groups on it and little rickety wooden chairs with locally woven little seats on them. It had an old world ‘feel’ to it and it was very reminiscent of stepping back in time into an aged era of a plantation property life style. To the left of the house when you walked down a couple of steps was a small rectangular shaped turquoise swimming pool with a little shingled covered umbrella shaped shading area at the top where sun loungers were scattered for resting. The water looked inviting set amongst the colourful array of flowers and exotic fruit trees that adorned the entire garden. Although the villa was centred with pride of place upon arrival in the estate, it was as if it was the home itself was enveloped to second stage by the sheer beauty and magnificence of this cornucopia of natural wonder of nature. The gardens were meticulously cared for and obviously a labour of love, thought and time had gone into the caring for these well maintained estate grounds. Not so much for the house though which was simple and old fashioned and could have done with a most welcome dash of tender love and care, as well as a fresh coat of paint just to restore it back gently into this current century. In contrast the gardens in this lush countryside setting were obviously where all the main source of love and attention had been lavished over the years. The home was secondary in all of this and compared to the gardens it almost felt as though it had been forgotten and even neglected in many ways. It had just been basically maintained and most definitely felt more like a house rather than a home that had at any time been loved. It was devoid of personality, even though it did have a quaint, rustic charm to it but mostly because of the beautiful garden setting and its surroundings.

I was introduced to Joseph who was the resident gardener and caretaker of the property and lived in what I would consider a tumble down wooden shack that was situated just off the main driveway up to the house. Joseph had dark coloured skin, heavy features, walked with a distinctive defined limp and looked like he had just stepped out of the pages of the original volume of ‘Huckleberry Finn’ and belonged somewhere along the Mississippi River. I expected to hear the sounds of ‘Ol’ Man River’ spring to life at any God given moment. When he spoke it was as though he had grunted and I could not understand one word, a single syllable or sound that came out of his mouth. I found the whole ‘Joseph experience’ both amazing and fascinating a la carte, and somewhat engagingly amusing. My mind was blown away by the very fact in itself that not only could the cultured and refined spoken sophisticated Daniel understand what he was saying but that he was, what I was fast beginning to think, was gifted enough to communicate and hold a conversation with him. This was utterly mind blowing to me! It was like watching two completely different cultures or planets collide for the first time and communicate face to face. Josephs thick tongue seemed to have an independent life all of its own and it seemed to get in the way with a very moist saturated lisp and a slight dribble that he had to correct with his hand every time he said any amount of decent words. Daniel was the complete and utter contrast speaking in a quiet, calm and reserved educated and articulately eloquent manner. It was fascinating to watch and I was quite captivated by this complete intriguing scenario!

I was then introduced to the maid Chantelle who was dressed in typical Caribbean plaid traditional costume, had a lovely warm smile and seemed reserved and pleasant in the most simple way ever. She was like a ray of sunshine that had just sprung out of a vintage era and was nothing short of bowing down to me as she held the sides of her colourful skirt. Joseph brought my baggage in and I was put in the back bedroom at the end of the house near where the kitchen was and a little lost in time bathroom that was very basic. The main centrepiece in the bedroom was the centuries old mahogany bed that had elaborate ornate carvings and had been brought over from France probably during the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte. Daniel informed me that Princess Margaret had resided here in this private piece of paradise while she stayed on the island numerous times. As I was unpacking my cases and taking out the gifts that I had brought for Daniel to give to him, Daniel was in the other bedroom which was at the front corner of the house and the nicer bedroom by far. It had a tall dark wooden four poster bed that had two matching side tables on either side with a dated lamp on each one. The room had two rustic Louvre doors leading onto the veranda and similar wall to wall windows that had so many decades of white coats of paint on them, that there was almost a sculptural feel to them but they were very quaint. There were two other doors in this room also, one that led into the living room and another that led into an adjacent bedroom. I had barely gone through my bags and had my gifts organized when Daniel came to the open door of my room and said to get ready that we were going to the Mineral baths in Beauvais. I left my bags, got my swimsuit and went with him before it got dark. I had given him the bag of gifts which I had brought for him and I remember on the drive down to the mineral baths he said quite nonchalantly that he had given the expensive bottle of ‘After Shave’ that I had brought for him to Joseph the care taker. I thought this was a rather insensitive thing to say to someone who had only minutes earlier given you that exact gift which was got exclusively for him. I ignored the comment but I did feel slightly hurt by it and would have much rather that he never said anything to me about it, other than ‘Thank You’. Little actions such as this should have set off warning bells to me but I dismissed them to the back of my mind. As time passed I did this way too often and I didn’t seem to be quite aware of just how regularly I did it. Putting things to the back of my mind that he did which I felt were innately wrong or which I could not fully comprehend became such a regular part of the structure of my life, that it acted as a way for me to cope with the situation or rather his actions. It became the ‘norm’.

Unknown to me at the time the Mineral Baths which were set in an exquisite Botanical Garden setting were part of ‘Beauvais Estate’ which was part of his family’s property. This estate had a long history and was originally part of thousands of acres of land that had been granted to the San Laurant family by one of the Kings of France centuries ago. It had been transformed from a working plantation that produced limes, copra and cocoa into one of the main touristic attractions on the island. The gardens were originally created by Daniels grandfather and when he passed, Daniels mother had over the years upgraded, restored and expanded the gardens as she was an avid gardener with a true love and passion for flowers. The luxuriously lush green gardens were very alluring, peaceful and serene to walk through. We went in just after they were closed to the public so that we had the entire gardens to ourselves and were completely alone with nature as we explored them together hand in hand. The only sound that could be heard was that of what can only be described as a pure symphony of nature surrounding us as we walked through the pathways in the garden. I marvelled at the diverse range of tropical flowers and plants that flourished in this portion of a private paradise. The richness and intensity of colour in each step of flowers that we passed seemed more explosive and breathe taking than the ones I laid eyes on only seconds before. We walked down to where the Mineral baths were and on down further to where the exquisite ‘Ruby Falls’ waterfall were and where Daniel explained to me how the colour of the rocks altered at different times of the year and also how during the rainy season the water from the falls would be heavier and therefore the pool that the falls fell into would as a result be deeper. He showed me the ‘Indoor Baths’ for private bathing and also the two large outdoor pools which was the one that most tourists chose to use. As we passed the old ruins of where the original baths were said to have been, he told me that it was said that Napoleon’s Josephine was said to have bathed there centuries ago as she was born and lived nearby. The stone baths looked so deep and narrow that I recall thinking how small and petite she must have been or if she had any weight on her at all, how crushed she must have felt entombed in this.

While we walked around the gardens Daniel told me about how he had spent some of the happiest times of his childhood down in Beauvais staying with his grandmother at ‘Beauvais Estate’. The gardens of the estate sounded like his private playground as he spent his days alone and with nature. He seemed a loner even as a child and seemed to live in a world that was his alone and devoid of friends or any real form of companionship. This was a trait that I had known and seen from the time I came to meet him and it is only now upon reflection that I see that perhaps the nearest and longest that he ever had to a close friend was perhaps me. Relationships, emotional attachments and bonds were not something that he seemed to know, understand or be of any importance to him in the way that they would be to most people. It was as though he had almost never been able to break the mould of his early childhood and the lack of love and affection that he was clearly denied from his mother. Had the love of her children rivalled that of her interest in flowers perhaps her family would not have been as completely dysfunctional as they turned out to be later on in life. Nor would they have been as crippled in life with their own relationships as they seemed to be and none of her children seemed to be excluded from that sadly enough. As a mother she seemed to be completely devoid of any form of maternal love and affection, which I found to be rather sad. It saddened me that someone who had the gift of children in their lives should miss out so much on the very love that a child should bring to your life. It was almost as though the instinctive feelings of true motherhood had surfaced past her and she was not even aware of it. The ones who this had the most damaging effect on were Daniel and his siblings. Each of them even into their late adulthood seemed to have the lasting echoing effects of this damage that seemed to haunt them to some degree throughout their lives.

When we returned to ‘Villa St. René Marie’ it was getting dark and we sat talking on the veranda in the warmth of the moonlight as the most fascinating display of fireflies magically lit up the night sky in front of us. I was mesmerized by the sheer beauty of them as I had never witnessed anything as alluringly spectacular as this before. The sound of nature and crickets calling seemed to have an animated life of its own and that was our backdrop as we sat chatting while getting to know each other, completely relaxed with each other’s company. Later that evening after we had a meal that was prepared for us by Chantelle we went into Daniels room where we continued to talk the night away. It was here that he asked me if he could give me some Reiki for the first time. I had not got a clue what he was talking about at this time as I had never heard of it before. I did not know that Reiki is a Japanese technique for stress reduction and relaxation, which promises to promote healing and is administered by ‘laying on hands’. I lay on the bed and he started to give me Reiki starting from the head up. As soon as he got down to my waist area I took to going into convulsions laughing mainly from nerves as I wasn’t quite sure if this was a joke or if he was hoping for a free feel! Little did I know how serious he was about Reiki and how it was a major part of his life that he practiced throughout the day, every day of his life. After my unexpected little outburst of nervous energy that induced an unexpected fit of giggles, that was the end of the Reiki session and shortly after I retired to my sleeping chambers for my first night in paradise. In all the years that I spent with Daniel not a single day passed where he did not consistently give himself Reiki whenever he had the opportunity throughout the day at regular intervals. It was as natural and essential to him as breathing. Upon waking up each morning, whereas I would be full of life and wide awake upon opening my eyes and unable to lie in bed. Daniel was the complete opposite. He had to lie still and almost just adjust to the fact that he had awoken. He would then place his hands on his own neck to begin administering Reiki to himself. During our happy times together I use to tell him to press his hands harder as in choke himself and if I was lucky I would get a little smirk which would have disappeared as quickly as it emerged.

When I awoke early the following morning I opened the two sets of aged wooden louvered windows that were in my bedroom looking out onto the lush green landscape that was before me as I absorbed the moment. I had heard the heavy tropical rain downpour much earlier on and was yet to discover that this was almost a daily ritual at this time of the morning in this countryside. I was also to discover that as fast as the rains came, they dried up and the day would usually be restored to its former tropical warm sunny self. As I looked out of the window and watched the tiny little graceful humming birds flutter and splash around on the rain pools on the wet leaves of the flowers and plants I listened to the distant mooing of cows in what sounded like a valley below. It all felt very earthy and I felt a deep connection with nature. I was utterly fascinated by these new surroundings and every part of me was absorbing everything. Daniel took me for a walk around the gardens showing me the various array of flowers, fruits trees and telling me the names of them all; Angel trumpet, Bird of Paradise, Anthuriums, Heliconias, Poinsettias, Hibiscus and Bougainvillea’s to mention but a few. I found it as overwhelming to remember the names of them all as much as I did to take in their beauty. I remember getting so very excited when I saw the rows of pineapples growing there in the rich brown soil down near where Joseph’s rickety shack was. I was fascinated by it all and completely consumed by the vastness of such beauty in nature. On one occasion as we strolled around the garden through the flowers and fruit trees he decided to climb a particular mango tree to get some fruit. I had my camera in hand recording some Kodak moments. As he climbed up the tree and went out on the branch I could see the branch bend and bow the further he went to the edge and even though I would say he was light in frame, just as he went to reach out for the fruit at the end of the branch I heard a real rice crispy sound of ‘snap, crackle and pop’ which I did indeed photograph before he missed the fruit and went spiralling down on the said branch to hit the ground with a semi dignified landing. One minute he seemed in control as he reached out towards the ripe fruit resembling the ‘Creation of Adam’ the fresco painting by Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel and the next minute he was sprawled on the ground completely unfazed. I found it so amusing unlike Daniel who was more disappointed that his plan went awry and completely arse ways. I loved little fun moments like that and was so elated to have captured it on camera. More than any photographs are worth are the negatives that we have of them stored in our hearts and memories. They are the true eternal treasures.

On about the third day there his youngest brother Phillip arrived with his then girlfriend, which I found a bit odd considering we were only getting to know each other. I found it a little bit awkward considering they all knew each other whereas I really didn’t know any of them. What I failed to realize at this point was that although they all were familiar with each other, there was no closeness or real connection between Daniel and his family. He was as much akin to them as I was at that moment and I felt the feeling was shared by his brother. In hindsight I find it profoundly sad. I didn’t find them the easiest of people to chat with or engage in conversation. His brother was reserved and polite but from day one there was something standoffish about his girlfriend. She just seemed disengaging unfriendly, moody, and made no effort to be really pleasant at all. She was almost verging on what I would classify as rude. We remained in Beauvais for a few more days before heading up the scenic West Coast on our drive up north to where Daniel resided. We made the hour long drive up to Vichy to Daniels home and I enjoyed absorbing in all the picturesque bays along the coast line, villages and countryside that we passed. First we passed the little sleepy village of Chambéry which seem to have a pace of life that was all of its own. We drove over a little wooden bridge that rattled as you drove over it and entered the town. There was a church to the left of the bridge that was big and imposing for the size of the little village yet in all its greyness it seemed submerged and almost non-significant. Along the one main street that rose up into the mountainous terrain were clumps of small wooden tattered houses and little rustic make shift bars. The locals walked around in no rush to get anywhere and as though there was no rush to get anything done. Time was at a standstill here. Women walked around barefoot with heads full of pink and green plastic almost illuminated coloured curlers like a helmet encrusting their heads. Children played oblivious to what was going on around them, and even the dogs and chickens that roamed around beneath the stilted wooden shacks in the shade lay resting lazily or plodding around with no incentive to get where they were going. Nothing seemed to be happening. Time was at a glorified standstill. Little old dusty looking local ladies sat by the side of the road, some toothless and worn out looking next to a little wooden box that sold drinks, local fruits, nuts and snacks. They looked as though they had been sitting there with their heads down forlorn forever and never sold a thing. Many of them looked as though they had long giving up on the hope indeed of ever selling any thing again. It made me wonder how half of them survived and lived even basically. We drove up the narrow intertwining mountainous road that went through the rain forest and then led us silently into the little fishing village of Alençon which pretty much resembled the same reminiscent setting as the previous sleepy village. We drove up past Mango Bay and to Mont-de-Marsan where Daniel stopped to show me the sweeping panoramic view capital of the Caribbean ocean coastline, the Vichy peninsula, the Capital, and all along the coast of Roubaix and as far north as D’isle Privas. I was relieved to see some form of civilization and to know that I would be experiencing some shopping and normal activities after my stint in the country. We drove through the Capital which looked rather dilapidated and lifeless. The buildings and shops appeared run down and neglected. The streets were filled with what looked to me like poor vendors selling the same repetitive items, local crafts or produce. For a city it initially lacked ambience, character and any real soul in my eyes. It represented to me any thoughts I ever had of what a third world nation would be like. As we drove past the harbour where the large cruise ships would dock I commented to Daniel that there was an awful lot of poverty and poor people on the island. He was very assertive when he said:

There is no poverty in San Sebastian. You will never see anyone hungry or starving. People can always eat as there are mangos, bananas, coconuts everywhere and they can grow their own crops.

I listened to what he said and he was adamant in his belief but as delicately as I could put it I replied:

Well in my eyes I see poverty and a hard life in many of the places we have visited and passed and by that I mean old poor dishevelled people sitting by wooden boxes selling a hand full of basically nothing to make a living. I’d call living in a tumbledown one roomed shack with no basic living amenities such as a toilet pretty poor and what I would call poverty.

He was quick to comment:

You don’t see anyone starving or hungry here, ever.

I reflected on what I had seen and witnessed, people begging and asking for money from anyone white or an obvious tourist, shacks that were nothing more than a shelter over someone’s head, street vendors mostly women trying to make a daily living selling what would be considered crap in my country. Rum shops that seemed to have men who had a life of struggle etched all over them or who drowned themselves in alcohol to deal with the difficulties of life. Daniel was able to think that because no one starved on the island they were not poor. He was born into inherited excessive wealth and a child with a platinum spoon in his hand. He never knew hardship, wondering where money would come to feed him or a family, where the money for a bill or education would come from. He was born into a family that were surrounded and supported by maids, cooks, nannies, gardeners, maintenance workers, tutors. Any menial work or domestic chores were not done by any member of his family because it was the low class black people who did this. In his eyes it was ok for them to hold these types of positions as someone had to do this for his class in society. There was never a thought how they too might like a better quality of life, dream of having a nice house, car and not have to do the kind of work they did to survive and make ends meet. He did not seem to think that they were as entitled to their dreams and wishes as much as he was. He was born into a life of privilege and the only difference between him and them was circumstances of birth. Some were born into poor families. The bridge of difference between the lifestyle of rich and poor was too divided for him to fully comprehend or have any real compassion for. He was a replica of his mother and most of the so called elite on the island. The colonial mentality was still not only alive and well but I was to later on discover ‘thriving’. It existed in what was like an undercover world where the rich kept their wealth and power to themselves and this excluded empowering or helping anyone in the lower class to make a step up in their lives. If you were poor you had to do this for yourself. If you came from wealth you were shielded, protected and concealed up the ladder of riches. These little islands were like mini power worlds onto themselves that were almost felt excluded from the real world. You could get away with murder because money and power is all that is needed to buy people and do what you want. I knew I would be wasting time saying this to Daniel because it was oblivious to him.

We drove on down past the local airport that was at the foot of Vichy Peninsula where Daniel lived on his mother’s property called ‘Villa del Vichy’. As we drove up the hill to his house he said that if I did not want to stay there that he could show me somewhere better or nicer. The dwelling that he lived in and called home was basically a two roomed little prefab building that consisted of a bed room/office and a tiny dull bathroom. The room had a double bed in it and was so close to the bath room on the right side that if you opened the bath room door it basically hit the bed. What I was soon to learn was that when you threw your leg out of the bed it was almost in the toilet! Bidet living! It would have been more suitable as a coop for a couple of free range chickens than a single person never mind a couple! On the left side of the bed was a big wide wooden desk that had once belonged to Daniel’s father. That is where he kept his phone & fax machine alongside his big heavy typewriter as this was the era pre-computers and high technology. Directly opposite the bed was a large glass sliding patio door with a view that looked out past the whole of Vichy Beach and Roubaix Bay. The view was stunning and just to frame that picture perfectly was a beautiful Flamboyant tree in the garden that was ablaze with colour and life on the hill that sloped down in the gardens. Surrounding it were plum trees that I use to get such joy from picking plums straight from the tree and eating them there and then. When you stepped out through the sliding doors from the bedroom there was a small concrete patio that had a wrought iron seat to the left, a little wooden picnic table with a bench directly in front of you and to the right what resembled a little basic make shift kitchen with a fridge, cooker and a sink, and no more. It was beyond simple but I thought it was nice and accepted it because I was with someone whose company I was enjoying and with whom I was happy to get to know. I was totally distracted from my life in Ireland and I felt absorbed in this new contrasting life that I was having in San Sebastian.

We soon fell into a familiar routine of how most of the rest of my holiday was going to unfold. It was amazing to me how easy and natural it all felt and I felt that I was enjoying doing purely simple normal easy things. We would awake at about 7am, get washed, dressed and I would make a lunch for us to take with us before we drove up to Calabash Estate where Daniel was building his new home. The structure of the main house and foundation of the cottage was built when I first arrived but there were no windows or doors, no plastering, no painting and no floor tiles or fittings or anything in the house. It had not reached this stage in progress yet nor was habitable. There were workmen, builders, masons, carpenters, tilers, glaziers, electricians, gardeners and