Bermuda for Two: Saltus Grammar School

On a background of deep green foliage, Bermuda is a watercolor of pastels beginning with the turquoise of the sea. The stucco of the cottages are painted shades of manganese and cerulean; rose madder and diluted pink opera, lemon yellow and new gamboge, topped off with bright, white limestone roofs. Except for our cottage, which was barn red.

Bus stops painted pink signal buses going toward Hamilton, the main town on the island. Bus stops painted blue signal going away from town. Our routine into town began on our first day: turn right on South Road, walk an eighth of a mile, cross at the zebra crossing, walk several yards and wait at the shelter of the pink bus stop. On that first foray into Hamilton, we met three Canadian sisters (not the nun kind) at the bus stop. I tried out what became my signature salutation: “Nice to meet you. We did not vote for him.” The five of us chatted until the bus came; the women had a pile of helpful information about Bermuda.

Now, in full tourist flow, we boarded the bus and I chatted with Shirley. A black woman with her head turbaned and dressed in gorgeous colors and with bracelets going up her arms, she was a native Bermudian. She told me that as a child, she hadn’t liked the water. She played marbles and jumped rope. She answered all my questions about grocery stores and the post office in a soft and lilting voice. A hospital administrator, she exited the bus when we did and pointed us toward the visitor center. I wondered if Bermudians like Shirley look at tourists like us with resignation and fatigue.

You have to be a resident of Bermuda to drive a car; the only rentals available to tourists are mopeds and bicycles. Bermuda is an archipelago although a lot of the tiny islands are connected by causeways and bridges into one large land mass shaped like a fish hook. It might have been fun to zip around on mopeds twenty-five years ago but it was more than our combined lives were worth to even step off the sidewalk now.

In the visitor center, we got ourselves oriented with the help of a young woman with elaborately painted and pointed gel nails, which made it easy to follow her directions as she ran one nail up the streets on a map. Up Queen Street, right on Reid to the Phoenix pharmacy and the Rock Island Café and up Woodlands to the Saltus School, our primary destination of the day.

But first, coffee (not great) and tea (excellent)at the café. A funky little place with a ceiling that looked part Tudor, part cathedral. A wren was dining in and eating very well indeed. A man in a long skirt with hair to the floor meditated outside the doors to the loo, which were covered in cartoon paintings so large, it was hard to find the door handles.

Lunch at Wild Greens: it was clear we had a found a place frequented by the locals. We had enormous salads created by a man with the deepest basso profundo I have ever heard. My “Greek” salad had everything imaginable on it: greens, micro-greens, olives, carrots, peppers, tomatoes, nuts, seeds, chicken chunks, feta. Plus, a fabulous dressing.

The temperature was not high and there was a cool breeze, otherwise, I think I would have fainted in the humidity. I felt dizzy much of the morning and particularly in the trudge up the hill to the Saltus School, an imposing white building atop a hill. Not knowing how to get to the entrance, we first circled most of the fenced-in playfield where uniformed students were at their games.

“I say!” declared Andrew.

This was Andrew’s thing. He had asked me if I thought we would hear British accents saying “I say!” on Bermuda. I said I didn’t think people talked that way anymore.

“Oh, I say!” he responded.

“Andrew. You are not going to walk around Bermuda saying ‘I say!’”

“I say!”

The uniformed guard at the gate told us that we had to have an appointment to enter. I was ready to tell him we hadn’t voted for Trump but Andrew explained that his father had been headmaster here during WW II. He called ahead and let us through.

We waited in the hall outside of reception. On a wall of photographs, Andrew spotted a small one of his father with a group of uniformed dignitaries.

By the time we entered the reception, every official in the school must have been informed that the “Booker family” was on campus because everywhere we went, they knew who we were and treated us like royalty. The director of enrollment, Amanda Skinner, met us at reception. A beautiful woman in her fifties in a comfortably fitted dress and sandals with glittery cabochons. Her handshake was firm and her smile lit up her face.

Amanda took us to the Alumni Room to see the portraits of all the former headmasters. Amanda’s grandfather was second-in-line, Andrew’s father was third. There was his name “Robert E. E. Booker” 1934-48. There was the portrait. Andrew looked up at it.

“That’s not my father,” he said.

So, there’s a mystery. Was it just a bad portrait? The eyes seemed right. The name was correct. Amanda and everyone thereafter was nonplussed. Andrew said he somehow remembered a portrait at his childhood home. Had his father taken his. in which case, who was this? He would see what he could find out.

The Booker That Wasn’t

Third in Line and note the arithmetical error

We were passed onto Katie Kostiuk, director of alumni, whose office was in the building where Robert Booker would have lived. Katie was enthusiastic about meeting us as she was in the process of organizing all the old records.

“We didn’t vote for him,” I said.

“Oh, that’s all right.” A pause. “But good to know.”

Andrew gave Katie information about his father and his three half brothers who had also attended the school.

We met the headmistress, Mme Julie Rousseau. Katie took a picture of us with Julie and another with Amanda. Amanda took pictures of us with Katie. I felt honored to be included. Andrew was pleased and, I think, a little overwhelmed.

Elena and Andrew, Saltus School, Bermuda

Katie called down to the student shop to ask the staff to let us in to buy some Saltus merch (my word.) Andrew bought a polo shirt for his daughter and I got a keychain with the Saltus logo.

After so much time spent in air-conditioned rooms, I was less dizzy. We walked down the hill to the market, which turned out to be a Waitrose, the swankiest of U.K. grocery chains. I filled the cart with fruit, vegies, eggs, chicken, cheese, milk, yoghurt, mayo, butter, bread, McVities digestives and mint humbugs. At the checkout, I asked how we could order a taxi and the checker called behind her:

“Hugh, could you get these lovely people a taxi?”

“Thank, you,” I said. “We didn’t vote for him.” Then to the man behind me in line. “We didn’t vote for him.”

We rested for a long time once we got home, made ham and cheese sandwiches, then rested some more. In the evening, we watched the moon rise on the beach. It had been a lovely day.

Letter from Winston Churchill to my boyfriend’s father