The Questing Vole
Jamaica
The Vole's sagacious manservant, W.F. Deedes, this week found himself in the middle of a hypothetical Bateman cartoon: 'The Man Who Told A Rastafarian He Was At Haile Selassie's Funeral.' The scene is as follows. After a hard morning investigating the governor general of Jamaica (to which beautiful island we have fled for reasons too complicated to rehearse here), we stop to refuel W.F.D. at a rice-andpea emporium in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. The proprietress, Miss Pat, in addition to being a magnificent cook, is a firm believer in the divinity of Emperor Haile Selassie. Since W.F.D., in the course of his long and distinguished career, actually met the Emperor several times, our guide and helper volunteers by way of conversation: 'Lord Deedes was at Haile Selassie's funeral.' 'I was.' confirms Deedes. It would not be an exaggeration to report that Miss Pat goes spare. 'You see me get very aggressive if you mention one more ring bout His Majesty "funeral",' Miss Pat shouts, very aggressively. Each attempt to defuse the situation, by inadvertently reintroducing the word 'funeral', ratchets it up. 'Is lies,' Miss Pat says. 'I don't wan' hear bout His Majesty "funeral".' It looks as if the Dai4 Telegraph's nonagenarian star reporter is about to be thrown off the side of a mountain. The Vole, having a mouthful of jerk chicken and no stomach for a fight, is eyeing the door and contemplating leaving W.F.D. to fend for himself. He need not have worried. W.F.D. diagnoses the problem — Haile Selassie is not dead and his 'funeral', therefore, is a more than usually sensitive subject — and effects a 180-degree 'vibe change', within minutes, by shifting his focus on to his encounters with the Emperor during the time when everyone agreed he was alive. He recalls a wise, intelligent and noble man with a proper respect for the proprieties of format dress. Miss Pat ends up `bigging up' W.F.D. ecstatically. As well you might, if you've just shaken hands with a man who has shaken hands with a divine being. As we shuffle back to our wagon, W.F.D. winks: `Wasn't in politics for nothing.'
Numbered with this island's benevolent 1 'II spirits is Oliver Foot, son of the former governor general Sir Hugh Foot. Among his good works. Mr Foot founded and, for 15 years, ran the charity Orbis, a mobile eyehospital which establishes eye clinics, cornea banks and suchlike all over the world. On one occasion, he recalls, he found himself asking Cardinal Sin of the Philippines whether he
would be prepared to donate one of his eyes for a corneal transplant. Cardinal Sin paused a very long time. Then, looking as sick as a parrot, he said, yes, he'd donate one of his eyes if it really would give sight to a blind person. Mr Foot says the Cardinal cheered up considerably when it was explained that the donation would be post-mortem. He eventually took a raincheck, however, pending permission from the Pope, who, he said, was technically in charge of his eyes.
Jamaican Roadside Signage: A MicroAnthology. Plaintive: 'You have just passed Father's Restaurant.' Credibilitytaxing: 'It is my intention to apply for a licence at the next session of the licensing authority.' Multi-functional: 'Assemblies of Holiness Race Course.' Prohibitive of specific food types: `No selling of jerk pork, fish or chicken on the market sidewalk.' And does-what-it-says-on-the-tin: 'Amnesia Night Club —The Club to Remember.'
Terrible sight on the telly the other night. Turned it on by accident, we did. And there was Barbara Bush, mother of the leader of the free world, looking like a cane toad — and being interviewed by CNN's interrogatory meth uselah, Larry King, also looking like a cane toad, albeit one lower down the lunch queue. Thus Barbara, on Iraq: 'My gosh, it's a big sandy country!'; on Laura Bush: 'What a woman!'; and on personal relations: 'It's better to have a friend than an enemy. Think about that. That's probably the best advice anyone will ever give you.' There's plenty more where that came from, she promises, in her autobiography.
o Ian Fleming's Caribbean fastness, Goldeneye, to consult the record-mogulturned-hotelier Chris Blackwell on the subject of the forthcoming Tory leadership election. Mr Blackwell, as well as having a keen ear for
a catchy tune (he discovered Bob Marley), happens to be a shrewd reader of Conservative party tea-leaves. In the early 1970s, he put a cool grand on a certain milk-snatcher becoming the next leader of the Conservative party, at a time when you could get odds of six to one against. He laughed all the way to the bank. This year he is keeping his powder dry. Presented with the name of the likely candidate for the chop, and the likeliest of his potential successors, Mr Blackwell volunteered: 'Who?'
As we are being seen off the property, the opportunity arises to investigate Celebrities and their Trees of Choice. Since 1956, it has been the habit of guests at Goldeneye — now owned by the abovementioned Mr Blackwell — to plant an exotic tree in the garden. The tradition was inaugurated by Sir Anthony Eden, who lodged a Santa Maria in the sod. Decades later, Johnny Depp planted a guava.
Just up the hill is to be found Noel Coward's retreat, Firefly. A more private side of the Master can be glimpsed by rifling through the cupboards, whose contents, I am assured, remain untouched. In the kitchen: a huge tin box of Oxo cubes, Orlox beef suet, Symington's Granulated Gravy Improver, some 'vegetable seeds' and, intriguingly, two separate phials of cinnamon powder. In the bathroom: gallons and gallons of Optrex, the biggest box of cotton wool in the world, `Satin Feet' lotion, and a bottle of smart talc — 'That Man' by Revlon.
Returning fenwards, I encounter a twoday-old copy of the Independent. And there, on the front page, is the sort of moment-in-history colour-writing that brings a tear to the eye. A tear of mirth. Among those aboard Concorde for its historic last flight was one Simon Kelner, editor of the Independent, who took over the front page for his lyrical first-person account. 'Concorde,' he wrote, 'landed on a cold afternoon in Heathrow for the last time, and, with it, went every idea that the improbable was possible. The belief, for example, that man's scientific achievement could defy nature; that Britain and France could co-operate successfully on such a large project: and, most important, the idea that travel could be romantic.' Honestly, what cobblers. The improbable is always possible. It's just bleedin' improbable. Ask a statistician. Concorde has nothing to do with it. As for science defying nature, I don't know where to start. And travel never again being romantic? Try having a snog in a gondola. Or, for that matter, going to Jamaica.
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