This morning I don my green top and gather my shamrocks for my last class with Madame Caruge, Mr Duval, Madame Acina and Madame Edragas and their pupils.
The older kids sing Unfaithful, by Rihanna, until they’re blue and I’m red. We then run through the words we’ve filled in before scanning through the worksheet. We finish with an introductory course in gaelique and then the floor is turned over to the kids for them to ask for translations, personal information, questions about me, Ireland… before I thank them profoundly for their enthusiasm and participation. I wish them the best for the future, do a bit of flag-waving and encourage them to speak English. We sing the Goodbye Song and I’m gone to the next class as quick as I came.
The younger kids get to spend most of the morning in the yard playing What time is it Mr. Wolf? Head, shoulders… and Do this. Do that. We then have a little ceremony during which I give them their Shamrock Certificates. We clap and cheer. I thank them. They thank me. And we get down to the serious stuff, or stuffing rather, as crisps, cake, sweets et al are divvied out for the dînette. We pose for pictures. I put on some music. Some sing along. Others spring up and dance. And we manage to put away the food mountain of goodies before the bell rings. It’s probably the most civilised class I’ve ever had with them!
I stick around school for a bit to tidy up my locker which seems to get fuller by the day. I’ve arranged to meet Strophe in town. I go in early to find out about trips to Marie Galante and Les Saintes but Express des Iles is out-of-action since last Wednesday until the day of my departure. I spy Strophe along the Savane strip. He’s talking to a girl in a café. I approach them and am introduced to Joanna. She’s from Florida but she was born here. Everyone has their story to tell. I listen politely while my stomach makes rude, but subdued, noises.
Strophe and I go for lunch. Well in fact it’s just me who eats as Strophe says he has no money. He has a kind heart but the pity game seldom works for me with people blinkered by dreams. I’d never crush a human’s reveries or squash their soul but a few home truths need to be told. He mustn’t be too mortally wounded because he hangs around with me until it’s time for me to go to the airport. He hops on the TaxiCo to Morne Rouge and I head for Ducos.
The airport isn’t as eerily quite as it was the last time though it’s still not packed to maximum capacity. Nicola’s bags are however. She uses the whole 40kg limit with Corsair.
Her flights at 18,00. I’m there two hours in advance. I’m sleepy but the sharp coolness inside keeps me awake and alert as I read. It’s soon time to stretch my legs. I head over to the check-in desks. There’s no sign of Nic yet but I spy a kid from my school with some military men. That same instant I set eyes on Jerome the marine. True to their word Jerome, Oz and their friend G.G are here to give Nic a military send-off. In her absence we head to the bar across the road for beverages and bawdy talk.
My eye keeps scanning the table behind us. It’s full of advanced military men. I recognise one but I can’t place him. I later find out its Liet. Col Thomasson. I knew I’d seen his mug somewhere before.
Nicola soon calls. She has an hour until take-off but has been told not to dilly-dally so our parting is short and sweet. Marie-Louise has brought her and she has also given us a little souvenir each – from Haiti not Martinique! Nic hugs, kisses and waves us goodbye before entering the point-of-no-return. A friendly smile from the local at security control is pleasant farewell reminder of the good, cheery folk who do exist in Martinique.
The guys offer to bring me home but first we’ve to head to the maze-like township of François where Oz drops off pictures for his boat license. He returns with pain au chocolat which I refuse as I’m still keeping up my I-don’t-eat-chocolate act! However, I don’t pass on pizza.
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