Caroline and I married in January 2006, three months after we arrived on Grand Cayman. She told me up front that she would not be changing her name. Abandoning her “feminist, socialist principles to engage in the misogynist institution of marriage is one thing,” she told me but changing her name was a step too far. That was fine with me.
Our reasons for getting married were probably more or less the same as most people’s but in our case, there were two added imperatives.
Being single and unemployed, my permit to stay in Cayman was only for six months and then I would either have to leave, be deported or get a job! Not much of a choice you will probably agree. Married to a government employee, my stay would be for as long as Caroline’s contract lasted. Not the worst reason for making such a commitment but unusual.
There was one other advantage to being Caroline’s dependent and that was that I was covered by her very generous medical insurance. There is no free health care here in Cayman and employers have to take out insurance for their employees.
I would have probably taken out a fairly cheap and basic policy if Caroline had been working in a hotel or in a bar but the insurance provided by the government for Caroline and her dependents is top of the range; a veritable Rolls Royce in the world of medical insurance. Its comprehensive generosity is one of the reasons that the economy here is in the mess that it is at the moment.
Caroline had promotions. She is now the Head of Teaching and Learning and is on first name terms with the Minister of Education and the Prime Minister who, the first time he met me, said, “Ah, Mr Dawes. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“But not my name, it seems,” I grunted.
I have only once heard Caroline referred to as “Mrs Wilton” and she threw such a tantrum that I doubt that the admin clerk in Miami who made that mistake will ever jump to such a conclusion again.
I don’t mind. I’m used to being called Mr Dawes. I’m not so keen on being Terry Dawes though. Terry Dawes sounds like an East End scrap metal dealer.
It happens to me all the time. When I was at death’s door with liver disease and could have gone at any moment, I’ve heard that Terry Dawes was being prayed for in virtually every church on the island - about 100 of them.
This is the churchiest place in the world. Everything shuts on Sundays except for filling stations and that’s only so that people can drive to church and not use the excuse that they were low on gas, for not going.
On New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago, all the bars had to be empty by 11.50 p.m. because New Year’s Day was a Sunday. There was a policeman in every one to enforce it.
Prayers were also being said for me in Jamaican and Bajan churches too. My recovery was delayed because, I think, it took God quite a time to track me down, as he was looking for Terry Dawes.
This morning I received the final kick in the teeth. I don’t know much about the social hierarchy here but I assume that the Governor and his wife are at the top of the pile. He is the Queen’s representative after all, while I, as an unemployed, unproductive ex-pat, am probably right at the bottom.
I don’t care. I know my place. Actually, I may not be at the bottom. There’s a Frenchman living nearby. He’s got to have lower status than me. Hasn’t he? Yes, of course he has. He’s French!
Guv and his missus have invited us round to their gaff for drinks. Look at the invitation card:
I shan’t reply but perhaps Terry Dawes will.
