The S.M.O.

When the MauMau decimated Kenya, three of the surviving victims were an early retiring British doctor, his wife, and their young daughter. It was our view that this was at least fortunate for Dominica, because he was sent to the island as S.M.O.; Senior Medical Officer.

They were county, in the British sense, and delightful, never bemoaning the less than wonderful development that prompted their return to Foreign Service employment. We deduced that they had suffered considerably as a result of losing a house, farm, and rather grand retirement in Africa.

The S.M.O, whom I shall call Ian, pronounced eon rather than eye-on, was short, attractive, and ruddy faced, with straight gray hair, a clipped mustache, and a clipped accent. He always looked rather dapper, despite the fact that he was not always so. He had a tendency to bluster, but you could not find a person who did not like him immensely.

The government provided quarters on Morne Bruce, the promontory that overlooked the capital. The earliest settlers had chosen this site as a military battery location and the S.M.O.’s residence was in one of the old original thick walled masonry barracks quads with rusted corrugated iron roofing.

Soon after they had unpacked their belongings, which included a modest library, hurricane Edith hit the island. This storm was more water than wind but it was sufficiently brisk to violate the roofing on the ancient barracks. When Margie and Ian’s wife arrived to see how the place was faring at the hands of the hurricane they found Ian emerging soaking wet from the front door. He was muttering expletives in a frustrated tantrum and was carrying an arm’s length stack of wet, messy looking books against his stomach and chest. He held the stack in place with his chin. He had a clump of unidentifiable sodden gunk in his hair and on one shoulder.

“Ian! What in the world?” his wife exploded, laughing.

“It is not funny, my Dear,” he grumbled, in his familiar bluster.

“But, what happened?” she persisted, still laughing.

He was trying to sound outraged and angry but the corners of his mouth kept turning up and he finally broke out laughing; a wonderful deep, hearty mirth exposed.

“Here, let me put these bloody books in your vehicle,” he said, regaining his facade of anger, as he stashed them with some care on the back seat.

“What is all that?” She was pointing at the top of his head.

“It’s bloody bat guano, that’s what it is! The blasted ceiling tiles came sodden with the leaks and it all came splattering down. I had to try and save the library. I’m afraid my Mother Goose is a total loss.”

“Mother Goose?” Margie asked, surprised.

“He’s written his own version on a note pad, Margie. He reads them to our daughter. I remember the first one. ‘Old Mother Goose is not what you think, She’s a dirty old woman addicted to drink.'”

She turned, still smiling broadly, and said with conviction. “Never mind, My Darling, you will write them again and they will even be better.”

A little later in the year Ian bought a small white convertible sports car from one of our favorite British resident roués. The motor car, as automobiles are known on the island, was not all that old, but life expectancy for vehicles was less than wonderful here. This car’s floor, on the driver’s side, had partially rusted through and the garage had advised him to be careful until he could get a piece of plywood affixed. Ian was not one to attend to mundanities so he continued to drive, gingerly avoiding the lace doily affect of the rusting floor.

Margie and Ian’s wife were good chums and were returning from somewhere in the north when they approached the Roseau River Bridge. Two bridges traversed the river, each a one way and only one vehicle width, but the town authorities had closed one for repairs. There were no traffic lights on Dominica so a police officer was directing traffic at each end.

Ahead, the ladies saw Ian, first in line, in his little white car. The officer lifted his hand motioning Ian to proceed, but Ian seemed unable to coax his car into gear. With each succeeding try the S.M.O. seemed to grow angrier and the gears were slapped harder with more loud grinding.

Then it happened.

Ian slammed his foot right through the floor and stuck up to his ankle. The officer leaned over the convertible’s door and tried in vain to help.

“Ah, Margie,” Ian’s wife said shaking her head sadly as they observed the event, “He really is just splendid on a horse.”