Industry

When I was pregnant with my second child I went to spend a couple of days at  the beach in Lower Bay.  Vanessa Bowman had friends visiting from Australia and they had invited me to visit with them at their rental house. It was nice to get away from the restaurant and do nothing but swim, eat and relax in the company of other females!

As we sunbathed on the beach we were approached by an elderly man with a cane, obviously overjoyed to see so much beauty laid out on the sand.  I had met Fred Wagner and knew that he owned a vast amount of land at Industry Bay, and that he was trying to develop it as an enclave for the wealthy.  The beach bar situated at Crescent Beach would be the club house for the Industry home-owners, although the houses had yet to be built.

Fred hunkered down in the sand and started to chat.  He wanted to invite the five of us for dinner at his house that evening.  We tried to decline but he insisted, and we finally agreed when he said he would send a car for us at 6:00.  When he left I warned my four friends that Mr. Wagner was a bit “funny” but they were keen to go, they hadn’t been to that side of the Island and were game for anything.

The taxi driver dropped us at Fred’s large home (the French House) at Industry and told us that he would wait there until we were ready to go.  My friends told him there was no need to stay but he was adamant, saying, “dat mon fonny. I will wait here”.

There was no electricity on that side of the Island and the house was lit by kerosene lanterns.  It was like a dark, cavernous mausoleum and I started to feel nervous.  Fred insisted on showing us the bedrooms before we even got to the living room, telling us we should stay the night.  Yeah, right –  in his dreams maybe!  The old man was wearing nothing but a sarong and looked somewhat crazy. I was glad the taxi was waiting outside!

Dinner was weird. Whenever Fred wanted a servant he rang a hand-bell, and an unhappy-looking woman would scurry from the depths of the kitchen. He talked non-stop and his talk was aimed at ME.  He was fascinated by my pregnancy and that’s all he wanted to talk about, asking repeatedly if I would let him feel my stomach.  The man was giving me the creeps!

For me the final straw came after supper, when we were led to the sitting room.  He sat down in a wooden planter’s chair and said, “let me show you ladies how these chairs work”.  The wooden slats swing out on those chairs and form leg rests, which Fred demonstrated by swinging his legs up and leaning back in a reclining position.  Mr. Wagner wore no underwear and his wrinkled privates were dangling there in all their glory.  I said, “time to leave ladies!  Taxi’s waiting!” and we ran giggling from the house, shouting our thanks for dinner as we left.

Fred Wagner continued to pursue my pregnant belly.  I would hear his cane tap-tapping up the Pizzeria steps, always just as I was about to close for the night. My staff would laugh as they watched me crawl out the back window and run up the hill to the house.  No WAY was I letting that man touch my stomach!  The taxi driver had been right, dat mon was “fonny” indeed.