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they were, it was with a pat on the head in mid-conversation and nothing more. Talk among the grown-ups was of the Queen Elizabeth 2 visit set for the following week: who would be invited aboard, what dignitaries might hold a reception, and whether such rarities as potatoes, white sugar, and fresh milk might surreptitiously find their way off the boat and into expat homes.
    In between forays into the party to raid for booze, peanuts, and the ultimate prize, Bugles (crunchy, cone-shaped treats that Nate’s dad had flown in specially), the boys watched from the sidelines as they always did. Their spot was perfect: they sat in lawn chairs in the garden just beyond the circle of light cast by the house, and to anyone who looked their way, they were little more than shadows. The parties were every weekend, rotating from one expat’s house to the next, but Nate’s parents held more than their fair share – thanks to the ideal entertaining qualities of the house on Vigie.
    It was in a well-to-do part of the island, and the neighbors were people of influence. Behind them lived a judge. To their left, through the trees and hidden by gangly knots of hibiscus bushes down toward the water, was the Dutch ambassador. And behind him were four houses belonging to various members of the De Villiers family. All the houses in Vigie were well spaced, set on large plots of land and set among lush thickets of ever-blooming flowers and sweet-smelling fruit trees.
    The house was not the one originally issued by the government to the Masons, but Nate’s dad was well liked and well connected, and the right set of moves – and perhaps a few hundred well placed East Caribbean dollars – saw the family ensconced in the beautiful house on the point.
    It was built on the site of a gun battery dating back to the 1800s, and the house itself was basically two large blocks – the bedrooms and the living room/kitchen area – set on a huge reach of polished flooring, then covered with an expansive roof. The structure was cut into the natural grade in the land as it sloped down toward the headland, with the front of the house sitting up well above the grade to catch the sunsets. The net effect was that the house appeared to be one huge balcony, surrounded by polished teak banisters, and open to cooling breezes and breathtaking views.
    The lawn at the front of the house was dotted with coconut and mango trees, and came to an end a hundred yards further on where the Vigie headland dropped off into the sea thirty feet below. From this vantage point, gunners of old could defend access to the harbor in Castries, lobbing cannon balls and musket fire on potential invaders. Now, all that was left was a cavernous gray concrete bunker, overgrown and filled with spiders – and bulbous red hornets the boys called Jap Spaniards. Set back from that, toward the house on the flat open lawn, was a huge circular pad of concrete where the big cannon once sat. It was empty now, the gun long since removed, the only lingering threat now from lizards stalking their insect prey.
    The boys sat on the lawn chairs at the edge of the concrete pad, watching the party from the shadows. Nate elbowed Pip, and pointed at the bowl his mother had just set down among the guests. It was Bugles.
    â€œOh, we have to get some of those!” said Pip, holding a half empty tin of beer. He didn’t like the taste – none of them did – but still they each held a tin, and they occasionally made the gesture of lifting the beers to their mouths.
    â€œWe’ve got no chance now,” said Nate, flicking his chin toward the large, sweaty man scooching forward in his seat and dipping his fist into the Bugles.
    â€œAw, man,” said Pip. “I love those things.”
    Nate put up his hands to calm the little Dutch boy. “Wait,” he said. “Here comes Mrs Patterson.” There was music in his voice.
    Mrs Patterson was the kind of woman