A Day in the life of a Governor…. from rockfall to a dead donkey
A common question on my walking tours is what does a normal day in the life of the Governor of St Helena, Ascension and Tristan da Cunha look like. A reasonable question. But what always comes to mind is one utterly bonkers day when everything—and I mean everything—happened at once.
It started innocently enough. I woke up to the usual view from my bedroom. A sapphire blue sea stretching for miles. Well 2,000 kilometres if you want to be precise, and then you’d hit Angola. Hopping into the Jag (chauffeured by Debbie, officially my Aide de Camp, but essentially my partner in crime) we headed to my office at the Castle. Five Girl Guides were set to shadow me for the day—inspiration for me and for them, or so I hoped. i’d reduced the normal business for the day and increased some of the PR duties, just for them.
First order of business: a meeting with the Chief Secretary, Financial Secretary etc., about two pressing island issues. One, the island’s airport—a marvel of engineering with a minor hiccup: wind shear. The opening was stalled, and planes were still very much not landing (but that’s a story for another day) Two, the small matter of our fuel supplies running low—a situation we couldn't broadcast lest there be a petrol-pump stampede. The Girl Guides were mercifully absent for this one; I wouldn’t want to traumatise them with geopolitics before breakfast.
They joined me for the next item: a chat about what a Governor’s day involves. Just as I was explaining how dignified and composed my duties are (ahem), the vet called. “Governor, your Labrador is definitely pregnant,” she announced. A few weeks previously my princess had fraternised with a local in the night. I’m sure he broke in through the wire-mesh kitchen door. It couldn’t have been the other way around. Four puppies, the vet reckoned. (Six weeks later, twelve appeared. Apparently, the scanner, which was a cast-off from the hospital was less than precise.)
Next stop: to see Ma Flo. At 102, she was the island's oldest resident, always laughing, very feisty, and very deaf. Normally, the Community Care Centre (or CCC) was a quick jaunt, but today the road was closed because of rockfall. There are only two roads out of Jamestown. They are steep and in the shadow of absolutely huge cliffs. So there was nothing for it but to take an hour-long detour around the entire island, all for what should’ve been a five-minute trip.
From there, it was back to Plantation House—my home—for a tea party. My aspirations when I became Governor was to get all 4,700 residents up to the house for a cuppa. These were about 60 of the island’s elderly people. Normally I held these events on a Sunday because there was full employment on St Helena. But this group were retired and I thought the Girl Guides would appreciate it. I loved these occasions because over a cup of tea, people were always less guarded and would tell you about issues that were on their mind. They didn’t hold back believe me. And everyone loved getting in their Sunday best on a Wednesday. and posing for photos It was a scene straight out of Downton Abbey, but with more chatter and less formality. And that’s when the day took another turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an elderly gentleman at another table topple sideways. It wasn’t a slump. It was a drawbridge coming down, and in slow motion. Heart attack. CPR commenced while the rest of the guests, in a very British and St Helenian display of pragmatism, just speeded up their consumption of tea and sandwiches before reluctantly being ushered inside the house. The ambulance arrived, and calm was restored. Debbie and I gave the guests a tour of the house while the poor soul was driven away. At one moment I looked around for my Girl Guides to give them a reassuring smile. They were a bit wide-eyed.
After the guests left, Debbie and I realised our nerves were jangling, and decided on a stiff drink. Don’t worry, the Girl Guides had also gone. In fact one of their mum’s had administered the CPR. I wondered what the chat around the dinner table would be that evening. Anyway, back to the stiff drink. It called, of course, for the Saint drink of choice…a "shipwreck" (spiced rum and Coke—aptly named for that day). And what a day we’d had. But before we knocked back the shipwreck, Debbie thought she’d better call her husband, Roddy, to let him know she’d be late. She came back from that phone call shaking her head. Roddy had told her he’d had the most terrible day. On his morning commute, he’d noticed one of the donkeys in the field was leaning sideways, seemingly resting up against the fence. Amongst many other things, Roddy is the island’s animal warden. However, on his way home, it was still there, in the same position. Upon closer inspection, the poor beast was stiff as a board and had clearly shuffled off this mortal coil. Debbie, bless her, still insisted our day had been worse.
That’s when we got the call from the hospital to say that sadly the gentleman had died. I later learnt that he hadn’t left the house for a few years, he was really looking forward to his outing, and he’d had his suit cleaned especially.
Finally, as I was preparing to crawl into bed, the Chief of Police called. A rockfall from the cliff face in Jamestown meant evacuations were underway. Of course. Because why not?
And there you have it: a day in the life of a Governor on St Helena. Not a usual day. But a day nevertheless. And an unforgettable one. Puppies, Girl Guides, CPR, and a donkey-shaped cherry on top. I quickly went to bed before anything else could happen.