Hillside House

When the British High Commissioner to Trinidad and Tobago called Gérard Besson in 2015 to find out more about the history of his residence, Jerry wrote "Hillside House" for him—an amusing piece that packages the facts he was able to find out about the property into a fictionalised dialogue. "The MG" referred to really exists—Gérard's green MGA.

“Why the name Maraval?” she wondered out loud, the MG gearing down as we passed the Country Club’s gates to take the turn into the Saddle Road.

“It may be Amerindian, Carib, as we like to say.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps. There is Macqueripe bay and Maracas bay and Mayaro on the east coast.”

“Are those Carib names?”

“Perhaps, no one knows for sure, we have lots of place names that remember a time before we were ‘discovered’.”

“And Maraval is one of those?”

“I think so.”

“And who lived there?” she asked, taking her hair away from her face and looking into the now almost derelict grounds of the club.

“That was once the home of the Valleton de Boissière family, they lived there from the 1820s to well into the 1930s. They owned almost the entire valley, all the way from the house, the clubhouse, which is where they lived, to La Seiva. The boundaries of the estate went up to the ridges, there and there, east and west. How about some doubles? Good for hangovers.”

“No, no, couldn’t stand it. Looks like rain, don’t you want to put the top up?”

“Naw, if it rains, it rains, we will get wet, and Maracas is wetter, don’t worry.”

“Ok, so tell me about them, the de Boissière’s, who were they?”

“French people who came to Trinidad in the late 18th century.”

“Were they what you call French Creoles?”

“Oh yes, very much so, especially so in their case.” 

“Why especially?”

“Well, it’s a long story.”

“We have all day and I am all ears.”

“No you’re not, you have other charms. Let’s see. . .”

“You behave. What’s that house, up there?”

“Where?”

“The one with the tower, up there on the ridge.”

“Oh, that’s a house called Hillside, it’s where the British High Commissioner lives. It’s on Beaumont Road.”

“Was it a part of the estate?”

“Yes, the land was bought by Arthur Wight, all 26,000 square feet of it, in 1942, when Arnold de Boissière was selling off the estate.”

“Did he build the house?”

“Arthur Wight did. There were once two towers, they were meant to act as ventilators. It was said that there was an elaborate system of ducting that took hot air up and out. I think it may just have been a folly to make the house look like a castle on a mountainside.”

“It’s a charming house, it must have a spectacular view of the valley. Why Beaumont?”

“Jesuit  school in Berkshire, the de Boissières boys were sent there. Valleton Avenue is named for the family, and Bergerac Road is for whence they come. Bergerac in the Perigord.”

“Oh yes, Perigord Road. You are a mine of information.”

“I try.”

“When did the Brits move into Hillside?”

“With Independence, I think, in 1962. The British government bought the house from the Inglefields. Harry Inglefield, called Jingles by his friends, had come out with the firm of auditors, Hunter, Smith and Earl. He bought it off Sir Gerald after his father died.”

“Sir Gerald?”

“He was Arthur Wight’s son, made knight bachelor for his contribution to industry and commerce.”

“It’s going to rain.”

“No, it will not. Arthur Wight was an interesting guy.”

“How so?”

“Well, he was the senior partner in a firm called Alstons, George Alston and Co. They were the biggest trading house in the period before Independence. It was started by George Alston in the 1880s.” 

“And?”

“You sense a story there?”

“Yes, I do. I have come to know you Trinis, there is always some scandal, a little bacchanal, as you call it, in everything. Come on, spill the beans.”

“Well, it is said that old George had a touch of the tar brush, as they say.”

“Tar brush?”

“Well, a coloured mum and a Scottish father. Anyway, they were well off and he set up a cocoa store, an import-export business. But in those days it was difficult for a man like George Alston to do business here, institutionalized racial prejudice and all that, life in the colonies, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Well I am.”

“You’re so English.”

“How can I help that. Go on, what happened?”

“He went to London to handle his business there, where nobody cared about his cuticle, and hired Arthur Wight to look after his affairs here, where everybody cared.”

“You mean Arthur Wight was his front-man?”

“Oh much more than that, he was the main man.”

“The company did well, then.” 

“Very. They became very powerful in local affairs.”

“It’s raining. Is that the way to the golf course?”

“Just a drizzle, it will pass. Yes, it’s called Moka. That was the other great estate in the Maraval valley.”

“What was the de Boissière estate called?”

“Champs-Élysées.”

“Why that name?”

“The original owner, the first Châtelaine, Rosa de Gannes de la Chancellerie, Marquise de Charras, received the original Spanish grant in 1784. She fancied it as a place for those chosen by the gods, where they would remain after death, to live a blessed and happy life. To indulge themselves in whatever employment they had enjoyed in life.”

“And was that the case?”

“For them, no. They lost it to the de Boissière’s by the opening decades of the 19th century.”

“Was there a second Châtelaine of Champs-Élysées?”

“Oh yes, Poleska de Boissière, she was the Grand Dame of Champs-Élysées, the last Grand Dame of Trinidad’s colonial society. It was at the height of the colonial era.”

“Were they very wealthy and powerful?”

“Powerful, yes, wealthy, not at all. Quite the contrary.”

“What do you mean?”

“The de Boissière’s had made their money in the slave trade and in money lending, mortgages and such like. When the slave trade came to an end in 1807 and all outstanding debts collected, what was left was the land. It had never really been planted up as a sugarcane estate. It passed to a young man who had other ideas. He went off to Edinburgh where he studied medicine. Upon graduating he joined the British army and was commissioned Surgeon Major. He saw action in the Crimean War, was at Balaclava, then at Calcutta, in time for the mutiny.”

“No, really?”

“Absolutely. Returning, he married his cousin, Poleska. She had been given the job, by the family, to find him a rich bride.”

“But, she. . .”

“Exactly. She knew that there was no money, but that did not bother her. He became a member of the local Legislature and practiced medicine for free while she went to work to make the estate pay.”

“What did she do? You said that it had never really functioned as a plantation.”

“Oh she sold the boulders from the river to the government to build various government buildings, amongst them the lunatic asylum at Sainte Anne. She also created several villages on the estate where she rented allotments, land, to the Indians who had served their five year indentureships on the nearby plantations. She had sons and daughters to educate. Not for her was the idle life of the other French Creole ladies. In fact, she never sought the company of the local French people.”

“No, whose company did she seek?”

“Why, the English, of course. She understood what colonialism was all about.”

“Which was?”

“Nepotism, of course. She would only entertain the governor and his immediate circle.”

“She was very exclusive.”

“Very. She even excluded her own family.”

“No. Really?”

“Yes, after the first governor every other one that followed came to her on Sunday evening for cocktails and dinner, it became a custom, maintained for some fifty years. She was seen as the most powerful, the most influential person in the colony.” 

“Was she really?”

“I have no idea, but she educated her children in England, the boys at public schools, the girls at convents, then gave them a year on the continent to polish them, and eased her sons into positions in the civil service all over empire. She married the girls off to rich merchants and lived long enough to do much the same with her grandchildren.”

“What a woman. This is a lovely view. What a beautiful mountain road this is.”

“It was built by the Americans during the last war.”

“We are now in the clouds.”

“I think there will be a little rain.”

“I told you, what is that, is it an island?”

“Yes, that’s Saut d’Eau island, it is said that a terrible soukuant once lived there.”

“That sounds interesting. What is a soukuant?”

“It’s a spirit that sucks your energy, I’ll tell you about that another time.”

“Ok, so, tell me more about Madame Poleska.”

“She lived to a great age, well into her 90s, entertained visiting members of the royal household as well as their relatives, German princesses with unpronounceable names, Charles Kingsley, other travel writers, famous people like Colonel Lindbergh.”

“And her descendents?”

“One or two became famous. Not a few infamous. Her son Arnold became a Major, then acting Colonel. He was the highest-ranking West Indian officer serving on the Western Front. He was gassed, mentioned in dispatches. One grandson married an American heiress, it was said that he had the grace to die as his wife’s money ran out. Another, Sir Frank Messervy, received the surrender of a Japanese army in Burma. Another grandson married the daughter of a governor.”

“No, really.”

“These Trini boys are not easy, you know. Messervy served as Commander-in-Chief of the Pakistan Army.”

“And other members of the de Boissière family?”

“There is one very famous one. His story has a connection with that house that you admired just now, the one on the hill.”

“You mean where the British High Commissioner lives, the one that Arthur Wight built.”

“Yes. Oh, oh, here comes the rain.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“You will become transparent.”

“Just keep your eyes on the road. Tell me about that one.”

“He became our first Prime Minister.”

“No, really.”

“Yes. He was a relative of Dr. de Boissière, Poleska’s husband, he was a person much like George Alston.”

“What ever do you mean?”

“He was a black French Creole, his mother was a de Boissière.”

“Oh.”

“It was the way it was. The thing is, it was Poleska who adjudicated over the will that might have left him a small fortune.”

“A fortune that they never received, I see. Go on.”

“His name was Eric Williams, Dr. Eric Williams, a graduate of Oxford, an historian, the quintessential politician of the period of decolonisation. The 50s. He formed a political party, The People’s National Movement.”

“Oh yes. And?”

“Well, his principal opponent was Sir Gerald Wight, and the party that he was affiliated to, led, at one time.  It was called the POPPG.”

“What was that?”

“I forget what the letters stood for, but it represented big business, big agriculture and thousands cane farmers.”

“And?”

“Well, they lost the key election. But the historical irony was that the General Secretary of the POPPG was one of Poleska’s grandsons, Michael Pocock.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. The historical irony was that Williams was a black man and Pocock and Gerald Wight were white. It was a conflict between the old order and the new and, the new order won, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“I think that it is also ironic that the house that Sir Gerald’s father built should become the residence of the British High Commissioner for an independent Trinidad and Tobago, don’t you think?”

“Quite so. Look the sun is out, and there is Maracas. How about a bake and shark?”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“I’m sure you’ll love it, let’s park in the shade.”

“You’re not going to put the top up?”

“No, the MG is a tough old bird.”