Tea, cakes and Empire

By Stuart Reid

Due to a small mixup (an invitation was wrongly pre sented), the young lady from the Australian radio station was introduced as Mr. X. But Fiji’s Governor, Sir Derek Jakeway, didn’t bat an eyelid. Governor’s don’t bat eyelids not at garden parties anyway, and this garden party in late October, was Sir Derek’s last before leaving Fiji and the Governorship in November.

After the formal introduction® to Sir Derek and Lady Jakeway (they went smoothly enough after the sex mixup), guests were led to a table bearing a tanoa of yaqona (no kava at this party). A few guests took their yaqona in style.

Others knocked it back quickly and headed for the tea table and a chaser.

And so tea, cakes and con versation. Thank goodness it’s not hot, thought a few people, as they stood a trifle uncomfortably and stirred their tea.

Nice band,” said someone gesturing with his tea cup towards the red-coated army band. “Yes jolly good,” someone else agreed.

And indeed it was. For most of the party it played military music.

But once the trombone player rose to his feet and played a swing solo, of the sort you might have heard at The Savoy during the last war.

Ladies in hats and gloves and longish dresses were everywhere.

After all, a garden party is really a ladies’ do. It was a pity that they couldn’t have worn sensible shoes, though. There was hardly a lady at the party whose regula tion high heels were not heel deep in the croquet lawn.

A few outgoing ladies overcame the problem of sinking into the lawn by taking off their shoes.

They made an incongruous sight.

Large hats, long gloves, small handbags, cups of tea—no shoes.

Sir Derek moved among the guests, leaving behind him charmed groups of people.

Sir Derek, well versed in the diplomatic arts (as befits a re presentative of Her Majesty) is a master of small talk. And in the hands of a master, small talk is marvellously relaxing.

Guests tended to talk at once to the Governor, who calmly, and with a kind smile, untangled many a tale.

Lady Jakeway was no less a diplomat than her husband. She spoke about her children, asked us if we liked Fiji and then nodded and moved to another group.

Almost exactly an hour after the garden party had begun, the band left its rostrum and marched smartly to the flagpost in front of Government House. One by one, groups of people stopped talking.

The band played the Last Post, and slowly, fluttering the while, the Union Jack was lowered. It was a moving ceremony, some thing from another age.

Even the cynic, who suggested that the “other age” was an age of Queen Victoria and Errol Flynn, had to admit that he had a lump in his throat as the flag was lowered on the Governor’s garden party in one of the last outposts of Empire.

Government House, Suva.