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Some thirty years ago I boarded the flight to Kingston, Jamaica with my daughter and something else I had been searching for. A frantic last minute effort had uncovered it - a small black and white photograph of myself aged three, clutching my knitted rabbit and the hand of a large black Jamaican airman. I thought I would take the opportunity of tracing Lloyd Stoney who, like my father, was a Boys Brigade Officer and stayed with my parents during the war. The first thing we did on arrival at our hotel was to look through the telephone directory. It was exciting to find Lloyd Stoney listed at 17 William Street but on the other side of the island. We tried the number several times and spoke to different ‘ladies’. The answers were vague and it didn’t sound like his home. Eventually, one of them offered his office number but calling this we reached only ‘Sunshine Taxis!’ Perhaps he was a taxi driver? We decided to hire a car and go to San Antonio. We set off across the mountains and enjoyed two and a half hours of lush countryside. The tropical greens against a blue sky, people clad in colourful clothes selling their wares and fruit on the side of the dusty road; and the flimsiest little woven huts built on high stilts that would surely never survive a hurricane. Downtown San Antonio was a multicoloured old colonial town with ramshackle clapboard buildings and 17 William Street was a bar. We took a deep breath and went inside. The regulars lolling at the counter looked decidedly dodgy, but they took great interest in the photograph and passed it round. A wizened old lady with only one visible tooth took the photograph upstairs. One of them knew that the only man by that name in this town drew houses. Artist or architect? We were redirected to his office. The ‘office’ was located in a faded pale blue wooden building with an exterior staircase on which lounged several long-legged Jamaican men; we had to step over them to reach the door. Inside, the room was bare, containing nothing but a table and several rolls of paper but, in the corner, in a cupboard smaller than a telephone kiosk, was a girl on a switchboard. Sunshine Taxis! However, our taxi-driving architect was still ‘out and about' so we left our hotel number and reluctantly, decided it was time to leave. We had to return across the island again and our driver seemed agitated. Night was falling and it was beginning to rain. As the winding road narrowed, the vegetation changed to dense forest. Suddenly a car was chasing us, lights flashing and horn honking, but our driver, fearing it was an ambush was not going to stop. The car overtook us and winding down the window shouted “Lloyd Stoney”.On hearing this our driver pulled over, and in the darkness and the rain we greeted Lloyd Stoney. He was the nephew of our man and had been named after him. He was about thirty, wearing a jungle print shirt and a gold chain round his neck. Having learned that two English women were looking for him all over town he couldn’t resist finding out why. It was a thrilling encounter albeit a brief one and we took photographs of us all together in the rain. It had turned out to be a good day. Back at our hotel the telephone rang. It was Lloyd Stoney. He wanted to know if my daughter was married. She took the call in the bathroom where he gave her the telephone number of his father who lived in Leeds. He said he would know the address of his uncle who now lived in Texas. She told him how pleased we were to have found him to which he replied “ Everyone’s looking for me, man, as soon as I leave the office they come from Australia, England, America…” at which point we realised he was now the worse for rum! Later, we realised where that note had gone.