A Kind of Eden (12 page)

While Georgia reads, and Miriam lies in the shade, he takes a walk around the other side of the beach where a strong breeze is blowing. The water on this side is less calm, almost choppy, and it is more turquoise than green. Two windsurfers skim the horizon, their bright sails small from here. He finds a place to sit and lights a Du Maurier—his first cigarette since they arrived. It tastes good, and he feels a rush. Part of the pleasure of smoking is that it allows him time to think. How can that be a bad thing? He checks his phone; there is no signal.

Safiya told him that she came here as a child; she hunted for shells and coral chunks. She found all kinds: music shells,
bubble shells, magpie shells. Fan coral was collected and put in the sun to bleach. The beach was littered with treasure. But now there is almost nothing. Where has all the treasure gone?

The day they came, they almost made it to the far end of the bay, but the tide was too high. For the first time, she told him about her ex-boyfriend, Pete Blanc, a French-Canadian vet working at the university. They were together for over two years. When his tenure finished, he had asked her to join him in Vancouver.

‘Were you in love with him?'

‘Yes.'

‘So why didn't you go?'

‘People abandon Trinidad all the time. Parents send their children abroad. They study to become lawyers, dentists, doctors. No one wants to live here. But then they keep coming back because they miss their homeland and they miss the sun. They want their doubles, their Caribs, their carnival. I'm not going to do that to my country. Or my children. I'm not going anywhere.'

She was looking out to sea, her hands resting on her waist.

‘So you'd rather be alone?'

‘In case you hadn't noticed there's half a million men bursting with testosterone in Trinidad and Tobago.' She grinned, a mischievous look.

‘Do you still hear from him?'

‘At first he wrote every day. But then he stopped.'

‘He could've stayed here.'

‘It never seemed to be an option. When he wasn't working, he spent most of his time picking up stray dogs. He was obsessed; then he started to hate Trinidad. His life was in Vancouver.'

Dreamy with longing, Martin put his arms around her neck; he kissed her salty skin. ‘Well, I think he definitely made the right choice, and so did you.'

‘My mom said I should've gone, just to see what it was like. Everybody said so.'

‘Just because they all thought you should go, it doesn't mean it was the right thing to do.'

‘Exactly.'

He caught a look of sadness. Safiya didn't strike him as someone who looked back too often but he wondered if she ever regretted it.

He said, ‘One day I'd like to take you to England. There's so much to see: not just London; there's the Cotswolds, the Lake District. We could drive up to Scotland and see the islands. It's beautiful.'

‘And freezing cold.'

‘We'll get you a coat; you'll be warm as toast.'

‘I'll need more than a coat.'

‘You'll have me,' he said.

That day he realised, in her own way, Safiya was letting him know that she would never leave Trinidad for anyone. Not for Pete Blanc, not for him. If he wanted to be with her, he would have to find a way to stay.

‘Where've you been?' Miriam asks. ‘We almost sent out a search party.'

‘There's a windsurfing hut. I wondered if Georgia might like to try it. There's jet skis, paragliding. It looks like fun.'

‘She's gone down to the shacks to look for postcards.'

He pulls a lounger underneath the tree beside Miriam. He spreads his towel and lies down. Above he can see snippets of sky through the branches, the almonds between the leaves. He lets out a long sigh; the breeze has gone, the air is hot and still.

‘What do you miss most about England?' Miriam says. ‘Apart from us, of course.'

He looks out at the line of birds flying over the sea and wonders how honest he can be. The question feels like a trap.

‘Not the cold or the dark mornings. I miss the garden.'

Miriam turns on her side. ‘But you don't like gardening. I can never get you to do any gardening.'

‘Well that's not the same as the garden; they're two different things. I always liked the beds, the roses. I miss the woods at the back of the house.'

She looks at him quizzically, as if she is learning something new. ‘Do you miss the food? Sunday roasts.'

‘Sometimes. I like the food here. You haven't tasted shark and bake. Or rotis.'

‘Rotis?'

‘Chapati filled with curry. Curried prawns, curried pumpkin with green beans.'

She makes a face.

‘Look,' he says, ‘Trinis enjoy their food. In England no one seems to like eating anymore. There's no pleasure left in it. Everything's bad for you.' On his fingers, he counts, ‘Coffee, red meat, white bread, dairy, alcohol, sugar, fats. It's all forbidden. Where's the fun in that?'

‘Is eating about fun, or about nutrition? I just don't believe
eating greasy, sugary foods is good for you on a long-term basis. You have to think about your health; you have to try to be moderate.'

The point is, and he would like to say this to her, Miriam is not moderate, Miriam is obsessed with healthy eating, and he is tired of it. He'd like to remind her of their sickly vegetarian neighbour in Roundhay. The woman lived on raw vegetables. Her nose was red with broken veins; she was thin and grey as a phantom. It was something they used to joke about. Right now, he can't be bothered to argue.

Then she says, cheerily, and he can see that it is hard for her, ‘Do you get lonely?'

‘Of course,' and he brushes away the sand on the backs of his hands, his forearms. ‘We always knew it wouldn't be easy. Mostly I'm too busy to really miss anything.'

He wonders if Miriam suspects something. It is possible, he thinks, but unlikely. Thankfully, she has never been sexually jealous or suspicious.

Later at the villa, the water in the hot tub is pleasantly warm and the jets are strong enough to feel like they are massaging his back. He is surprised and relieved that Miriam doesn't want to join them. She is feeling tired from the sun, she says, and goes to their room to lie down. He senses that she wants him to follow her, but he doesn't. Instead he climbs in beside Georgia. He rests his head on the lip of the tub. He feels relaxed, calm; the dark cloud has lifted. The water is warm, just right. Above, a lizard is green and stiff like a plastic model; it flicks its tail, and quickly vanishes amongst the vine leaves.

‘So, tell me how you're doing at school,' he says. ‘Exams are this summer, right?'

Georgia rolls her eyes. ‘I'm supposed to be on holiday.' She dips her head under the water and her hair slicks back from her face.

‘You are on holiday, but I can still ask the question, right?'

‘Yeah, exams are this summer.' She quickly reels off her chosen subjects: ‘French, German, Maths, English, Biology, Chemistry, Drama, Art and Media. That's it.'

‘Good,' he says. ‘Are you okay with them?'

‘Sort of.' Then Georgia says, ‘Did you always know what you wanted to be?'

‘Pretty much. Well, I knew that I wanted to work within the law somehow.'

This wasn't true. When he was young, he had no idea what he wanted to do, and the police offered a way of life, unlike university, that could pay him while he learned. At the time, they were recruiting in large numbers with the slogan ‘Police: Dull it isn't!' It seemed like a way out.

‘Have you got any ideas?'

She shrugs and looks up at the flowers.

‘Come on,' he says.

‘I want to get married and have a family, and live in a nice house.'

‘But you used to want to be a zoologist, do you remember? Or a photographer? You can have a career and a family; lots of people do that these days.'

‘It doesn't always work, though, does it?'

‘Who says so?' He splashes water on his shoulders.

‘Everyone. Not many of my friends have parents who stay together. Maybe it's because they're all working. No one's keeping an eye on the family. Harriet's one of the only ones, and even she says her parents argue a lot.' She smiles and taps him with her foot. ‘Sorry, Dad, but you know what I mean.'

‘I do know what you mean. It's never that simple, is it? And if I wasn't here, I'd be at home getting under everyone's feet and your mother would be fed up. You'd both be complaining about me.'

Georgia gives him a look. She reminds him of Miriam now, her head cocked to one side. She is prettier than her mother. ‘Yeah,' she says, ‘you're probably right.'

‘And just think, if I hadn't been working here, you wouldn't have had the chance to come to the Caribbean.'

He holds up his hands, to the villa and its glorious garden.

From the vine, Georgia picks a purple flower and looks at the centre, like paper, a work of origami.

She says, ‘I'll be glad when you come back, though. Even if you do get on my nerves. It's not the same without you.'

Although Georgia is smiling, there is a look of sadness in her eyes, as if she knows something is looming.

He feels his gut twist, an uncomfortable sensation.

She plucks at the delicate petals.

Martin says, ‘Well, let's not think about all that, because you're here right now. Let's stay in the present moment. Okay?'

She makes a funny face. ‘That's a bit deep for a Wednesday afternoon.'

‘Cheeky,' he says, and he climbs out of the hot tub, his
heart heavy like marble; he gently rests his hand on Georgia's head.

Is it possible that she could come to accept Safiya? Could she benefit by seeing her father find happiness? Or is he deluding himself? Perhaps a child doesn't care if her parents are happy or fulfilled—so long as they stay together.

He leaves her lolling in the warm bubbling water.

From the veranda, the sea is pure liquid silver, and the tall trees are dark, their branches long and feathery. There are no other houses in sight, just this stretch of tended land and sea. The sky is pale, dim, and soon it will be dark. Georgia is painting her fingernails with black nail polish, her long fingers splayed on the wide arm of a planter's chair. He has always liked these chairs, the easy pull-out arm with a footrest; they are practical and yet handsome. He would like chairs like this in his veranda in Trinidad. Georgia is concentrating. He wonders why on earth she has chosen to paint her nails black.

‘Is this a vampire look?' he asks. ‘Black varnish?'

Georgia rolls her eyes. Miriam doubts she can see in this light. ‘There's no point in ruining your young eyes,' and switches on the side lamps; they brighten up the space at once. She flops on the chair next to Georgia and looks out at the sea. Then she picks up a thick, glossy magazine she bought in the airport and flicks through it.

Martin wanders off into the kitchen to find a cold beer. He hasn't seen Terence; he is probably watching television in his room. He would offer him a beer. He checks his mobile, but there is nothing.

He brings Georgia a Coca-Cola he'd put in the freezer earlier, now deliciously cold. Another Safiya trick: bottled Cokes in the icebox. Once a forgotten bottle exploded and splattered in his freezer. While he cleaned up the brown frozen mess, Safiya lay on the sofa watching
The Young and the Restless
. It amazes him that she likes to watch this trashy American soap with its flimsy sets and hammy actors.

He lights a mosquito burner and places it by Georgia's feet. The mosquitoes here are more aggressive than in Trinidad. These days he rarely gets bitten; he likes to think this is further evidence that he is adapting to his environment.

It is Miriam who spots the boy: a tall black figure running out of the darkness. He comes from the direction of the sea, and Miriam says, ‘Martin.' He gets up, and Georgia stops what she is doing and looks out. Martin calmly tells her to go inside, now.

The boy is skinny with broad shoulders; his features are hard to see in this half-light of the veranda. He is Afro-Caribbean, seventeen or so, bare-chested, and wearing shorts; his hair sticks out in short dreads, tubes of thick black.

‘Goodnight,' he says, and he puts his hands on his knees and drops his head; he seems to be out of breath. ‘We get caught in the current and jus' manage to get in. My brother on the beach, the boat break down out there.' He points at the sea, which is now a dark, moving mass.

Martin feels a rush of heat. It is not fear, exactly, but it is some new feeling: he is on alert. He tells himself the boy is in trouble, he is asking for his help. There is nothing to be concerned about.

‘Okay,' he says. ‘What do you need? Do you need to come through the house and go out? You can get out from here to the main road.'

The boy points down to the beach. ‘The boat still there. We pull it on to the sand. My brother hurt his foot.'

There is enough light to see the path to the steps. Martin calls out to Miriam and she comes at once. Suddenly Conan is there, barking loudly. The boy shuffles backwards, away from the dog, towards the bush; his arm a shield.

‘Conan,' Martin goes to the animal, and for a moment he wonders if the dog might attack him too. But Conan seems reassured, and he allows him to take hold of his collar. He is still snarling as if he wants to hurt the boy.

‘Miriam, turn on the security lights so I can see the grounds. We need the light by the steps.'

He notices Terence's room is in darkness; he must be out for the evening.

Miriam stands by the entrance where there are all manner of switches. Switches for the burglar shutters, switches for the outside lights, the main light in the lounge, the veranda lights. So many switches.

‘How long were you out there?'