A Kind of Eden (15 page)

He loves the sea here, the yellow sand; it is more like the beaches in Trinidad. There are some real waves, and both he and Georgia are caught in the surf a couple of times.

Later, from a handicraft booth on the roadside, Georgia buys a coral bracelet, and a beaded necklace for her mother. ‘This will cheer her up when we get home,' she tells him.

‘Is it that bad?'

‘Of course, she hates you being here.'

‘Yes, but she has people around.'

‘It's always harder if you're on your own. They're all couples;
they have dinner parties for couples. Mum ends up feeling like a lemon. She drinks too much.'

They walk back down to the beach. An old woman is sitting on the steps selling sugar cake and chennets.

‘What are those?' Georgia says, pointing at the fruit.

‘They're like lychees. They're good.'

He buys a large bunch.

The sand is hot and powdery. They hurry to the water's edge and let the cool froth rush over their toes. It feels wonderful.

‘What do you mean, she drinks too much? At home or when she goes out?'

‘When she goes out, when she's at home. Same thing; she's miserable.'

It worries him that Georgia is mothering Miriam, or over-compensating. It is not her job to protect her mother. The counsellor warned them—after the loss of a sibling, all too often the remaining child steps into a parental role. Something to keep an eye on. And Miriam was never much of a drinker. Has Georgia got that part right?

The weather could not be better. There are no clouds, just a clear, perfect blue sky. It is one of the hottest days so far, the white sun blasting down on the island. Everything feels bleached out, dry and crisp; the grass, the trees, the bush; as if ready to crackle and burn.

And today there is no breeze. So much so, that by the time they get back to the villa, Georgia and Miriam are keen to retreat to their air-conditioned rooms to shower and rest. He rings the bell; from his room, Terence opens the gate. Chelsea
must be here. Martin tells Miriam he will join her soon for a nap.

He wanders across the freshly cut grass, and through the casuarina trees to the steps. The tide is rising. He looks down on the beach; the pirogue has gone. The boys must have come for it while they were out. He is glad. There was something about last night that unsettled him. No doubt Terence will give him the details.

From here the sea is huge, indifferent and endless as a galaxy. It has no interest in him and his little difficulties. The sea does what it wants. Safiya says the cure for anything is salt water—tears, sweat or the sea. Perhaps, he thinks, when we look at the ocean, we are reminded of our true nature. But what really is his true nature? Is there such a thing?

In the last year he has discovered parts of himself that he never knew about, parts he would rather not admit to. He has discovered, for instance, that he is ‘territorial', ‘uncompromising', and ‘moody'. He is also ‘passionate' and ‘liberal'. These are some of the words Safiya has used to describe him.

Maybe in Trinidad, he is finally waking up to his real self, to the real Martin Rawlinson. And looking out at the waves, the pristine, white rolling foam, it occurs to him that it is a marvellous, wondrous thing—to be more than halfway through your life and still making discoveries. He would never have thought it possible.

In the kitchen, Miriam touches his back as he passes. A Miriam gesture. She asks him to tell Georgia that the cake will be ready in about half an hour.

‘Find out what she'd like to drink,' she says. ‘No more cola.'

He says, ‘It's not cola, it's Coke, and she is on holiday.'

‘Have you ever seen what it does to a twopence piece? It strips it back to its original colour like a cleaning agent.'

“You won't stop her liking it. She'll think you're a killjoy.'

‘I don't care what she thinks. Think what it does to our guts, what it's doing to your daughter's guts. One of the ingredients is anti-freeze. Would you let Georgia drink anti-freeze?'

Today Miriam looks better; she's finally turning a reddish brown; the green halter dress is feminine, more flattering. It covers her legs and fits well around her breasts. Yes, something is different, or is he simply getting used to her?

While her father prunes the small trees, Chelsea has come to play with Georgia in the verandah. She is shy, and at the same time completely mesmerised by Georgia. She leans against the veranda wall and stares at her. Her hair is braided in little fair plaits, held in place by small colourful beads. A Rasta child, no less.

Georgia has been setting up her camera to take night photographs as part of her media course. She is using film and an old Sony SLR of Miriam's. She tells him, there are only a few days each month where moonlight photography is actually possible.

‘Do you know the moon is 250,000 times dimmer than the sun?.'

‘Great. Let me know where you want me.'

‘I don't want you in the photos, Dad. These are landscape pictures.' She looks at him incredulously.

She will set up near the casuarina trees, and try to capture
the sea, the house from a distance. It could take a couple hours.

‘I want to get a feeling like you're being watched.'

He likes Georgia's enthusiasm.

‘Chelsea, come and sit with me. You can listen to my favourite ever song. Do you like Black Eyed Peas?' Georgia turns the sound up loud and it blasts through the tiny earphones.

‘Come listen.'

Chelsea hides behind a chair; Georgia pretends to ignore her.

This seems to do the trick. In a few moments, Chelsea runs over to show off her big plastic doll and two dresses she has brought. She climbs onto Georgia's lap and, using a comb for her doll, tries to brush Georgia's hair.

‘Gentle not mental,' Georgia says. ‘Let me show you,' and she guides her eager hand. ‘Like this.'

‘Your mum wants to know what you'd like to drink,' he says.

‘Coke!' Georgia says.

At the top of the drive, Terence is throwing dead branches onto a pile. He is hot, his T-shirt is soaked through. Terence works hard; but then, no man ever drowned in his own sweat. Terence asks about Chelsea; he will be done soon.

‘If she's bothering Georgia, she can play here in the shade.'

‘She's enjoying looking after her. She's very well behaved; you must be proud.'

‘Chelsea has her moments.'

He wants to tell Terence about Beth, to be grateful for what he has, to enjoy every moment.

Terence says, ‘I just want her to have the best chance she can.'

‘Of course; we always want the best for our kids.'

Terence lobs a long branch on the growing pile. Martin asks, ‘Did Conan come back?'

‘No, sir, Conan has a wandering soul. I'm going to have to tie him in the day.'

He asks what time the boys came to collect the pirogue.

‘They haven't come as yet. I'm sure they'll be here before nightfall.'

‘The boat's gone.'

Terence looks surprised.

‘I walked down to the beach around four o'clock and it was gone.'

Terence wipes his face.

‘I was here the whole day. I went into the village before lunch to look for Conan, but I wasn't away long—half an hour at most. I would've seen them.'

‘Maybe they came from the sea.'

‘Why would they come by sea when they could walk up the road? I never heard the bell ring. They would've had to ring the bell.'

‘Maybe they jumped the fence?'

They both look at the high fence; they look at the electric gates.

Miriam calls from the house. Tea is ready.

Cake cutting begins, a clattering of plates, cutlery, napkins. Chelsea takes first slice. Should they sit here or take their plates outside? Decisions, decisions. He is glad of the distraction—this place, the weather, Chelsea. He doesn't want the afternoon to be miserable. Last year, while en route to England for Beth's birthday, his flight
was delayed with engine trouble in Barbados. When he called from Grantley Adams airport, Miriam was distraught.

‘Please go back,' she said. ‘I don't like the sound of engine trouble.'

He tried to reason with her but she was so insistent he gave in and caught a return flight to Trinidad that same night.

The following day, Safiya suggested they drive up to a Benedictine monastery nestled in the Northern Hills. The sun was slipping away, leaving strips of orange in the pale blue sky. In silence they walked in the grounds of the Spanish-style building; they looked down on the flat lands, out to Tunapuna, and all the way up to San Fernando. There was a quietness about the place that made him feel calm. In the chapel he lit a candle for Beth. Not bad for a non-believer.

Later he telephoned Miriam, ‘You've got to stop catastrophising about everything. The plane didn't crash. I'm still here.'

‘It could've done.'

‘But it didn't, darling. And if you carry on like this, you'll be miserable. You'll make everyone miserable. I don't want Georgia to be afraid of things.'

He flops down on the sofa and browses through the pages of last week's
Sunday Times
. This is something else he misses, English newspapers; glancing through the stories of the week, the editorial pages, the magazine. He must tell Miriam. He looks up at his daughter happily eating cake with little Chelsea beside her.

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well
.

Around six Terence appears at the kitchen window, still wearing his work clothes. Usually at this time, he is showered and changed.

‘Sir, do you have a minute?'

‘Sure.'

He puts on flip-flops and follows him around the front of the house. Through the window he sees Chelsea watching television, her face fixed, entranced. They walk around the side of the apartment where, along the fence, banana leaves hang low and ginger lilies stick out their red tongues. He notices it is getting dark. Out on the lawn, Georgia is setting up the camera on a tripod. She doesn't see them.

‘Just here, sir.'

Terence stops where the path bends and the trees start. At first he can't see anything, just the reddish tree trunk and the shadows of the branches. But then, underneath, he makes out a long dark shape and moves closer. The dog's mouth is open; there is vomit on the grass.

Terence squats down and puts his hand on Conan's head; he strokes the neck, the flat, lifeless ears. The dog is dead.

‘Has he eaten something bad?'

‘All by the fence is blood and diarrhoea.'

‘Poison?'

Since working in Trinidad he has become familiar with gramaxone. Often used in suicides and murders, he has seen its devastating effects.

‘For chasing chickens?'

Terence shrugs; he looks upset.

‘How long has he been here?'

‘Maybe all day. He missing since breakfast.'

He doesn't want the girls to know. Will Martin help lift the body to the back of the car port? At least it will be out of sight. He will get an old sheet from the storeroom and wrap the dog in it.

Tonight, before he takes Chelsea home, he will hose down the mess along the fence, and early tomorrow morning while everyone is sleeping, he will dig a hole and bury him.

There is a knock at the door just after 7 p.m. He assumes it is Terence or Chelsea; he thought he heard them leave earlier but perhaps not. It is neither Terence or Chelsea. No. There are three young men standing in the doorway, not where light falls, where a visitor would normally stand, but away from the light and where it is dark. He recognises the older boy from last night.

‘Hi,' he says, ‘I see you came for the boat.' And then he realises that something is quite wrong, something he cannot put his finger on.

‘Yes, we got the boat,' and without invitation, the brother brushes past him and enters the house. The other two quickly follow.

Martin says, ‘What's going on? Has something happened?'

A moment ago, Miriam was in the kitchen, now she stands in the corridor, her cotton dress floating around her.

‘Everything all right?'

He tells her to go inside.

Here in the bright light of the living room, he gets a good look at them: the second one is tall and lanky, his green shorts hang low. His front teeth protrude giving him a dumb, goofy
look. The third one is shorter, older and very black, with fine features; he wears his hair in thin, short dreads. In his left hand he holds a cutlass.

Martin says, stupidly, ‘Is your brother okay?'

Miriam is still standing in the same spot. They exchange a look. Georgia, where is Georgia? Last time he saw her, she was going to take a shower.

They quickly come around him; he feels a tightening in his upper body, a weakness in his legs. There is a ripe scent of sweat. His heart pounds. He has been here before—he knows the signs: trouble has arrived.

‘You can't just storm into someone's house like this.'

‘We come for money,' the boy says, looking him straight in the eye. His face is hot, sweating. Then he shows his weapon—a fishing knife, used mainly for filleting.

He will give them what they want and then they will leave.

‘I have cash. There's nothing else in the house.' He pulls out his wallet. ‘This isn't our home; we're renting it for a few days—take what you want.'

The boy quickly removes the dollars, driving licence, bank cards. There is not, in fact, much cash; he meant to get more today but there wasn't time. Now he is glad he didn't. The other two stand by, their eyes flickering.

‘Is this the thanks we get for helping you last night?'

The boy tells Miriam to fetch her purse; it is on the coffee table.

Miriam looks at Martin. She walks slowly as if on a precipice, as if her life depends on it.