A Kind of Eden (10 page)

‘At Mayaro beach in Trinidad. But there are other places to swim which you'd love. Like off the mainland, there are all these little islands: a leper island called Chacachacare; the island where the nuns lived; there are dolphins there sometimes. It's like
Pirates of the Caribbean
. The water's not like this, it's green.'

‘How do you get there?'

‘If you're lucky, someone's kind enough to take you on their boat.'

‘Who did you go with?' Georgia ties back her hair; her long neck is pale like soap.

‘There was a group of us from the office.'

He catches Miriam's look.

‘One day we'll go there and you can see for yourself.'

There is something remote about this part of Tobago, something that feels uninhabited, untamed. And yet, he knows of villas tucked away in these small, pretty hills: luxury villas with infinity swimming pools and armed security guards. When he suggested to Juliet that they might stay here, or further up by Parlatuvier, she reminded him of a brutal attack some years ago, on the wife of an Italian diplomat. During a dinner party for her female friends, four masked men broke into the house and subjected the women to all manner of humiliations. One of the women, a UK national, was spared because she was menstruating.

He drives into Scarborough, an old-fashioned town with colonial style buildings and a fort overlooking Rockly Bay. He shows them the old police station, a tatty white and blue wooden structure, where, for two weeks, at the start of his trip, he worked hard with a small core team advising on interview and interrogation techniques.

He was shocked to learn that there were no audio recordings, just notes made in longhand and A4 notebooks. A superintendent might ask an officer to go and speak to a suspect, then tell him what he said. Often, there is nothing written down.

Like Chinese whispers, the information is easily misinterpreted or forgotten. Before an interview, there is no preparation, no research on the person or the crime he's connected with. In England this simply would not do. When he explained how procedures worked elsewhere, the younger officers were surprised and amused. One or two seemed keen and made notes. At the end of the training, the human resources manager told
him his techniques would only create more work.

‘This might suit your country, Mr Rawlinson, where you have plenty resilience and resources. But Tobago police are extremely busy; they don't have time for all this.'

He points out the Blue Crab restaurant where he ate lunch every day. Usually alone, although sometimes he was joined by Stephen Josephs, a senior officer, a macho individual, who seemed, to him, to enjoy nothing more than hobnobbing with foreigners.

‘We could go there for lunch one day,' he says. ‘They do a delicious soup with cow heel and dumplings. Their rum punch is pretty good, too.'

‘Cow heel? Like cow feet?' Georgia makes a face. ‘Ewwww.'

Miriam stares at the frontage as if she is piecing together something in her mind. Then she says, ‘Do police here drink while they're working? Is it allowed?'

‘No, but it happens. More than it does in England.'

In fact, when he went on patrol with Stephen, he spent most of his time in rum shops. That night, Stephen drank four or five beers. Conversations with locals were chummy, familiar and often inappropriate. Everyone was ‘uncle', or ‘breds', or ‘sweetheart'.

‘You have to ask yourself,' Stephen told a barman, ‘if your wife keeps coming out of the kitchen to nag at you, what have you done wrong? I'll tell you—you've made her chain too long.'

And later, to a group of young men, ‘What do you say to a woman with two black eyes? Nothing, she's been told twice already.' Martin felt awkward, embarrassed. What was the man thinking?

When the shift was over, Stephen drove him back to his hotel, taking the long scenic route over the old road parallel to the coastline. He drove slowly with one hand on the wheel, the other hung out of the window. The sea was lit by the moon; there were small rolling waves. He told Martin this was where he swam as a child, and where he now took his own children, aged two and five; it was his favourite spot on earth. He lost his father when he was a boy. But this loss had made him more determined than ever to succeed. What doesn't kill you must make you stronger, he said. He is living proof.

As he got out of the car, Martin thanked him. Then he said, and it was clumsy, ‘You know, in England, Stephen, drinking on duty is a serious criminal offence, not to mention drinking while you're driving. Tonight you'd probably have lost your job.'

Stephen's face changed; the friendly openness was gone, and immediately he wished he could take back what he'd said.

‘Mixing with locals is how we gather intelligence, sir. It might not be how it's done in your country. But it's how things are done in my country.'

In the morning Martin spoke to Raymond. He was wondering if he should report Stephen. ‘What kind of example is he setting for the younger officers?'

Raymond laughed, and told him not to bother. He probably wouldn't have to deal with them again. Tobago police are a law unto themselves.

‘But the man is a bigot, an idiot.'

‘He may well be; he also has friends in high places.'

No, he was not a popular guest. He suspects they thought him pompous and arrogant, which he probably was. He is
sorry about this. In truth, if he were in the same situation now, he would handle it differently. He has learned a thing or two about island life since then.

They head up the hill, and beyond, where the winding road twists and turns into the hillside, along the coast towards Roxborough and Charlotteville. It is glorious here, the sea sparkles a brilliant blue and the land juts out like the huge paw of an animal. They drive for an hour or so; the road is rough and full of potholes and he must swerve to avoid them. At one point, Georgia feels queasy. They stop at an old wooden church and stretch their legs; the warm breeze is gentle, and it carries the smell of the sea.

He shows them a bush of black and red berries, right there, near the side of the road. Jumbie beads, he tells Georgia; go ahead and fill your pockets. They are good for warding off evil spirits. So say the black people.
So says the young and beautiful Safiya Williams!

Eventually, they come to an old hotel on the beach. They wander into reception where, apart from a few sugar birds perched on the backs of the chairs, it feels empty, abandoned. Miriam says it could do with a makeover. He disagrees; it has a certain charm, an authenticity. He likes the bamboo furniture with its sun-bleached flowery cushions; there is something of the '70s about it.

It's retro,' he says. ‘I like it.'

‘Your father's standards are slipping,' Miriam says to Georgia. ‘A worrying sign.'

‘Perhaps they are,' he says. ‘Which means I'm probably growing more tolerant with age. You should be pleased.'

Miriam does not look pleased; she looks irritated.

‘Come on,' he says, looking at the sea view. ‘It doesn't get much better than this.'

They have lunch on the terrace under a canopy of coconut branches; it takes a long time to come and Georgia complains that she is starving. But they are on holiday, he tells them, and this is the Caribbean. Nothing happens quickly.

As they sip their delicious fruit punch and look out at the island of Little Tobago—the Bird of Paradise Island—he imagines they must appear like any other normal British family on holiday. And it troubles him that he is able to play a part in this charade. It seems heartless, cruel. But what are his options: to announce his plans, to tell Miriam about Safiya now? As far as he can tell he has no choice but to carry on. For now let it be so.

‘I like this place,' Georgia says, when they are driving home along the ocean front with the windows down, the salty sea breeze wafting in. ‘No wonder you love it, Dad. Can't we just sell up and move here?'

‘And what about school?' Miriam says. ‘And all your friends.'

‘There must be schools in Tobago.'

‘Actually,' he says, ‘the standard of education in Trinidad is very good. They take their studies seriously.'

Then Georgia says, ‘Is Trinidad like this?'

‘Not really, Trinidad is more industrial, a bustling, hectic place.'

‘Can we go there before we leave for England? Just for a day?'

It would be possible to do exactly that; they could leave on
the first flight out and return on the last flight back. He would love to show Georgia the Northern Range Mountains, the coastline up to Toco. She would love Las Cuevas, the Marianne River at Blanchisseusse. But not this trip. It would make for complications. And Trinidad is small; Safiya would hear about it soon enough. Why make things more difficult. There will be other opportunities further down the road.

He says, ‘Next time.'

‘But you're coming home at Easter.'

‘We can always visit for a holiday; I don't have to be working here.'

‘There are lots of places in the world to see,' Miriam pipes up. ‘You promised to take me to Vietnam one day.'

This is true, he had promised. But that was then.

‘And Venice.'

‘Venice is infested with rats and the canals smell awful, especially in the summer.'

“We could go in February for the carnival?'

‘If you want Carnival, then Trinidad is the place.' To Georgia, ‘Do you know how many people take to the streets and party? Thousands and thousands. They come from all over the world. The children's carnival is incredible.'

Miriam looks out of the window. ‘Well, that settles it then. We'll just have to move to Trinidad.'

And as they drive along the final stretch of the Windward Road and head towards the capital, he wonders for a moment what it would be like if Miriam was serious, if she wanted to live here. He had never actually considered it.

For the moment, Miriam is avoiding any difficult conversations, and he is relieved. He doesn't blame her. It was something his mother used to say—don't look for trouble, it will find you soon enough.

In her own way, he can see she is trying. He notices her new clothes; every day she models something different. To protect her hair, this dark new shade he does not like, she has taken to wearing a cowboy hat, and it looks, he thinks, ridiculous. She applies lip gloss, and checks herself in a white plastic mirror. A new habit. But there is something about the way she is holding herself together, her effort, that makes him pity her, and he doesn't want to pity her.

The fact is: Miriam has lost her moisture. She carries a dry quality like bread when it is old. She is only forty-six, and yet a part of her seems to have given up; she has relinquished a fundamental part of herself. He has met many mature Trinidadian women who, despite their years and personal struggles, hold on to something: a love of life, an easiness with themselves and the world around them, a certain
joie de vivre
. Yes, Miriam has had a difficult time, but she needs, now, to learn to kick back, to let go. At twenty-five, Safiya is dripping with moisture; and she will still have her moisture when she is Miriam's age; of that he is certain. He wants to be there to see it.

It is Tuesday afternoon. They have returned from the beach and everyone is cooling off inside. He sits in the veranda flicking through a local guide to the island when Miriam suddenly appears; he can see at once that she is agitated.

‘Can you show me how to turn down the air conditioner?'

‘Sure,' he says, and follows her to their room.

She is wearing a long T-shirt with a slogan on the front, it says: Go Girl! He wonders why she has bought a T-shirt like this and if it perhaps belongs to Georgia.

‘It's freezing,' she says, ‘like England.'

‘When you've been in the sun all day the air con feels cold. I know that feeling.'

He adjusts the temperature and shows her how to work the digital control system. It is similar to the one in his apartment in Trinidad and easy enough to operate. He is about to leave when she sits heavily down on the bed.