A Kind of Eden (7 page)

Miriam calculated, if he worked for eighteen months, Georgia could carry on at the school; they could put money aside for university, and even allow themselves a holiday or two. Eighteen months wasn't long; time would fly by. He spoke with Raymond on Friday, and the following Thursday he was on a plane to Port of Spain. At first he was unsettled by the tropical landscape, the intense heat, the chaos of Trinidad. He was lonely; he felt like an outsider. He called Miriam every day.

Then, slowly, he got used to being alone, and he began to realise that leaving England offered him a kind of relief. Since losing Beth, they'd existed in a permanent state of grief, as if the colour had gone from their lives. Trinidad gave him an escape; no one need know about his past, of his enormous loss. Here he was a free man, and this sense of freedom made him more confident, somehow; unfettered, alive. He rediscovered his sense of humour; people found him quick-witted, dynamic, a can-do man. After the incident of the eleven-year-old boy,
he'd felt different. He started to believe in himself again:
There is nothing you cannot do
. This is the side he showed to Safiya. He never expected to fall in love.

He sets the kitchen table and fills a jug of water; he presses a button on the fridge and ice tumbles out. This Electrolux fridge would be perfect for his kitchen in Trinidad. He will ask Safiya where he might be able to pick one up. She'd be pleased to know that he is thinking of buying a fridge. He checks his mobile phone. There is a message from Juliet telling him that she will send the new contract, and to enjoy his family holiday. Good, he is glad. Juliet read his mind.

He notices how quiet it is, much quieter than Trinidad. In his apartment, he can often hear the television next door, or people talking, the dull thrum of traffic from the highway. Here, they seem far from anywhere and anyone, which is exactly what he'd wanted. In a hotel, there'd be no escaping Miriam. No room to think. He had told Juliet he wanted a villa with at least three bedrooms and preferably a sea view; a taste of authentic Tobago life.

From the window, he can see beyond the pool of soft kitchen light, the vast lawn, and tall security lamps at the end of the garden where the high chickenwire fence begins. Yes, he thinks, this will more than do.

Miriam and Georgia drift into the kitchen, pale and tired and still in their travelling clothes. They sit on the high chairs and start on the sandwiches.

‘I'm dying for some tropical fruit,' Miriam says, picking through the sauce, and he knows she doesn't approve of tinned
sausages. ‘Is there anything particular in season right now? I remember when you first arrived mangoes were coming out of your ears. You were eating two or three a day.'

‘I'm sure we'll be able to pick up fruit. Bananas, oranges, they're all year round.'

In England, every morning, Miriam made his sandwiches and in a small Tupperware box came an assortment of fruit, the total of which would amount to his five a day. If he came home with leftovers, she complained. It is on the tip of his tongue to tell her about the high rates of diabetes, heart disease and cancer in Trinidad. Most people hardly eat fruit; vegetables are often heavily seasoned with pepper and cooked in oil. There is no five a day.

He would also like to tell Miriam how much he has grown to like hot and spicy Kentucky Fried Chicken and French fries. And how he enjoys the Hawaiian cheeseburgers from Burger Bar on Maraval Road.

They clear the table and he can see they are exhausted. ‘It's three o'clock in the morning for us now,' says Georgia. She kisses him on his cheek and goes off to her room. He tells Miriam that he will wash up, and lock up. There are electric metal shutters in the living room which he must remember to draw down every night. Terence has shown him how to operate them. He will see her in a minute.

By the time he comes to bed, Miriam is asleep, her bedside light still on, her mouth slightly open, and she is breathing deeply. He moves silently around the room, taking off his clothes and placing them quietly on the chair. He does not
bother to shower, or brush his teeth. He slides in next to her, noticing how her in-breath catches on the back of her throat making a familiar ka sound. Thankfully, she does not stir.

His body is tired; it has been a long day; it is hard to believe that only a few hours ago, he was in Trinidad with Safiya sleeping deeply beside him. He misses her smell, her cinnamon skin; the sound of her sleeping is pleasing to him. And yet he often finds himself unable to sleep when she is there, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. Does his guilt keep him awake? Is it possible? In truth, he probably sleeps better with Miriam, or alone. If she knew, Safiya would be dismayed.

He knows this much: he has never been a good liar. During these past months, he hid his growing feelings for Safiya behind a heavy work schedule. He told Miriam he was up against the wire. When they spoke, especially in the early days, he often sounded exhausted. Miriam understood. She didn't complain about being alone; she handled it all without him—taking care of Georgia, running their comfortable new family home, project-managing the installation of a new Shaker-look Magnet kitchen, and all the while continuing to teach Spanish part-time at a further education college. She has been patient. A rock. But rocks can crack, and Miriam is here now because she needs him. There will come a point, tomorrow or the next day or the day after, when she will expect him to come to her, to want sex. She will want sex too. The thought of this fills him with terrific anxiety.

They are up early. It's the time difference, Miriam says. For them it is already almost midday; half the day is gone! They are in their swimsuits and colourful wraps, flip-flops on, ready to potter down to the beach. Miriam rubs sun cream into Georgia's shoulders. Her hair is bushy in the heat and sits at the bottom of her neck. He always preferred her hair long, not this middle-aged midway length. It is neither one thing nor the other.

‘Breakfast? Coffee?' His eyes are tired.

‘All done,' Miriam says, and points to the little stack of washed dishes. ‘Georgia had toast and juice.'

Georgia rubs her tummy and smiles at him. ‘Good afternoon, Dad,' she says, and checks her watch. She pecks him on the cheek. She is going to look for towels and some goggles. Terence has shown her where they're kept.

He slept quite well, considering. It was a relief to hear the door close when Miriam got up, to stretch out in the bed. His waking thoughts were of Safiya, and he wonders if she woke in her Mayaro beach house thinking of him, too. He guesses not, or at least, not for long. She seemed determined to have a good weekend with her young friends. And so she should.

He makes a cup of instant coffee and follows them outside. He is fond of the local instant coffee. In fact, when he last went back to England he took a jar of Nescafé with him. Miriam said, ‘You've been in Trinidad too long, you've lost your epicurean taste.' Yes, Miriam prefers her Krups capsule coffee maker with its milk steamer and adjustable stainless steel drip tray.

Through the casuarina trees, the sea is a bright turquoise. He stands for a moment and watches its rippling skin, and he is wondering if the tide is high. From here it looks calm enough, and in a moment he will follow them down to the sandy beach and make sure everything is okay.

Miriam and Georgia are walking quickly down the path, towels slung over their shoulders. Miriam waves, and then Georgia waves too. From here, Georgia is lanky and striking; her fair hair is flaxen in this light. Otherworldly. He has already warned Miriam that she must be mindful of the sun even when it is overcast.

‘Be careful,' he shouts. ‘I'll be down in a minute.'

In the yard, he can see Terence walking with a hose; Conan follows on behind him. Terence is spraying the small palms; their smooth trunks are red and bright, like blood. The large garden must take a lot of maintenance. An acre and a half, at least. What would young Vishnu make of it? It would certainly keep him busy. There are three or four coconut trees, and a large mango tree. There is a landscaped section to the right of the veranda with an enormous cactus and small boulders, and when he looks more closely he is surprised to see a camouflaged hot tub. It would take four people quite comfortably. Georgia will love it. He will find out from Terence how it works.

Above the hot tub is a lattice with a vine of some kind; pale purple flowers and grassy shrubs surround the steps. He wanders around the other side of the house where there is a bony white tree with long branches. Its leaves are deep green and it has bright pink flowers; they are scattered all over the ground. He picks one up and the sweet scent is almost overwhelming. Frangipani. He picks up more flowers for Georgia and Miriam. What an abundance of colour; what a wealth of beauty. This place is a kind of Eden.

‘Good morning, sir,' Terence turns off the hose, he makes his way over. ‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Yes, thank you; I slept like a fool.'

This is an expression he has learned from Safiya and it has always amused him. Thinking of her, he feels a sudden longing, a lurch of the heart.

‘And you, Terence?'

‘I usually sleep good; the house next door has parties sometimes, and the music gets real loud. But nobody there right now. Tobago dead. You came at a good time. Come Ash Wednesday the island will be heaving with people.' Terence looks up at the clear sky, ‘Plenty sunshine.'

‘Excellent. That means the beaches won't be too full. Are there any particular beaches you'd recommend?'

‘Well, you could go to Mount Irvine; the sea is nice but you're kind of close to the road. Or there's the beach by plantation villas. Turtle Beach, about fifteen minutes up the road. Back Bay is on the other side of this beach here.' He points to the right. ‘It's my favourite. But better to go in a crowd.'

‘Where do you go?'

‘I bathe right here sometimes, or down by Buccoo. I like to take a sea bath at least once a week; it cleans the soul.'

He is curious, does Terence need to clean his soul, too?

Miriam has her towel stretched out below the clump of rocks and she is sitting up, watching Georgia in the sea. She is wearing a striped bikini. He has never seen it before. He notices that her stomach is surprisingly flat, almost hollow; her weight loss is obvious now. He has not seen her this skinny since they met. She looks as if she has already caught the sun. Her pale skin is turning pink.

Pelicans dive near Georgia, plunging the water for fish, and she thinks this is hilarious. ‘I'm going to get abducted by a pelican!' Georgia shouts. ‘Help me, Dad!' She is bobbing up and down, holding on to the purple foam noodle she must have picked up from the storeroom. He stands at the edge where the sand is grainy; the warm water licks around his ankles. It feels good.

‘Help me!' Georgia feigns distress. Pelicans are large, prehistoric-looking creatures. He has never seen one quite so close up, like this, right there, circling in the middle of the bay—and then, crash! The enormous bird plummets like an aircraft into the sea; then it reappears, its big beak clacking with a wriggling fish.

‘Amazing,' he says. ‘Isn't that something else?'

Miriam is inspecting her toenails.

‘Are you going in?'

‘Not yet, I don't want to get all sandy.'

He had forgotten that about her, her aversion to sand. When they had not long met, they drove to Crosby Beach. They ran
down to the sea, took off their shoes and socks and paddled in the water. It was cold, and rain was coming. Once her feet were wet, Miriam refused to walk back; at first he thought she was joking, but then he realised that she was serious. She insisted that he carry her over the sand to the car, which he did. He remembers thinking it strange.

On holidays abroad, she always preferred a swimming pool, its easy concrete surround, especially for sunbathing on loungers. But surely, this could be an exception—this white Caribbean sand.

‘It's a good spot, isn't it? The house, the beach?'

‘Yes,' she says. Then, ‘Could you put some cream on my back?' She flops onto her stomach, and adjusts her bikini bottoms.

He stoops over her, squeezes the orange tube, and the cream plops onto his hand. He quickly smears it onto her shoulders, and down over her back. Her legs are short, and her veins stand out like electric blue lines. For as long as he has known her, she has hated her legs. If he is honest, he has never much liked them either. Her ankles are thick and her thighs are soft like luncheon meat.

Her upper body was always her best asset: her neat back, round breasts, and cinched waist. His mother used to say: you're either an apple or a pear. And Miriam is most definitely a pear. Safiya is also a pear, but she is taller, more streamlined. If Miriam is a Comice, then Safiya is a Conference, although entirely more exotic.

‘You can bring a towel and lie here, too, if you want.'

But he doesn't want.