A Kind of Eden

by Amanda Smyth

  ‘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.

  The water is deliciously cool and he swims fiercely towards his daughter as if he is trying to save her from something. He ducks under, swims quickly through her legs, and lifts her up and over his shoulders. Georgia screams, and, at once, topples backwards and splashes hard into the water. Now she reaches onto his back, and clings there. He can feel her breath on his neck. ‘Come on, Dad, I’m tired. Take us back to shore.’

  He flips her off and there is a lot of shrieking and squealing. He can see Miriam sitting up watching, her hand a visor in the sun. Georgia waves at her mother. ‘Save me!’

  They swim further along, keeping close to the land, and paddle around the curve of the bay. On the other side of the rocks, it is difficult to see what lies ahead. The water feels cooler here, and it is a darker blue. In the distance he can see a couple of rickety wooden houses perched on the hillside. That must be the start of the village. They swim a little further, to where the beach seems to rise into a sandy bank. He can see sea grape trees but not much else. He calls behind to Georgia, ‘Shall we?’

  They climb out of the water and walk slowly up the slope. Between a cluster of rocks is a pool of turquoise water, like a pond. There are tiny white crabs crawling here in the crevices. Georgia sticks her foot in the water. ‘It’s warm,’ she says, her eyes wide. She wants to jump in but he says they should carry on and see what’s ahead. They pass around the side of a large rock to where there is a clearing. Above, and to the right, in the shadowy light, he can see a broken set of steps, and the branches of the tall trees marked with a cross. He knows what this cross means: they are manchineel trees; the sap is like acid. He tells Georgia to stay clear. There is a tangle of bushes here, and some long grass. They step through the bush and out into the light.

  The beach is long and curved and coconut trees stretch along the edge of the pale yellow sand. The sea is restless; big waves are exploding onto the shore. There is a strong and warm breeze.

  ‘This is amazing!’ Georgia says, and her blonde hair is blowing back from her face. Better than Blanchisseuse, he thinks. How can that be? He wishes Safiya was with them. Has she been to this beach? He will bring her someday. They stare in silence. He thinks: we are nothing. Those waves could pick us up and hurl us against the rocks like matchsticks. And yet we are not separate from nature; we are not without power. Safiya would say that we have that same power, the force of the waves within. She would call it God. He is not so sure.

  ‘Mum would love this,’ Georgia says. ‘We’ve got to show her. I wonder if there’s a way to get here without swimming.’

  Ahead, about halfway down, he can make out a line of figures; a few are wading in the water. It looks as if they are pulling a net. He has seen this kind of fishing before with Safiya at sunset on Store Bay. He’d made a joke about giving up his job for a simple life as a fisherman. Safiya said, ‘There’s nothing simple about these fishermen. Like you, they work hard to feed their families. Just because they’re poor, it doesn’t mean they’re simple.’

  And he remembers feeling embarrassed, irritated, and fixing his eyes on the busy scene, the young men packing fish into Styrofoam boxes, and carrying them on their heads to the road. They didn’t speak until after they got back to the hotel and he told her he was sorry. He knew Safiya was right; it was easy to make assumptions.

  Martin and Georgia start down the beach and the wind is blowing through their hair. The sun is now high overhead. They walk on the wet sand, and Georgia flings little pieces of stone into the waves—chip, chip, chip as they skim the surface of the water. He shouts: Tic, tac, toe, my first throw, three jolly butcher boys all in a row. And, to his surprise, she joins in, her voice shrill and young: Stick one up, stick one down, stick one on the old man’s crown. The white foam rushes at their ankles; it feels cool, and the smell of the sea is strong.

  The men seem to be delibera
ting over how far they can pull the fishing net up the beach. They look fit, especially the front man who is calling the shots; his black, lean body gleams with sweat. Behind him are three younger men, and then an older man in his seventies, perhaps; his legs are bowed, his skin hangs like a suit. A Rasta man with waist-length locks fools around in the middle of the line, cocking his leg out to the side. He is singing something familiar. Martin gives a friendly wave and offers a hand.

  Georgia watches as he takes grip of the rope. There is a rhythm of sorts—reach, pull and hold. Reach, pull and hold. Reach, pull and hold. And so it goes. Part of the net is exposed on the wet sand, a kind of horseshoe shape in the bay. Bobbing out in the sea is a pirogue, and he is guessing that the owner of the net owns this boat. Is it the pirogue that drops the net out there? Who knows how long it will take to haul the thing in. A couple of dogs are lying on the other side of the fishing line. One has long dark teats hanging from its bloated stomach. The other, prettier dog seems more alert, ears up, nose held high. The two pick themselves up and move with the men along the beach.

  ‘Hold,’ says the front man. Then again, ‘Hold!’

  A couple of younger men, more like boys, watch from the side. Then one of them steps in front of Martin and takes up the rope. The other smokes a cigarette and sits by the rocks.

  The rope is heavier than he’d thought and unwieldy, and the beach seems to rise, a gradual slope. If he did this every day, his hands would get rough—his soft, English hands. Gentleman’s hands, Safiya says. Like his feet, they need to toughen up.

  ‘Pull,’ the front man shouts, and suddenly there is the entire net and he can see the caught, trapped fish, the glittery splattering bits of silver as they jump on top of one another. Their job is done. The sand here is soft and powdery like hot flour. Martin hops to where it is cooler; the front man thanks him with a high five. ‘Nice work,’ he says, to Martin. And Martin feels good; he feels alive. This is how we are meant to feel all the time; he is certain of it. Go with the flow, the young people say. And why not! He must seize the moment. Carpe diem! There is only one life; there is no room for compromise.

  Georgia comes closer for a better look. Hundreds of silver fish are jerking and flipping on top of one another, gasping, dying. Thin long fish with sharp long noses, big broad fish with thick lips. Tiny baby fish, no bigger than a finger. Grey and white fish with meaty bellies. Georgia pulls a face. Above the wind, Martin says, ‘My daughter doesn’t approve. She’ll eat the fish, but she doesn’t want to know how they got onto her plate.’

  ‘Dad,’ Georgia says, embarrassed. Everyone is gathering around the catch, and he realises they ought to head back; it will take ten or fifteen minutes; by now Miriam will be starting to fret.

  They say goodbye, and set off along the beach, feeling invigorated and excited about their adventure.

  Miriam is indeed anxious, standing under the casuarinas, her towel folded up, her beach bag packed. He sees her relief when she spots them swimming around the rocks. She waves and then sits down on the steps. She watches them climb out of the sea.

  ‘I was worried,’ she says, handing him his towel. ‘I imagined calling the police to say you’d gone missing.’

  They eat lunch at a small pizzeria in Crown Point. They sit near the window overlooking the paved garden in the air-conditioned restaurant. After the heat it is a relief.

  For some reason, their rental car—a silver Nissan Tiida—has no air conditioner. It will not be comfortable or big enough for long drives. He wonders why Juliet chose such a small vehicle. There are no seat belts in the rear; no stereo. Tomorrow morning he will drive to Scarborough and change it for something more suitable.

  This part of the island feels busier. Last time he was here, the place was swarming. It was Divali, and at the end of the trip, Safiya came to meet him for the weekend. She took him to a well-known tourist beach. The first time he saw the bay with its jetty, little cabanas, and clear green water—he thought it was paradise. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘look at this.’ Safiya held his hand and they walked along the white sand. He’d felt proud to be seen with her. This beauty was with him; she had chosen him. The water was warm and shallow; they walked out for thirty metres or so and it still only reached his waist. He’d wanted to hold her close, to kiss her, but Safiya said no. ‘One day you will leave and I will be left with my reputation to think about.’

  Yes, he will take Miriam and Georgia there; perhaps they can spend the day. There are restaurants and beach hut facilities. They can even take a cooler. He has decided that it is best to keep busy.

  They drive home via the supermarket, and pick up basics to add to their provisions. While Georgia scans the aisles for local sweets, Miriam is disappointed by the lack of choice, and after a while, she gives up. There are few fresh vegetables, and what fruits there are look bruised, wrinkled. The bread, she says, reminds her of Nimble, a low-calorie bread she used to buy in the ’80s. It’s like eating air. There must be a decent bakery somewhere; he will ask Terence.

  On the way to the villa, he misses the turning to the private road. He finds himself driving along the edge of the golf course where the coconut trees stand tall on the rolling stretches of clipped grass. They pass Mount Irvine bay, and it is flat and blue and shimmering. Up on the right is a low-rise house. He would like to wake up to a view like that! Perhaps one day he will. There are cars parked along the side of the wall where the beach starts, and people are cooking, smoke is rising, a make-do barbecue. They look like they are enjoying themselves.

  No one seems to have noticed that they have come too far. He turns off to the left, into a village where the houses are old, wooden and patched up. Is this where Conan lost his leg? There is a concrete church on the right, a Centre for Worship, and behind it, a ramshackle old church on stilts. The grass is growing tall; the road is narrower now. People are standing on the side of the road—waiting for someone or something—and they stare into the car. Safiya once told him, Tobago people are a rare breed; they can sit and watch the world passing all day long and never get bored.

  He spots a breadfruit tree; bright green balls hang amongst its leaves. ‘Breadfruit,’ he says, and points upwards. ‘Can you see them, Georgia?’

  She looks up through the rear car window.

  ‘We’ll try and get one for you to try. It’s delicious, fried.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Miriam says, ‘I don’t remember coming this way yesterday. Are we lost?’

  Underneath a wooden house, hens are running and a small child is shooing them. Martin slows down.

  ‘Look at that little boy,’ Georgia says. ‘So cute.’

  The boy turns and looks at the car. Georgia waves at him. He continues to stare, his eyes wide. Miriam says, ‘It’s hard to imagine people actually live here.’

  ‘It’s no different to poor housing in England. At least they have sun, they don’t have to think about heating.’

  They pass a kiosk selling cigarettes and snacks. An old man is wearing a pork-pie hat. He waves at them and Martin waves back. It is still hot, the sun burning down on the asphalt. Safiya often complains that the heat at this time of the day is murderous.

  ‘Maybe they’re happier than we are.’

  ‘Just because they’re poor and black, it doesn’t mean they’re happy. That’s like saying all fat people are happy.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Sometimes I think we have way too many choices.’

  He says, ‘If they don’t have choices, they don’t have freedom. Give me choice any day.’

  Miriam is looking at him, and he suddenly realises that he is getting himself into a tight spot.

  Miriam says, and she is frowning, ‘Choice of what?’

  ‘Look,’ he says, lightheartedly, ‘it doesn’t really matter. Who knows what these people feel about their lives. How can we tell? I imagine they are proud; proud of their heritage, their island. They have every right to be. Maybe that’s something we’ve lost in England.’

&nbs
p; ‘The fact is, Martin, the British came here like pirates and took whatever they wanted. They exploited these islands and their people. I don’t think that’s anything to be proud of. Colonialism has a lot to answer for.’

  He is reminded of Miriam’s ability to skilfully argue a point. Verbal sparring used to be a part of their foreplay. It was something he enjoyed.

  He drives up what appears to be the centre of the village, and he’s back out onto the main road. He notices Georgia is quiet, her head hangs out of the window, feeling the breeze.

  ‘Be careful,’ he says. ‘Cars can fly along here.’

  Later, Terence offers to pick coconuts from the trees in the yard. He climbs the shorter tree: his feet grip the sides of the slender trunk, his arms make a loop like a rope, and he hoists himself up the trunk. He makes it look easy, natural. The green and yellow nuts hang in clusters. He cuts down seven or eight nuts, and drops them on the ground. They each land with a dull, heavy thud. Miriam sits on the step watching, transfixed. Martin and Georgia perch on the veranda wall.

  ‘If a coconut falls on your head, would you die?’ Georgia says.

  ‘Not necessarily. It would depend where it hit you. It could catch you on your body as you pass, and do no more than give you a scrape. The fronds are as likely to fall.’

  Georgia says, ‘You’d have to be pretty unlucky for it to hit you on your head.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Martin. ‘How often do you hear about it?’

  ‘But if it did fall on your head, it would kill you?’

  ‘If it hit the top of your head at full force from a height, especially a green coconut, which is probably around four kilos, then yes, chances are it would kill you—a subdural haematoma.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If it hit an artery it might cause bleeding or swelling in the skull.’

  ‘Like what happened to Beth?’

  ‘Not really. Beth had an aneurysm, which caused bleeding in her brain. But, yes, sometimes a blow to the head can cause an aneurysm too.’