by Amanda Smyth
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.
SIX
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.
‘Please, come. Just talk with me for a minute. It feels weird. Everything feels weird. I don’t know what we’re doing. Here we are in paradise, but you’re out there looking at maps and I’m in here alone.’
Her voice is shaky, and he suddenly feels sorry for her. And yet at the same time, he is irritated. He doesn’t want things to get heavy yet. There will be time for that later on. But this is so typical of Miriam; he should have known. He sits on the edge of the bed. Her h
air is towel-dried and her face looks scrubbed. A clean slate.
‘I just feel as if we’re not communicating with one another. I feel like a stranger, and you’re a tourist guide.’
She cries a little, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘We’ve come a long way to see you. I want things to be okay. Things were so weird at Christmas. I keep thinking that maybe you don’t want to come back. You want to stay here and live in Trinidad.’
‘Whoa,’ he hears himself say, ‘steady on, Miriam. You haven’t been here a week and you’re assuming all kinds of stuff.’ He talks with a surprising confidence. ‘I want more than anything for you both to have a good time. There’s so much to see and do in this place. It’s a great opportunity for Georgia.’
He runs his fingers through his sticky sea hair. ‘We’ve both had a lot on. Just try to relax and enjoy the sun. Stop worrying.’
She smiles weakly and says, ‘I’m okay when I think we’re okay.’
‘I know.’ He looks down at the doves embroidered on the pillowcase. Hand-stitched birds of peace.
‘So, are we okay?’
‘Yes, we’re okay.’
He pats the top of her leg, and for a moment, he hates himself.
Deceit, the cruel enemy of love.
Miriam says, ‘There’s something else: last night I dreamt of Beth.’
A hook in the heart—he is caught.
‘She was right there like she was in the room. She was wearing her purple nightshirt.’
He remembers well her Bart Simpson nightie, the cheeky caption read, ‘And your point is?’ When she died, Miriam took to wearing it daily under her clothes like another layer of skin.
‘Did she seem all right?’
‘She said she keeps trying to telephone us but we don’t answer.’
‘Was she anxious?’
‘No, not anxious.’
‘Well?’
‘She was a bit agitated; as if we were ignoring her. She seemed to want my attention.’
Miriam is relieved to be able to talk to him about this. Her face twists with pain. He has no choice but to allow her to come closer to him. She shuffles over the bed; he puts his arms around her thin, stiff back.
‘Breathe,’ he says, softly.
This was something they learned in counselling; by taking deep breaths it is possible to release pain more quickly and effectively. Holding the breath can block the release of uncomfortable feelings. In the long term it can create chronic illness. He is not sure about this. But the part about releasing he knows to be true. He feels Miriam shudder with her crying; she sobs softly into his chest. They stay like this for a few moments.
‘You know, there was a girl on the plane sitting right behind us. She reminded me so much of her. She might have been eleven or twelve. I almost said something to Georgia but I thought it wasn’t fair. Then when we were coming through immigration, Georgia said, did you see that girl, didn’t she look like Beth?’
Miriam wipes her nose. ‘It’s ages since I dreamt of her. In the early days, it was all the time. Do you remember?’
It was true; back then Miriam used to look forward to going to bed. Her dreams were vivid and alive. At the time he was envious. The only problem, she said, was waking up.
‘I wonder if she’s trying to tell us something.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. It’s strange to dream of her now.’
‘Maybe it’s being in another place; a part of your mind is more open.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Or maybe it’s because it’s her birthday in a few days.’
‘Maybe.’
Miriam’s eyes are watery. ‘I feel a bit fragile at the moment. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think such bleak thoughts. I’m hoping the holiday will help, all of us being together as a family.’
It is obvious to him, she wants him to reassure her. But he cannot. Cannot or will not?
‘Something needs to change. I feel like we need to get our lives back on track. It’s hard to do that when we’re in separate countries.’
He doesn’t know what to say. A phrase comes to him: The truth will set you free.
Georgia calls loudly from the passageway and he is saved. ‘Whatever you’re doing you can stop it now.’
Miriam smoothes her hair and pulls her T-shirt down over her thighs. Georgia slowly opens the door, peeks through the gap.
‘So you are in bed!’
He says, ‘What did you expect at siesta time?’
‘I’m starving. I’m doing all I can not to bite my arm off. Can we go out for some food?’
They eat dinner at a popular four-star hotel. The dining tables are set around a stage and a steel band is playing. The night air is cool, coming off the sea; the small coconut trees at the edge of the terrace are lit by fairy lights. The silky water, the dark sky, the sentimental tinkling music, make him think of Safiya.
The waitress keeps topping up his glass with rum punch—and Georgia thinks this is funny. He is soon feeling light-headed.
‘Dad, do you remember when we went on holiday to Majorca and Mum collapsed with food poisoning in the restaurant?’
‘And the paramedics almost knocked me out with a canister of oxygen which they dropped right by my head.’ Miriam makes an unattractive, ghoulish face.
‘I remember your mother throwing up on the floor of the restaurant. The other guests started getting up to leave.’
Georgia says, ‘You were jealous because the doctor looked like George Clooney.’
‘Jealous?’
He had forgotten this part. He can’t remember anything about it. ‘In the hospital?’
‘Yes,’ says Miriam, ‘and he came to see me the next day at our hotel; at the time you thought it a bit over-zealous, beyond the call of duty.’
Georgia adds, ‘You insisted on staying in the room while he examined her.’
Perhaps he has erased the memory. Simple as that. He has no recollection of a handsome doctor.
‘The point is,’ he replies, ‘your mother always liked dark men—Italian, Spanish, Latinos. God knows what she ever saw in me.’
‘Awww, Dad,’ Georgia puts a protective arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m sure she fancied you like mad.’
Miriam smiles; she is enjoying this.
After dinner, tables are cleared away. Miriam asks him if they can dance—she has always enjoyed dancing, and they do, in an awkward but familiar way to Lionel Ritchie’s ‘All Night Long’.
Miriam insists on driving home. He explains that there is no such thing as ‘over the limit’ here, but she won’t hear it.
He looks out at the passing fields of darkness, and he wonders how long she will accept his excuses and lies. It is a fact: people do not believe lies because they have to, but because they want to.
He leaves Georgia watching television and flops down on the bed. He might fall asleep before Miriam finishes in the bathroom; he hears the rush of the shower and feels himself drifting off.
‘Don’t crash out just yet,’ Miriam says, looming over him. She is wearing a different nightdress. She looks too thin, he thinks; her bony chest pokes through the peachy lace. A cadaver.
She stands back so he can see the whole effect. It is short and the lace makes a V to the waist. Her breasts are partially exposed. It was probably expensive. French.
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s pretty,’ he says, and he sees she needs more. ‘Very nice. Very you.’
She looks pleased; her eyes are steady as she climbs on the bed, and he wonders for a moment what he should do. He tries not to think too much; it is easier to go with it. He reaches for the light switch.
‘Are you sure you want the light off?’
‘Yes,’ he mumbles, and now he feels Miriam’s mouth, the soft hole of her mouth with its strong tongue. She runs her hand over his trousers and opens the zip. She tugs his trousers away, and he feels exposed. She lies beside him now, stroking and r
ubbing. Her wet hand starts to work him gently. She was always good at this part, getting it just right. Can he get away with this, with just this? She will want more.
He feels below where she is naked, and, at once, she opens herself up. Before he knows what he is doing, he has wrestled Miriam so that she is underneath him and he is penetrating her. She holds on to his back; she lifts her head to press her face into his neck. It is familiar. Old terrain. He moves in a steady and slow rhythm. Miriam lets out breathy little coos. He had forgotten—she has always made this simpering, urgent sound. Now he can feel the sweat on his stomach as he slides over her.
But it is difficult for him to come. She says, ‘Let me, let me.’ And she pushes him a little so that he lifts and rolls to his side, and onto his back. Miriam climbs on top of him and he can see her now, a greyish shadowy shape, and suddenly the room is brighter—a mobile phone going off, perhaps, provides light. Could that be Safiya? And her hair is in his face, brushing against him, and then she is burrowing down in his neck. She feels hot; there is no air. He lets Miriam do the work now—rising up and down, her hands above his shoulders. She is working hard. Finally he comes, a sudden rise and a fast cascade into a sweet and minor release. There is none of the explosion he feels with Safiya, the rush from root to crown of pure pleasure. And yet it is familiar and he is satisfied.
Miriam is not ready for him to finish, but she doesn’t seem to mind. It has always been difficult, getting the timing right. Miriam wants him to be fulfilled first.
She lies down beside him, her head on the pillow. There is enough light for him to see her eyes are open and she is looking at him.
The room seems to spin a little, and he wonders if he might be sick. An old song pops into his head: If you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with. He doesn’t want to think about this. He shifts onto his side; he can no longer feel Miriam’s breath on his face. Before he has a chance to think about anything else, he falls asleep.