A Kind of Eden (27 page)

Life is a series of natural changes. It is only resisting them that causes pain. He learned this well enough with Beth. The more he fought the reality of her dying, the more pain he felt. There was relief in accepting his dreadful lot and navigating his way to a place of recovery. But this feels different.

Yes, what the boy did to Georgia has been done—there is nothing he can do about it, but he finds himself unable to accept it. Every time he thinks of it, he is horrified all over again; inside himself, at his centre, he feels as if he is burning up, raging, insatiable. And he finds himself thinking about how much he wants to make the boy pay for what he's done. He has never felt like this before.

Georgia climbs out of the pool, her body lean in her navy swimsuit; she wraps her towel around her. The late afternoon sun casts a silvery light. She is lit from behind. She is looking up at the fence where he is standing, cigarette in his hand.

‘Dad,' she says. ‘We're ready to go.'

It is 10 p.m. Georgia is in bed; Miriam and Martin sit in the veranda. For some time, they have been watching fireflies glow in the darkness. Their little lights flit on and off. Safiya said once they were a symbol of hope. Something he could do with right now; something they could all do with. The air is hot and sticky; there is no breeze.

This afternoon, he had left Miriam and Georgia to drive over to the mall where he filled up with petrol and checked his tyres. When he got back, Miriam was packing. He asked if he could help, if there was anything he could do. There was something about her manner that bothered him—a certain aloofness, a distance. Tonight, when she asked him to join her, he assumed she wanted to talk; a final conversation before they leave. It is likely to be heavy; so be it. He would like to get an early night. Tomorrow will be a long and difficult day; they will all need their rest.

Miriam says, ‘They are probably females, they use their lights to attract a mate and then they eat him.'

‘Really?' He has never heard this before. ‘That's rather depressing. I thought they were a symbol of hope.'

‘Life is depressing. I'm surprised you haven't noticed.'

He says, trying to brighten her, ‘The thing is, we never know what's round the corner.'

Miriam looks at him. ‘Isn't it funny how things turn out? You never liked change much. It was always me who liked it. I had to push you into doing anything new. You wanted everything to be familiar.'

This is true; for years he followed the same routine. He had no interest in travelling, or reading about other countries, or eating in foreign restaurants.

‘Now you don't want to come home to the familiar. You only want the adventures.'

He wants to ask what she is getting at, but he senses something. She is looking out, her legs crossed. The sky is clear and bright with the moon; it spills a milky light on the hills. It is astonishing to him, he has never grown tired of this view.

‘I was always optimistic, and you were the pessimist. Now we've swapped. Since you've been living here, I've never known you so glass-half-f.'

It hadn't occurred to him that he could be an optimist. A new thought.

Then Miriam says, ‘I'm guessing she is young. Is she young?'

He says, ‘Who?'

‘Who?' she says, and smiles: a fake smile.

Then he says, ‘What are you talking about?'

Miriam looks at him. ‘Don't argue or deny it. I don't really want to know the details. I thought it might be Jeanne but I realise she's not interested in you. There was a woman who phoned when you were in hospital; I'm guessing it's her. She sounded keen.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' His face flushes with heat.

Her foot ticks quickly back and forth. ‘I can't imagine you'd risk losing everything for someone you didn't love. So I'm guessing you are in love. Is that right?'

‘Miriam.'

Then she says, almost casually, ‘Georgia will never forgive you.'

He wants to say something; and he would like to stand up but he doesn't feel as if he can.

Her voice is strained. ‘It makes sense. At Christmas, you came for five days; you barely talked to me. In fact, you've been distant for a while. Whenever I say we'll visit, you tell me you'll come there instead. It all adds up.'

She smacks her hand against her head. ‘I can't believe I didn't see it before. What a bloody idiot.'

Miriam gets up and goes inside. From the passageway he hears the bedroom door slam shut. His mind quickly sifts through the last few days. Has she looked at his phone? He has been careful. Did Raymond say something? Jeanne? Sherry?

After a few minutes, he follows her to the bedroom; he stands in the doorway. She is sitting on the bed, quieter now. Her suitcase is open on the floor, everything neatly folded. She has always been tidy, organised.

They look at one another. Her face is pale with bewilderment and exhaustion. There are dark shadows around her eyes; she looks as if she is about to collapse. He feels sad; overwhelmed. Miriam, Miriam, his good wife.

He has thought about this moment for so long, and now it
is here, it feels unreal. He didn't want it to be like this.

She is glaring at him.

He says, ‘I've wanted to tell you.'

Her face crumples, and he knows—at once; she was hoping he would deny it; that it might be a lie, after all.

‘Then why didn't you?'

‘I could never find the right moment.'

It sounds pathetic and yet, it's true. He says, and he means it wholeheartedly, ‘You've been so unhappy. I didn't want to add to it.'

‘But you've been adding to it for months, you just didn't tell me.' Then she asks, ‘How long? A year?'

‘No,' he says, ‘not so long.'

It all sounds false. His tone is wrong. He doesn't feel like himself. He feels like someone—an actor, an impersonator, pretending to be Martin Rawlinson.

Miriam says, ‘I've been
unhappy
because our eldest daughter died, in case you'd forgotten.'

He looks at his hands, they are shaking. ‘You're not the only one who's been unhappy.'

‘Fuck you.'

Outside, a car alarm goes off. He wonders if it is Satnam, but it is coming from the other side of the road.

Miriam stands up. ‘I found her things. At first I thought they were Sherry's. Then Georgia said they must belong to someone younger. I'm assuming she likes poetry.'

‘What did you say to Georgia?'

Miriam watches him coldly. ‘Nothing. If I'd told her, she'd probably hate you. Georgia has enough on her plate.' Then she
asks, ‘Does she live here with you?'

‘No, of course not.'

The questions come quickly now, and he would like to be somewhere else, anywhere. Her voice is rising.

‘Is she black?'

‘Why does that matter?'

‘It doesn't. I just want to know. I have a right. I want to be able to picture her.' Then, ‘How old is she?'

He lies. ‘Thirty-two.' If Miriam knew Safiya was twenty-eight, she would be appalled. ‘Her name is Safiya. She works for a newspaper.'

Miriam sits on the bed. She sighs and draws her feet up to her chest. A sound comes out of her like a kind of groan. He wants to tell her how very sorry he is. For everything. But his breath is shallow, his tongue thick in his mouth.

‘So you're a father figure. How clichéd. She wants a father, you need a daughter.'

He gets up and walks over to the window. Outside the night is still, the orange glow of the streetlight falls by the gate. He thinks how many times he has stood here waiting for Safiya to arrive, checking the gate, looking at his watch. It is a fact, for the last fifteen months, she has been his happiness. He has been deeply in love.

Miriam says, ‘Before I came here I hated my life. Now I hate it even more. I didn't think that was possible.'

On the bedside table is a copy of
Time
magazine. He picks it up and flicks through it. He does not know why.

‘Even now, with all this. You don't want to be near me. You'd rather look at a magazine.'

Her feet are bare, her toenails unpolished. Georgia has her same feet, the same high arch, the large big toe. Miriam once told him it was a sign of fortune, a happy life.

‘It's not true, Miriam.'

Her eyes are red and so very sad. He wants to comfort her, but he cannot bring himself to. Whatever is between them feels dense and hard as concrete.

Outside, he can hear rain starting up, like maracas gently shaking.

Miriam says, ‘Why didn't you talk to me? We could've stopped it from happening. We could've avoided it—all this, everything that's happened here. Georgia, everything.'

He looks at her deep frown lines, as if carved.

‘Can you see? It didn't have to be like this.' She starts to cry. ‘It didn't have to be like this, Martin.'

Is Miriam right? He has made his choices; all his little decisions have brought him to this place, here, now. Yes, in a way, he is responsible.

He rubs his eyes. He would like to rub it all away, all this pain. Start again.

She says, ‘What do you want to do?'

‘I don't know.'

She looks down at her bare hands; he remembers her rings. They are somewhere out there.

All day, Miriam is busy getting ready. There isn't time to talk or to go over things. She tells him, she has said all she needed to say. Her manner is cool, detached. He is surprised by his reaction, he'd expected to feel relieved, liberated. But he doesn't, he feels debilitated, morose.

Last night, he'd stayed up late thinking about his life—about Miriam, Safiya, his life here, and mostly he thought about Georgia. For the first time since that night, wandering in the dark garden, he cried. He has failed his daughter in every way he can think of. He has failed his wife. Perhaps they are better off without him. Everything seemed stark, real; the black hills seemed to be watching him, and he felt afraid; of what he doesn't know. Miriam was right; he used to want the ordinary. Now he wants adventures. Is this what comes with adventure—loss, pain, confusion? By the time he went to bed, the sun was coming up.

They leave for the airport around three p.m. It is just starting to cool down. Georgia sits in front. He talks about the cold weather waiting for them at Heathrow, the Tupperware English skies, the long journey home on the M40. Tomorrow they will unpack, buy groceries, settle in. Miriam has arranged
an appointment with their doctor on the afternoon they get back. He wants Georgia to call him as soon as the appointment is over. He tells her Fanta will miss her. He will miss her. Georgia is wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and tied around her waist is her hooded top. She looks more like herself.

‘What's the best thing about getting home?'

‘I don't know,' Georgia says. ‘There's loads of things.'

‘Call me as soon as you're in the house. Tell me if the roses have made it through the winter.'

At the airport, they check in quickly and easily; it is quiet, he is surprised. Only the Tobago check-in desk is busy; the line weaves around the pillar towards the arrivals.

Tobago, for newlyweds and nearly deads
.

They have a drink in the food hall. He can see Miriam flinching at the dirty tables, the flies, the trays piled high, a dustbin overflowing with food cartons. ‘Someone needs to clean this place up. It's a mess.'

Georgia is cheerful, and he can see—really see—her relief that she is leaving. She has Jeanne's email address, they will keep in touch. She tells her mother not to fuss. Soon they will be home.

Around five p.m. Miriam says, ‘I think we should go through.'

He hates this last part, the goodbyes. He has dreaded saying goodbye to Georgia since she arrived.

They stand at the passport checkpoint. He hugs Georgia tightly; he smells her hair. She is thinner than when she came. Yes, there is less of her now.

‘Don't forget to wave. I'll be watching from the gallery.'

Miriam is determined not to cry. When he kisses her, he
feels ashamed. He wants to say that he will be back soon, that she mustn't worry, and that he is sorry; and he would like to thank her for keeping his affair with Safiya from Georgia. But he doesn't; he cannot find it in himself to reassure her, to thank her. He has nothing left in him. Last night she called him a small man.

He watches them walk through the double doors, off into the bright lounge where the shop fronts shine. They both look back, and he sees that Georgia is upset; Miriam puts her arm around her.

Outside the sun is dipping. It is a good time of day to fly, he thinks; by the time they reach Barbados, the sun will have set and the skies will be glorious. He buys a cold beer and makes his way to the waving gallery. On the balcony, the breeze is warm and he is hit by the smell of fumes. The hills are bronze in the late afternon light. He waits. It is almost an hour later when they appear. Ground staff are gathered now at the bottom of the aircraft steps. He watches Miriam and Georgia walk across the tarmac to the rear of the plane.

At the top of the steps, Georgia turns and waves.

It is just after six when he pulls up outside Safiya's Woodbrook house; he rings the bell on the metal gate. The roads here are badly in need of repair, the pavement is high and uneven. Where the roots of a tree have burst through, the tarmac is split and raised. And yet, he likes this street; it feels like an old part of Trinidad, a part where community still exists. If he were going to buy a house in town, he would like it to be here.

It is Marjorie who comes out to greet him. She wears a polka-dot dress; her hair is plaited and tied. She does not look surprised or angry. If anything, he catches in her a look of pity; something he could do without, and a sure sign that his instincts are right and his relationship with Safiya is in trouble. Yes, he would prefer if she was angry.