by Amanda Smyth
He stares down into these hills; the forest looks benign: soft and edible as vegetables. Yet if the plane should crash here none of the survivors would ever find their way out of such dense bush. At one time this thought would have bothered him greatly. But today he does not feel bothered. He has lived his life; he has had his family and a career. Even if he died now, at forty-nine, he has seen and lived enough to constitute a full life. It is only with hindsight that we see our lives and the curious trails we have made. And in the last year he has been more than blessed. For the second time in his life he has found love. What more could he ask? Some people spend their whole lives searching for this kind of love and never find it. Safiya is too young to know how rare it is. He understands only this: there is no remedy for love but to love more; let it take him where it will. He closes his eyes and he is glad of the blackness.
THREE
The plane comes in to land; he can see the chop of the waves, the surf on their tips. Black rocks rise up and the pale yellow sand seems almost close enough to touch. The aircraft slowly drops and gently bounces on the airstrip: a hotel, houses, airport terminal whoosh by, then the tall palm trees and the brown green grass, and more grass and a field of coconut trees until the far end of the runway where there is another bay of blue Caribbean water.
He collects his suitcase and walks outside to a line of taxi drivers. On the right, the terminal is open and a breeze blows right through its large rectangular space. Mixed with familiar airport fumes, he can smell fast food, and he notices two large black birds picking at a little heap of stale French fries on the ground. There is a long row of desks and a few people are queuing up for domestic flights. As far as he can tell there is no one at the British Airways counter. He approaches a couple waiting near the desk; he asks if the BA London flight is on time.
The young man is tall and he is wearing a T-shirt and shorts. His blonde girlfriend is so sunburned the whites of her eyes are almost glowing in her red face. ‘Yes, as far as we know. The rep was here earlier and said it was on time.’ Her accent is Scottish—Edinburgh, perhaps. She glances up at her boyfriend. ‘We don’t care if it never turns up. We’ve had such a brilliant holiday.’ Then, ‘Are you BA or Virgin?’
‘Neither, I’m meeting people. I live here.’ He can see the woman trying to work him out. ‘I live in Trinidad.’
‘Lucky you,’ she says.
He wishes them a safe trip and crosses the road to the airport restaurant. Inside it’s cool and dark; there are small groups of people sitting around plastic tables. Some of them look English, no doubt also waiting for the London flight. He orders a beer, a half packet of Du Maurier cigarettes and sits on a stool at the bar.
He is sorry that he has started smoking again. Yet everyone in Trinidad seems to smoke; the cigarettes are short and burn down quickly. They are cheap, too. Smoking abroad has always seemed okay; the warm air carries smoke quickly away. It doesn’t stay on your clothes like in England, or stick to your hair, your fingers. At Las Cuevas, he’d seen surfers come straight out of the sea and reach for a cigarette. He had even done it himself after years of not smoking. And it had felt good: lying with his head propped on Safiya’s stomach, he’d puffed on a Du Maurier while staring at the brilliant sky, listening to the crash of the sea. Why is it that everything that feels good is bad for you?
He doesn’t see the plane, but he hears the roar of the 747 engines as the pilot pulls back the throttle, and almost at once the restaurant starts to empty. He finishes his beer, pays his bill and makes his way to the upstairs viewing gallery. Next door, passengers in transit are going through security. They will sit and wait in the hot little International departure lounge with the passengers in transit from Grenada while the aircraft is cleaned and restocked. The last time he took this flight he was stuck for three hours and swore he would never do it again. It occurs to him that in two weeks he will be back here at this exact same spot, waving goodbye, seeing them off.
He cannot imagine how that will be, and how they will all feel. He is almost certain that it will be appalling. Now he leans on the railings, glad of the breeze, and he watches the enormous aircraft turn and begin its slow approach to the terminal. With its swirling blue and red tail, and long, gleaming body, it is quite magnificent.
It is almost impossible to see the passengers disembarking at the rear, but he can pretty much see those at the front steps. Streams of people with their bags, hold-alls and carriers of duty-free, squinting in the bright light, coats over their shoulders, wearing boots, jumpers, jeans, jackets, pour onto the tarmac. Children clutch their toys while trying to hold onto the rail of the big metal steps. A small party of girls have already changed into their summer tops and shorts, their white stomachs and milk legs on show; they are excited, awkward. The English abroad. He feels embarrassed for them.
Everyone is walking quickly, keen to get through immigration. More spill out from the rear. He still cannot pick them out, and for a moment he wonders if they are on the flight after all. But then—there, he sees her, Miriam, his wife Miriam. She is walking under the enormous wing, and close to her is Georgia, taller than he recalls, taller now than her mother. How has this happened? His daughter is a giant! They have not seen him; they are talking, and he finds himself waving, trying to get their attention. He calls out, but the hiss of the plane’s engine is too loud; they disappear underneath the balcony and into the immigration building.
Georgia is out first. She looks different. Her fair hair is wavy and longer, and she looks, to him, now, much older than fourteen. She is like her mother; the same oval face and slanted blue eyes. He is somewhat shocked by her clothes—low-cut jeans, a skimpy hooded top, dangling earrings. Her skin is startlingly pale. When he hugs her, he feels her thin back, the small breasts. He smells her gorgeous alpine hair. ‘Where’s my baby gone?’
‘I’m still me,’ she says, ‘I’m still Georgia.’
Over her shoulder, Miriam cocks her head. ‘Do I get one of those?’
There is something different about her clothes too, a more casual look and the white pumps. He hasn’t seen her wear pumps in years, not since college. She has lost weight and it makes her look older. Her hair is darker; she has dyed it. She puts out her arms, and he goes to his wife. He kisses her lightly, loosely embraces her. But Miriam is having none of it; she wraps her arms around him tightly, pressing her bony body into him.
‘You look great,’ he says, reaching for her suitcase. ‘How was the flight?’
‘Oh, you know, long.’
He realises that they’re blocking the way for other passengers coming through. He ushers them along the ramp and wheels the trolley further up where he can check for their driver. Georgia fans herself with a rolled-up magazine. He says, ‘It’s cool right now. You should feel it in the summer. How was the weather when you left?’
Miriam says, ‘It’s like St Petersburg. Do you remember when we were so bundled with scarves and hats all you could see were our eyes? Like that. I could hardly see on the M25. I’m surprised they didn’t cancel the flight.’
Then she points at the cigarettes in his top pocket. ‘You’re smoking again.’
The driver, a well-built man in his sixties, leads them to a maroon Chevrolet Caprice. They load up the car; Martin sits in the front. A CD dangles from the mirror, light licks about the car. Slowly, they pull out on to the road.
‘First time in Tobago?’
‘I’ve been working in Trinidad for two years.’
‘And now your wife has come to take you home.’ He chuckles, a clicky sound in the back of his mouth.
‘You could say that.’
‘Very wise,’ says the driver, checking Miriam in the rear-view mirror. ‘A lady should never leave a man too long or he’ll fall into mischief.’
The thought of Miriam flying across the Atlantic to drag him home is ludicrous, and yet it is also true.
When he accepted the job in Trinidad—it had happened so fast—they agreed they would not be
apart for more than two months at a time. Absence, his mother always said, makes the heart grow fonder—for someone else. They decided, during school holidays Miriam and Georgia would fly to Trinidad, and whenever he could, he would return home to England.
But after a brief spell in the Hyatt hotel, he was given an apartment near the airport. Security was atrocious; the rear of the apartment backed on to a cul-de-sac of shabby government housing. He eventually relocated and the new apartment was a thirty-minute drive from the capital. Around that time, a gang of criminals took to highjacking cars with young babies and putting them by the side of the road. When a driver stopped, typically a woman driver, they robbed her, stole her car, and sometimes, for good measure, she was raped. He decided that it probably wasn’t safe enough for his wife and daughter. So he returned to England whenever he could, a week here and there. It was always hurried, unsatisfactory. And then, of course, he met Safiya.
When Miriam telephoned to ask if the dates were okay, he sensed there was no way around it. The plan was always that she would come for a holiday at Easter, just before his contract ended. After his brief and rather painful visit at Christmas (more painful for her than him, he imagines), during which they barely spoke because Miriam was angry that he was home for only five days, she had decided on a last-minute whim to take advantage of Georgia’s half term and escape ‘the bleakest February I can remember’.
He checked his diary. Yes, he told her, he could manage ten days. But it was probably better if they flew directly to Tobago. It’s quieter, he told Miriam, more of a holiday destination.
‘Either will do. It’s the Caribbean, and I need blue sky,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘I’ve had enough of these overseas phone calls.’ Then more lightheartedly, ‘Georgia wants to see where you’ve been working. She thinks you might be making it all up.’
‘What about Easter?’
‘I can’t wait until Easter. I don’t know about you. I keep thinking about Beth. It’s her birthday soon.’
They had always made a point of celebrating Beth’s birthday.
‘If things get sticky at work, I might have to fly back briefly to Trinidad. I’m just warning you, okay.’
‘That’s fine. We can come with you.’
In truth, it didn’t make much difference to his plans if Miriam came now or at Easter; this visit was always going to be extremely difficult. And the thought of seeing Georgia, showing her the island that he has come to love, made it feel worthwhile. He has missed her terribly.
As they cruise through the village, the taxi driver gives them a list of places they must visit: Buccoo reef, Pigeon Point, Sunday School, Lovers Retreat, Scarborough market, Blue Waters. His voice is soothing, soporific; he is clearly proud of his homeland. And why wouldn’t he be? Outside, the light is infusing everything with gold and the sky is a delicate, pale yellow.
They have arrived at a perfect time of day when the island is cooling down. At this hour, everything becomes saturated with colour, the grass, the wooden houses, and the advertising billboards: Du Maurier cigarettes, Stag Beer—the man’s choice! When they pull up at the lights, he can hear the sounds of crickets chirring. He hears a whoop, whoop, from a frog. Big and ugly like stones, he will find one to show Georgia. Along the left side of the road are fields filled with coconut trees, their tall heads barely blowing in the light breeze, their long branches like hair. These are the trees of paradise, the insignia of the Caribbean.
He says, ‘Aren’t the trees wonderful?’ Georgia is looking out at the fields, too.
‘They’re amazing,’ she says, and reaches for her mother’s hand. ‘Don’t you think so, Mum?’
‘Yes, yes. They’re very pretty.’
According to Juliet, the holiday villa is not far from the airport. No more than twenty minutes. He wants to arrive while there is still light, get his bearings and look around the place. At this time of year, the sun disappears early. In England, of course, it would be pitch black at four thirty. This is something he has never missed, arriving home from work in the dark, leaving in the morning when it is still dark.
And while they drive along the Milford Road, he remembers a strange incident: driving to work early one morning in Warwickshire, along a strip of country road he had always liked, he was seized by an overwhelming sense of panic, as if everything was closing in. He pulled over, his heart hammering, his throat tight. He took a couple of deep breaths and looked around. Everything was the same as usual, the wild hedges, the little rowan tree he had always noticed in silhouette, the pointy church spire on the far left, the village lights ahead. He’d told himself everything was fine. It was dawn and the world was waking up. This darkness will pass. After a few moments, he started the engine and drove away. Later, his doctor told him it was a panic attack, and it was more than likely linked to Beth’s death; panic attacks, disorders, and phobias are commonplace in the aftermath of sudden loss. How odd that he should remember this now.
The car turns into a narrow and bumpy road. Three or four goats are tied to a mango tree; they are bunched up and tugging, stretching their long ropes as far as they can.
‘Look at the babies!’ Georgia stretches her arm out of the window. The goats carry on eating as if they are not there. They are white and scrawny. It is something he has noticed here: cattle and goats are often malnourished, their stomachs distended, bloated. Like Africa.
On either side, there is a golf course, smooth shaved green mounds and a green plateau. There are two or three houses on the right, and up on the left is a large, low-roofed bungalow surrounded by land. They pull up outside and the driver gets out and rings a bell. Within moments, electric gates open and the long maroon American car swings into the gravelled driveway, past the dark lawn and a row of pots filled with brightly coloured bougainvillea.
The house is impressive. Dark beams reach high above the living room, which opens onto a large veranda. There are large comfortable white chairs and a hammock. More importantly, Terence shows him, there is a sea view. The water is dark now, and he can see it shifting and moving beyond the trees. Terence, the caretaker, has lived here for almost ten years. ‘If you have a problem you come to me,’ he says, and taps his chest. He has a pleasant face, probably in his early forties, or perhaps older, though it is sometimes hard to tell with dark skin. Safiya says black don’t crack, and he has found this to be mostly true. Terence is short, and in his Adidas vest top and denim shorts he looks wiry, strong. Just the kind of man you might want looking after your property.
The house has been empty for weeks. Today the lady who cleans brought bread, milk, and basic provisions for them. She picked oranges from the tree and put them there.
‘She knew you’d arrive when the stores are shut. They open again tomorrow at eight.’
Georgia has already found her room. It is at the end of a corridor, separated from the main living area by a glass door, which they can slide back and forth. He is glad to see it is also lockable, an extra security feature. There are twin beds, and a large bathroom with shutters; from the window you can see the driveway, the long garden. She has pulled her suitcase inside the room and started to open it up. There is a walk-in closet, how about that! She will come and see the rest of the house in a minute, Georgia says. For now she will lounge in her own quarters. Like a celebrity.
On the other side of the living room is another passageway, the left wing, and here are two good-sized bedrooms, and a cosy American den with plaid sofas and a television.
‘You have cable and DVDs, whatever you wish.’
Terence opens the door to the master bedroom. It is a dark room and, without doubt, the most appealing. It has a four-poster bed, and an old-fashioned dressing table. Miriam, who he had almost forgotten about, says, ‘Wonderful!’ And she skips to the centre of the room and, holding out her shirttails, twirls girlishly around.
‘Somebody’s pleased,’ he says, and follows Terence into the en suite. The bathroom is dated, a ’70s beige, but it is big enough.
While Miriam opens cupboards and checks for space, he walks with Terence back along the passageway to the kitchen, the big brown, earthy kitchen with its shining silver stove. Like something from a magazine.
Juliet told him, the owners, Steven and Jennifer Dial, work in textiles; they have property both in Florida and London. Jennifer liked the idea of an English family staying in their Tobago villa—these days it is rarely used—and offered a lower, family rate. Perhaps, as a small favour, he would check on their security. Yes, he could do that, no problem.
‘Here is the telephone and emergency numbers,’ and Terence holds up a slim rectangular box, like a television remote control. ‘The gate opener: always remember to take it with you, without it you can’t get back in unless someone opens the gate from inside.’ Then he shows him a single key—for the hire car parked around the back.
They walk to the edge of the garden and look through the trees at the ocean. Now he can really see the water breathing in and out.
‘Watch out for these,’ Terence stoops and picks up a tiny brown shape like a nut or a fir cone. ‘They’ll hurt your feet.’ He points along the edge of the garden. ‘They come from the casuarinas.’ The trees are tall with broad branches; they look like a kind of pine.
There is a drop onto the beach, and steps lead down through the rocks. ‘We have a couple of kayaks, surfboards and lilos, goggles and snorkels. There’s a dingy too, which is a lot of fun. I’ll show you tomorrow.’
Since living in Trinidad, he has come to love the ocean. The first time he swam at Maracas Bay it was a kind of baptism. Born anew, his soul washed free in the cool, lively water. He had never experienced anything quite like it. He made himself into a ball and somersaulted in the sea like when he was a child. He dived down and swam over the pale seabed. Yes, he had been to the Costa del Sol, but the sea there was completely different, somehow stale, greyish, like it was dead. Then Safiya gave him a small surfboard, a boogie board, and he learned how to ride the waves as they broke at Las Cuevas. You’re a natural, she’d said. Who’d have thought? If he kept it up, she promised to buy him a full-sized surfboard. They could spend their weekends up in Sans Souci. She would like that. They would both like that.
