by Amanda Smyth
A work colleague told him she could understand exactly how he was feeling; she had lost her beloved horse the same week that Beth died. A horse! And then there was Audrey Hanson, who worked part-time in the post office, and had come to know Beth over the years. Breezily she said, ‘After a storm the birds will sing again. Thank goodness you have Georgia.’
Would it have been easier if there’d been a sign or a warning? If they had known of a blood vessel growing big like a berry inside her young brain.
That Tuesday night when he got home late, Georgia was asleep, and Beth was watching an old episode of Cheers with Miriam. The room had recently been painted and the smell lingered in the house. She was wearing her Bart Simpson nightdress, and making popcorn on the stove in an old aluminium pan. He was irritated by the noise.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said, and pulled a sad face. ‘It can’t be helped; this is a matter of extreme urgency and importance.’
‘Are you being cheeky?’ he said, pouring himself a whisky.
‘Maybe. You’re working too hard. You know what they say, all work and no play makes Dad a dull boy.’
Miriam said, ‘I’m with you, Beth. Tell your dad to lighten up.’
‘The problem is, I have to earn enough money to keep my family in the luxury to which they have become accustomed. Some of us have expensive hobbies.’
Beth tipped the popcorn into a big plastic bowl, melted a tablespoon of butter and trickled it on top. She was excited; she was going horse-riding in the morning.
‘I hope it doesn’t rain. I hate when it rains. I don’t like riding in the rain.’
She sat on the velvet sofa between the two of them, feet on the coffee table, the bowl of popcorn on her lap. Then—and for no apparent reason—she said, ‘I love you both. We should tell each other more often. We should make it a house rule.’
Martin felt both embarrassed and awed by her confidence, her willingness to express her feelings. It was something he had never done easily. When they said goodnight at the top of the stairs, he told Beth that he was proud of her. And, yes, he thought this new house rule was an excellent idea.
At 5.30 she came to their bedroom and said her head was hurting; she started to cry. Miriam got up and followed her into the bathroom, where she was sick. She lay on the bathroom floor, sobbing and holding her head.
Georgia wandered in to see what was wrong; she had seen the light on the landing. Miriam ushered her back to bed. ’It’s okay, George, go back to sleep. There’s nothing to worry about.’
After a few minutes, Miriam came to him, her face long and pale. ‘Actually, I think it’s serious. The doctors’ surgery doesn’t open for another hour. We should get her to hospital.’
They were going to leave Georgia with a neighbour, but she didn’t want to be left. She started to cry. ‘I don’t want Beth to die.’ Until that point it had never occurred to him that she might.
Miriam quickly packed an overnight bag. By this time Beth had a high fever and was mostly incoherent. It was freezing; in the darkness he scraped ice off the windscreen. He lifted Beth and carried her out to the car. The roads were hazardous and he had to drive slowly. The sun came up; the world was white with frost.
It was two hours before a young paediatrician consultant arrived. After a CT scan, they rushed Beth by ambulance to another hospital in Birmingham for emergency neurosurgery. She was bleeding into her brain, they said. Georgia and Martin followed Miriam in the ambulance. He telephoned his mother and asked her to meet them there.
In the private waiting room, the consultant said it was unlikely she would survive; Beth had suffered a cerebral aneurysm. She was brain-stem dead. Martin looked at the small, balding stranger with glasses, the bearer of this catastrophic news; he felt as if he was dreaming, his insides were cold.
‘It is extremely rare,’ the man said, and he put his hand on Martin’s shoulder as if they were friends. ‘You must know you did everything right.’
He remembers the organ transplant coordinator talking to them about donorship. Was Beth the kind of person who would want her organs used to save someone else’s life?
‘Yes,’ he told the woman. ‘Beth had talked about it only recently.’ She’d asked her mother how to make a will. To the woman he said, ‘Do you think she had some kind of premonition?’
The woman smiled, weakly. There were forms to sign, documents to take away with them.
His mother arrived. She looked at him with such sorrow and pity he has never forgotten it. She took Georgia back to her house; Miriam and Martin sat with Beth in the hospital room. Her head was bandaged, but she looked strangely well, as if she was sleeping. They held her cool hands; they took turns to talk to her. At one point, Miriam lay down next to her, and put her arms around her.
He had seen it over the years, particularly in the early days: murder, road traffic accidents, suicide. Like other parents, he had never expected this to happen to him. He was often the bearer of bad news, never the receiver.
The road back is clear. He stops off at Buck Buck Alley to pick up bread on Terence’s recommendation. The bread is warm, heavy. Proper bread in a brown paper bag. Like the bread he buys from their local bakery on Saturday mornings in the village. He always arrived as the bread was coming out of the oven; he took it home to make bacon sandwiches for Miriam and the girls. And he realises—driving towards the crossroads, the field to his left where horses are grazing, dark and shiny like molasses, the vast blue open sky—he is slotting back into his role of husband and father.
Perhaps it will be easier for everyone if he carries on as normal. Why make things more difficult. Miriam is fragile, overwrought. In three days she will go back to England and he will have his life back. Does she need to know the details of that life. Does she need to know—right now—about Safiya? He has tried to visualise telling her that he is leaving her, that their life together is over, and he can’t. Can’t or won’t? It doesn’t matter. The truth is this: right now, his life with Miriam and Georgia in England is separate from his life in Trinidad; it is separate from his life with Safiya.
After breakfast, Miriam packs a cooler with drinks and fruit. Georgia wants to go to Store Bay.
‘Chop-chop, Dad.’ Georgia is dressed, her hair is loose and wavy. The sun has made it lighter.
‘We want to get there before lunch. There’s some great food huts. Where’s your cozzie?’ She kisses him lightly on his cheek. ‘You okay?’
He is sometimes astonished by Georgia’s brightness.
‘You bet I am.’
‘Did you see Conan? Terence was looking for him; he thought he might be out on the road.’
‘No, not when I came in. I saw goats, horses. No dog.’
Georgia pulls back her hair and ties it into a knot.
‘We’re leaving in five, okay?’
‘I’ll be there or be square.’
‘Dad,’ Georgia says, ‘that’s such a naff thing to say. So incredibly uncool.’
‘I am un-cool, darling. I’m your father.’ He puts his arm around her waist. ‘One thing you can be sure of, I will always embarrass you.’
‘Mum’s cool. She doesn’t show me up.’
‘You see,’ he says, ‘this is what happens when we’re all together. You start ganging up on me. It’s a form of persecution. That’s why I have to live in Trinidad.’
‘Not for much longer,’ she says, over her shoulder.
With his coffee, he pads along the passageway to his room. He stops to watch hummingbirds feeding on the Antigua Heath. He has the same plant in his garden in England, only it is called Montbretia and the flowers are more orange than red. The tiny creatures stick their long bills into the mouths of the red bellflowers; their iridescent green feathers shimmer. Safiya told him, the wings of a hummingbird beat sixty times a minute and their hearts a thousand. Or is it the other way around?
He checks with Terence to make sure he will he be there when they come back from the beach. He can’t seem to find the gate opener
.
Miriam brings the guidebook in the car. Birds, it seems, are the theme of the day.
‘Did you know the Scarlet Ibis is the national bird of Trinidad and Tobago? And they’re on a one-dollar note.’
He wants to say, yes, and with Safiya, I’ve seen huge flocks fly into the Caroni swamp as they come back from feeding grounds in Venezuela.
‘And the orange-winged parrot, the most common parrot in Trinidad and Tobago, pairs for life.’
‘Every morning I hear them flying over my apartment. They sound like geese.’
‘Really, Dad, you have parrots in your garden?’
‘Parrots, kiskadees, yellow birds, blue birds.’
For some reason there are more cars on the road, and he wonders if a flight came in yesterday from England. The car park at Penny Savers is packed. It is Ash Wednesday; if Terence is right Trinidadians will be starting to arrive from carnival.
At the turning, tourists walk along the sandy road. They must be English. Trinidadian women lean back when they walk, hips forward, easy. Not like these clompy-looking folk. What is it about the English?
He drifts away to Trinidad, and his apartment, and he wonders if Sherry has watered the yard, and if young Vishnu has come. He had told Safiya, while he is away, she is welcome to use his apartment whenever she likes. She might enjoy the independence, a break from home. Has she been there? He doubts it, somehow; it depends on how much she misses him. And what about Fanta—is he eating? Without him there, Fanta might run away. Curiously, the cat has become an anchor. It would be a bad sign if he left. He must call Sherry and check that she has seen him about the place.
Store Bay is lively, with music booming out from a nearby sound system. He recognises some old favourites: Bob Marley and the Wailers, Jimmy Cliff, the Police. Everyone is in a good mood, even Miriam, and he is pleased. There is no mention of Beth, which is probably as it should be. They buy lunch from one of the local vendors, curried crab with dumplings. Miriam thinks the crabs are awful, the look of their blue grey claws in the curry sauce and the rubbery white dumplings. To his surprise, Georgia likes them and tucks into Miriam’s leftovers.
He loves the sea here, the yellow sand; it is more like the beaches in Trinidad. There are some real waves, and both he and Georgia are caught in the surf a couple of times.
Later, from a handicraft booth on the roadside, Georgia buys a coral bracelet, and a beaded necklace for her mother. ‘This will cheer her up when we get home,’ she tells him.
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Of course, she hates you being here.’
‘Yes, but she has people around.’
‘It’s always harder if you’re on your own. They’re all couples; they have dinner parties for couples. Mum ends up feeling like a lemon. She drinks too much.’
They walk back down to the beach. An old woman is sitting on the steps selling sugar cake and chennets.
‘What are those?’ Georgia says, pointing at the fruit.
‘They’re like lychees. They’re good.’
He buys a large bunch.
The sand is hot and powdery. They hurry to the water’s edge and let the cool froth rush over their toes. It feels wonderful.
‘What do you mean, she drinks too much? At home or when she goes out?’
‘When she goes out, when she’s at home. Same thing; she’s miserable.’
It worries him that Georgia is mothering Miriam, or over-compensating. It is not her job to protect her mother. The counsellor warned them—after the loss of a sibling, all too often the remaining child steps into a parental role. Something to keep an eye on. And Miriam was never much of a drinker. Has Georgia got that part right?
The weather could not be better. There are no clouds, just a clear, perfect blue sky. It is one of the hottest days so far, the white sun blasting down on the island. Everything feels bleached out, dry and crisp; the grass, the trees, the bush; as if ready to crackle and burn.
And today there is no breeze. So much so, that by the time they get back to the villa, Georgia and Miriam are keen to retreat to their air-conditioned rooms to shower and rest. He rings the bell; from his room, Terence opens the gate. Chelsea must be here. Martin tells Miriam he will join her soon for a nap.
He wanders across the freshly cut grass, and through the casuarina trees to the steps. The tide is rising. He looks down on the beach; the pirogue has gone. The boys must have come for it while they were out. He is glad. There was something about last night that unsettled him. No doubt Terence will give him the details.
From here the sea is huge, indifferent and endless as a galaxy. It has no interest in him and his little difficulties. The sea does what it wants. Safiya says the cure for anything is salt water—tears, sweat or the sea. Perhaps, he thinks, when we look at the ocean, we are reminded of our true nature. But what really is his true nature? Is there such a thing?
In the last year he has discovered parts of himself that he never knew about, parts he would rather not admit to. He has discovered, for instance, that he is ‘territorial’, ‘uncompromising’, and ‘moody’. He is also ‘passionate’ and ‘liberal’. These are some of the words Safiya has used to describe him.
Maybe in Trinidad, he is finally waking up to his real self, to the real Martin Rawlinson. And looking out at the waves, the pristine, white rolling foam, it occurs to him that it is a marvellous, wondrous thing—to be more than halfway through your life and still making discoveries. He would never have thought it possible.
In the kitchen, Miriam touches his back as he passes. A Miriam gesture. She asks him to tell Georgia that the cake will be ready in about half an hour.
‘Find out what she’d like to drink,’ she says. ‘No more cola.’
He says, ‘It’s not cola, it’s Coke, and she is on holiday.’
‘Have you ever seen what it does to a twopence piece? It strips it back to its original colour like a cleaning agent.’
“You won’t stop her liking it. She’ll think you’re a killjoy.’
‘I don’t care what she thinks. Think what it does to our guts, what it’s doing to your daughter’s guts. One of the ingredients is anti-freeze. Would you let Georgia drink anti-freeze?’
Today Miriam looks better; she’s finally turning a reddish brown; the green halter dress is feminine, more flattering. It covers her legs and fits well around her breasts. Yes, something is different, or is he simply getting used to her?
While her father prunes the small trees, Chelsea has come to play with Georgia in the verandah. She is shy, and at the same time completely mesmerised by Georgia. She leans against the veranda wall and stares at her. Her hair is braided in little fair plaits, held in place by small colourful beads. A Rasta child, no less.
Georgia has been setting up her camera to take night photographs as part of her media course. She is using film and an old Sony SLR of Miriam’s. She tells him, there are only a few days each month where moonlight photography is actually possible.
‘Do you know the moon is 250,000 times dimmer than the sun?.’
‘Great. Let me know where you want me.’
‘I don’t want you in the photos, Dad. These are landscape pictures.’ She looks at him incredulously.
She will set up near the casuarina trees, and try to capture the sea, the house from a distance. It could take a couple hours.
‘I want to get a feeling like you’re being watched.’
He likes Georgia’s enthusiasm.
‘Chelsea, come and sit with me. You can listen to my favourite ever song. Do you like Black Eyed Peas?’ Georgia turns the sound up loud and it blasts through the tiny earphones.
‘Come listen.’
Chelsea hides behind a chair; Georgia pretends to ignore her.
This seems to do the trick. In a few moments, Chelsea runs over to show off her big plastic doll and two dresses she has brought. She climbs onto Georgia’s lap and, using a comb for her doll, tries to brush Georgia’s hair.
‘Gentl
e not mental,’ Georgia says. ‘Let me show you,’ and she guides her eager hand. ‘Like this.’
‘Your mum wants to know what you’d like to drink,’ he says.
‘Coke!’ Georgia says.
At the top of the drive, Terence is throwing dead branches onto a pile. He is hot, his T-shirt is soaked through. Terence works hard; but then, no man ever drowned in his own sweat. Terence asks about Chelsea; he will be done soon.
‘If she’s bothering Georgia, she can play here in the shade.’
‘She’s enjoying looking after her. She’s very well behaved; you must be proud.’
‘Chelsea has her moments.’
He wants to tell Terence about Beth, to be grateful for what he has, to enjoy every moment.
Terence says, ‘I just want her to have the best chance she can.’
‘Of course; we always want the best for our kids.’
Terence lobs a long branch on the growing pile. Martin asks, ‘Did Conan come back?’
‘No, sir, Conan has a wandering soul. I’m going to have to tie him in the day.’
He asks what time the boys came to collect the pirogue.
‘They haven’t come as yet. I’m sure they’ll be here before nightfall.’
‘The boat’s gone.’
Terence looks surprised.
‘I walked down to the beach around four o’clock and it was gone.’
Terence wipes his face.
‘I was here the whole day. I went into the village before lunch to look for Conan, but I wasn’t away long—half an hour at most. I would’ve seen them.’
‘Maybe they came from the sea.’
‘Why would they come by sea when they could walk up the road? I never heard the bell ring. They would’ve had to ring the bell.’
‘Maybe they jumped the fence?’
They both look at the high fence; they look at the electric gates.
Miriam calls from the house. Tea is ready.
Cake cutting begins, a clattering of plates, cutlery, napkins. Chelsea takes first slice. Should they sit here or take their plates outside? Decisions, decisions. He is glad of the distraction—this place, the weather, Chelsea. He doesn’t want the afternoon to be miserable. Last year, while en route to England for Beth’s birthday, his flight was delayed with engine trouble in Barbados. When he called from Grantley Adams airport, Miriam was distraught.
