A Kind of Eden by Amanda Smyth

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.
    â€˜But the man is a bigot, an idiot.’
    â€˜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 issorry 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.’
    â€˜Your father’s standards are slipping,’ Miriam says to Georgia. ‘A worrying sign.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜And what about school?’ Miriam says. ‘And all your friends.’
    â€˜There must be schools in Tobago.’
    â€˜Actually,’ he says, ‘the standard of education in Trinidad is very good. They take their studies seriously.’
    Then Georgia says, ‘Is Trinidad like this?’
    â€˜Not really, Trinidad is more industrial, a bustling, hectic place.’
    â€˜Can we go there before we leave for England? Just for a day?’
    It would be possible to do exactly that; they could leave onthe first flight out and return on the last flight back. He would love to show Georgia the Northern Range