A Kind of Eden Read Free Page B

Kentucky.’
    In England he would never have dreamed of eating Kentucky Fried Chicken, but here everyone seems to like it. One evening, recently, on the way home from the beach, hungry, sandy and sunbeaten, and dressed only in their beach clothes, on Safiya’s insistence they’d picked up a twelve-piece tub of hot and spicy chicken from the drive-by in Maraval, and parked under the huge Samaan tree; he was surprised at how delicious it tasted.
    â€˜I want to take you somewhere special.’ He squats down on the floor beside her. ‘Take your pick,’ he says. ‘Anywhere you want.’
    There are a number of new restaurants on the long strip of road in the centre of the city. Since he arrived, Italian, Chinese and Mexican restaurants have all opened within a few weeks of each other. There is a bar that reminds him of a gastropub in England with its hanging lampshades and ambient music. Safiya likes it but he thinks it is pretentious, and a little young. It is also expensive. Everyone says the economy is booming; it occurs to him that Trinidad seems to be the only country in the world where this is so, where life is still ‘sweet’, as they say.
    â€˜A zinger,’ she says, ‘that’s what I want.’ Then, ‘A zinger, fries and a large Coke.’
    He understands why she doesn’t want to go out. In some ways, making a big effort on their last night together makes the separation more poignant, and he doesn’t want her to feel that this is in fact their last evening together. For two weeks, yes, but that’s all. At the same time, an intimate dinner in an expensive restaurant might leave her with a better and more lasting memory; while he is away, he wants her to think of him at his best: supportive, loving, generous. Someone she can have a good time with; someone she can rely on.
    He has noticed, since her father’s decline, she is turning to him more and more. He has become a safe place to rest her troubled heart and he is pleased; he had hoped this would happen. The next two weeks will be critical.

T WO
    They have overslept. Someone is tapping hard on the bedroom window; he hauls himself from a deep sleep and staggers out into the passageway. He can see a dark shape through the frosted louvers, and he is disorientated. Then he remembers: it is not a workday; he is leaving for Tobago, and he has asked Sherry, his housekeeper, to come today instead of tomorrow. She has arrived early.
    â€˜Mr Rawlinson,’ he hears her high call. ‘Mr Rawlinson.’
    She is holding up a plastic bag. ‘I pick up some nice oranges on the highway, right there by the turning. I’ll make a juice.’ He lets her inside, and she goes to the spare bathroom, where she will change into a work dress and an apron. There is a place for her to hang her clothes, and a small shower. It is familiar to her, and he no longer has to instruct her—the way he likes things, the basics. He is not used to taking care of himself, so things are often left undone, unwashed, in a heap. He has to be conscious, make an effort. It doesn’t come naturally.
    He inherited Sherry with the apartment, and mostly he is grateful for her; to hear someone else making noises, the sound of the vacuum cleaner, the wringing of the mop in the big metal bucket, cupboards opening and closing, is reassuring.It’s only when she starts preaching that he finds himself feeling irritated. Like last week, when he dropped her off before heading to the beach. As she was getting out of the car, she told him she would pray for him at church on Sunday. ‘It’s too late for all that,’ he’d said. He is sorry that she has come while Safiya is here—what had he been thinking—and in particular, on this last morning that they will be together for some time. He suspects that she does not approve of his relationship with Safiya. Apart from anything else, he is old enough to be her