A Kind of Eden by Amanda Smyth

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    Terence leads him around the side of the house to his studio apartment.
    â€˜This is where I live. You can find me here most of the time apart from Sunday. Sunday, I go to church and then to my mother’s in Buccoo.’
    It always surprises him how church-going people are in these islands. Safiya says that Trinidadians are a people of great faith: Hindu, Catholic, Church of England, Shouter Baptist, and Obeah can all find a place here. This is what will save Trinidad, she says. ‘Think of all the different religions existing simultaneously and harmoniously on this island. Where else in the world do you find that level of tolerance?’ Safiya has a point.
    There are two chairs in front of the French doors and a tree that reminds him of a weeping willow. He can see a bed, and a kitchen beyond. From the top of an old television set, Terence takes up a framed photograph.
    â€˜My daughter,’ he says, proudly. ‘Chelsea. After my favourite football team.’
    â€˜Lucky it’s not Tottenham.’
    Terence grins.
    â€˜How old is she?’
    â€˜She just turned five. Her mother lives in Scarborough but she’s from Sweden.’
    The little girl is light-skinned, her eyes are a greenish brown.
    â€˜Sometimes she comes to stay; usually when my ex has a date and wants the place to herself.’
    â€˜She’s beautiful. I hope we get to meet her. I’m sure Georgia would love to see her.’
    It is hot in the room, and they step outside. There is a cool, soft breeze swishing the tree. This is not a bad life, he thinks: looking after a luxury property with your own private living quarters and the Caribbean Sea on your doorstep: all this beauty without expense. There are worse ways to earn a living. Could he do it? Maybe so. Although he’d rather not be alone.
    â€˜This is Conan,’ Terence says. A three-legged Alsatian trots down the driveway towards them and barks