Free A Kind of Eden by Amanda Smyth

were wet, Miriam refused to walk back; at first he thought she was joking, but then he realised that she was serious. She insisted that he carry her over the sand to the car, which he did. He remembers thinking it strange.
    On holidays abroad, she always preferred a swimming pool, its easy concrete surround, especially for sunbathing on loungers. But surely, this could be an exception—this white Caribbean sand.
    â€˜It’s a good spot, isn’t it? The house, the beach?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she says. Then, ‘Could you put some cream on my back?’ She flops onto her stomach, and adjusts her bikini bottoms.
    He stoops over her, squeezes the orange tube, and the cream plops onto his hand. He quickly smears it onto her shoulders, and down over her back. Her legs are short, and her veins stand out like electric blue lines. For as long as he has known her, she has hated her legs. If he is honest, he has never much liked them either. Her ankles are thick and her thighs are soft like luncheon meat.
    Her upper body was always her best asset: her neat back, round breasts, and cinched waist. His mother used to say: you’re either an apple or a pear. And Miriam is most definitely a pear. Safiya is also a pear, but she is taller, more streamlined. If Miriam is a Comice, then Safiya is a Conference, although entirely more exotic.
    â€˜You can bring a towel and lie here, too, if you want.’
    But he doesn’t want.

    The water is deliciously cool and he swims fiercely towards his daughter as if he is trying to save her from something. He ducks under, swims quickly through her legs, and lifts her up and over his shoulders. Georgia screams, and, at once, topples backwards and splashes hard into the water. Now she reaches onto his back, and clings there. He can feel her breath on his neck. ‘Come on, Dad, I’m tired. Take us back to shore.’
    He flips her off and there is a lot of shrieking and squealing. He can see Miriam sitting up watching, her hand a visor in the sun. Georgia waves at her mother. ‘Save me!’
    They swim further along, keeping close to the land, and paddle around the curve of the bay. On the other side of the rocks, it is difficult to see what lies ahead. The water feels cooler here, and it is a darker blue. In the distance he can see a couple of rickety wooden houses perched on the hillside. That must be the start of the village. They swim a little further, to where the beach seems to rise into a sandy bank. He can see sea grape trees but not much else. He calls behind to Georgia, ‘Shall we?’
    They climb out of the water and walk slowly up the slope. Between a cluster of rocks is a pool of turquoise water, like a pond. There are tiny white crabs crawling here in the crevices. Georgia sticks her foot in the water. ‘It’s warm,’ she says, her eyes wide. She wants to jump in but he says they should carry on and see what’s ahead. They pass around the side of a large rock to where there is a clearing. Above, and to the right, in the shadowy light, he can see a broken set of steps, and the branches of the tall trees marked with a cross. He knows what this cross means: they are manchineel trees; the sap is like acid. He tells Georgia to stay clear. There is a tangle of bushes here,and some long grass. They step through the bush and out into the light.
    The beach is long and curved and coconut trees stretch along the edge of the pale yellow sand. The sea is restless; big waves are exploding onto the shore. There is a strong and warm breeze.
    â€˜This is amazing!’ Georgia says, and her blonde hair is blowing back from her face. Better than Blanchisseuse, he thinks. How can that be? He wishes Safiya was with them. Has she been to this beach? He will bring her someday. They stare in silence. He thinks: we are nothing. Those waves could pick us up and hurl us against the rocks like matchsticks. And yet we are not separate from nature; we are not