Eden's Garden

by Juliet Greenwood

  ‘The trouble is, as I’ve been saying for years,’ replied Huw, heavily, ‘just about everything needs to be re-done. The east wing really is falling apart at the seams, you know.’

  ‘It needs some work,’ conceded David.

  ‘A major overhaul, if you ask me. You said yourself, the number of guests in the holiday apartments has dropped off dramatically this year, which means you can hardly carry on as you are.’

  ‘I’m not intending to.’ David’s temper was not improved by the shooting pains now rippling up and down his bad leg, making him slightly nauseous. ‘Those were hardly normal circumstances.’

  ‘But they’re the circumstances we find ourselves in now.’ Huw pulled his Land Cruiser onto the verge beneath the trees and left it there, as if to emphasise the dire state of Eden’s drive.

  The drive, thought David, doing his best to squash mounting irritation, might be suffering from the ravages of last year’s hard winter, but the Adamsons, at least, were viewing it as part of Plas Eden’s old-fashioned charm. And surely that’s what Land Cruisers were for?

  He took a deep breath. ‘Things might change again. There was always going to be a drop-off in the holiday lets while the building work on the east wing was taking place. It might just be that it’s a good time to start upgrading the east wing.’

  ‘To do what? You said yourself the adventure holiday side of things isn’t possible for now. You’ve already ruled out going down the B&B road, and just continuing with straight holiday lets doesn’t made good business sense.’

  ‘There might be other possibilities. Solutions none of us have thought of yet, because we haven’t been looking.’

  Huw was frowning. ‘There’s a recession on. It’s hardly a good time to start taking risks. Beddows are a reputable firm, and they know me. But they won’t hang around forever. And who else is likely to see the potential of a place like this? Especially in this economic climate.’

  ‘We’ve agreed we’d discuss it,’ said David. ‘All of us,’ he added, pointedly. He had still not forgiven his brother for his insensitivity towards Rhiannon. At least, he noted, Huw had the grace to turn an uncomfortable pink around the ears.

  ‘I’m just saying, there might not be much time.’

  ‘And Rhiannon?’ David demanded, rather more sharply than he had intended. ‘Don’t we at least owe her some consideration? Where do you think you and I would have ended up, if Rhiannon hadn’t come to look after us?’

  ‘There was Nainie.’

  ‘Nainie had just had her first stroke. Don’t you remember? It wasn’t bad, not like the one she had later. But who knows if the stress of having to cope with us two and Plas Eden might not have brought on a second stroke much earlier? Especially with that idiot Edmund ranting on at us every week or so. Without Rhiannon, you and I could have ended up Lord-knows-where, and Nainie could have spent the rest of her life in an old people’s home. We can’t just take everything from under Rhiannon. Especially not so soon after Nainie. She needs a bit of time to adjust and get her life back together again.’

  ‘I didn’t say she should just be thrown out. We can always buy her a cottage. There are plenty for sale at the moment in Pont-ar-Eden. Or even Talarn.’

  Why did Huw make it sound as if this was a bargain hunt? A case of let’s pay off Auntie Rhiannon by beating down the price of a house to the lowest amount possible? And what, exactly, did he have in mind? Some pokey two-up, two-down terrace, with a cheap 1970s extension on the back and the smallest of gardens?

  Despite being in the midst of a recession, the offer Beddows were proposing was astounding. Even when divided between them, it was still an eye-watering sum. And it wasn’t as if Huw had done badly out of the estate by being the second son, as it was. There had been a considerable amount set aside in their father’s will for Huw, more than enough for him to set up his first business and buy a substantial house.

  For all he loved Plas Eden, there had been times over the years – particularly in the throws of a hellishly knotty problem with difficult tenants in the estate’s cottages, or attempting to keep control of builders – that it had crossed David’s mind that Huw had been given the better deal. The thought never lasted long. Given all the money in the world, he would still not exchange it for Eden, with all its problems.

  David looked at his brother. Huw had been staying with a pen-pal in France, the day Rhiannon came to tell them about Mum and Dad. It had been hard enough, David remembered all too well, being in the familiarity of Eden, with Nainie and Rhiannon a constant presence. Heaven knows what it must have been like for a seven-year-old boy among strangers having to make the flight back on his own, knowing that Rhiannon, and the whole reality of the thing, was waiting for him at Manchester airport.

  No wonder, David acknowledged to himself, Huw had buried his feelings ever since. Until maybe even Huw no longer knew what his deepest emotions really were.

  ‘I’m sure we can sort something out,’ he added, in a slightly gentler tone. ‘Come on, Rhiannon’s painting Buddug’s portrait in the courtyard. They’ll both be ready for a cup of tea by now.’

  ‘You really think I should apply?’ said Rhiannon, her pencil pausing in its scurry across the half-finished portrait in front of her, as she eyed her subject thoughtfully.

  ‘Of course. Don’t think; just go for it,’ replied Buddug Parry, taking this pause in proceedings to give her shoulders a quick wriggle and stretch the arm resting on a large, plastic, and decidedly un-picturesque, plant pot.

  Dressed in loose trousers, a light-blue linen jacket and a straw sunhat, her brown curls riotously loose around her shoulders, Buddug was seated on the steps leading up to the fountain in Plas Eden’s little courtyard, surrounded by pink and blue sweet peas and the ramblings of purple clematis. The pot was, in fact, perfectly in place, having been pressed into service as a temporary substitute for Hodge, who had grown tired of gazing lovingly into Buddug’s eyes some twenty minutes ago (when the mini gravy bones ran dry) and was sprawled out in the last of the sunshine, excitably dreaming of squirrels.

  ‘Artist-in-residence in an American college is bound to be popular.’ Rhiannon put down her pencil and took a thoughtful sip of water. ‘And with people who’ve got far more experience and reputation, both as painters and teachers. I can’t see me having a chance in hell, to be honest.’

  ‘Just put in your application and forget about it. Even if you only get shortlisted, it’s good for the CV. If you don’t try you’ll never know, and with things as they are, and if Huw is still so set on selling the house, then you need to take any opportunity you can.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ said Rhiannon, with a rueful smile. ‘I can’t just sit here and wait to see what happens.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Ten more minutes, if that’s okay with you? Then I’ll have enough to be able to get on with this.’

  ‘Okay by me,’ said Buddug, resuming her position. Hodge opened one eye at this movement, in case he was missing something. Something not appearing, he returned to The Mysterious Case of the Vanishing Squirrel, nose twitching furiously.

  ‘I’m not convinced portraits are my strong point,’ said Rhiannon, after a few minutes of rapid brushstrokes, standing back and eying her work critically.

  ‘It looked good to me last time I saw it. And at least I don’t have three heads or triangles for my nose.’

  Rhiannon laughed. ‘You’re safe. The idea is to sell as many pictures as I can. Talarn Festival is hardly a hotbed of modern art.’ She grimaced. ‘But perhaps it was rather foolish, trying out something new, with my first big exhibition coming up.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Buddug, firmly. ‘People love your work. The craft shop in Beddgelert sold out of your watercolours within weeks, remember? They said they couldn’t get enough of them.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Rhiannon smoothed a harsh edge with her thumb, mind clearly elsewhere. ‘If Huw does manage to persuade David, maybe Merlin Gwyn will buy Plas Eden after all, and t
urn it into a recording studio. I have a feeling Paul would have quite liked that idea.’

  ‘I don’t think he will,’ said Buddug, frowning.

  ‘From what I’ve seen, he seems pretty keen on developing that band he’s starting with the village kids. The basement of his dad’s old electrical shop isn’t all that big. Somewhere to expand might be a logical next step.’

  ‘Merlin has only promised he would provide investment if the village set up some kind of fund to take on Plas Eden. He would back a project to help the village but I really don’t think he wants to have any closer involvement. It’s a case of been there, done that, and wanting to lead the quiet life from now on. And besides it’s not exactly the right atmosphere if your doctor has told you to stay off the drink and drugs. I really believe he means to leave it to the village to get on with the actual responsibility.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rhiannon put down her pencil. ‘I think that’s enough for one day.’

  ‘May I see?’

  ‘Of course. It’s only very rough, remember.’

  Buddug joined her in an instant. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

  Rhiannon eyed her uncertainly. ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘Don’t be daft Rhiannon, it’s beautiful!’ Buddug leant closer. The sketch showed a woman smiling out of the picture, an unmistakeable Hodge at her side, and a tangled profusion of flowers all around them. It could easily have been chocolate-box goo, but there was an energy to the rambling of the clematis and sweet peas, and – though Buddug said so herself – a down-to-earth, wrinkles, hips-and-all vitality to the central figure that made it simply, gloriously, a moment caught in time. ‘And very you,’ she added. ‘You’ve got a distinctive style, you know. I’d know that was a Rhiannon Lloyd anywhere.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Rhiannon, examining her work critically, and itching to have another go at getting the thing nearer to the perfect image in her mind’s eye.

  But at that moment there was an excited yelp from Hodge, who had abandoned dreaming at the sound of the front door opening and footsteps inside the house.

  ‘Come on in!’ called Rhiannon, as David and Huw arrived through the sunroom. No conversation; both with hands deep in pockets, Rhiannon noted. Never a good sign.

  ‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ said David, attending to Hodge, who was greeting him with the slow-swinging tail of abject adoration.

  ‘Thank you, cariad,’ replied Rhiannon, with a warm smile. ‘Hello Huw, nice to see you. Come and sit down.’

  ‘Hello, Auntie,’ muttered Huw, kissing her in a slightly embarrassed fashion.

  ‘How’s the portrait going?’ asked David, as they waited for the kettle to boil.

  ‘Fine,’ said Rhiannon.

  ‘Absolutely brilliant,’ added Buddug, watching the two men closely.

  ‘Better than drawing the statues?’

  ‘Definitely,’ replied Rhiannon. ‘I love them, and they are good to practise on, but portraits of portraits are never quite the same as making your own attempt from the original.’

  ‘I like your sketches of the statues,’ said David. ‘I still think you should include them in the exhibition.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rhiannon hesitated. ‘And I suppose it was the statues that got me drawing again after I came to live here.’

  ‘There you go,’ said David, with a slightly forced cheerfulness that nobody could quite miss. ‘They need to be included. Don’t you think, Huw?’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Huw.

  Rhiannon sighed. ‘It feels a bit disloyal, I suppose.’

  ‘Disloyal?’ Buddug asked her.

  ‘Nainie never approved of Dad’s obsession with the statues,’ explained Huw, shortly.

  ‘Really?’ Buddug paused in removing her sun hat. ‘Did she ever say why?’

  Rhiannon shook her head. ‘She never wanted to talk about them. At least, not after Paul and Marianne.’ She glanced briefly at David who was bent over Hodge, fussing his ears, his face hidden. ‘She almost seemed to blame the statues in some way.’

  ‘Which is ridiculous,’ snorted Huw under his breath.

  ‘Eden’s ghosts,’ said Buddug, as if she hadn’t heard.

  ‘Exactly,’ said David, without looking up. ‘Plas Eden’s ghosts. It seems there are plenty of those.’

  Night was beginning to fall as Rhiannon waved goodbye to Buddug at the edge of Plas Eden’s grounds, where the lights of the village began.

  ‘Come on, Hodge,’ she said, taking a side path that led through a rusted gate and down into the little woodland next to the house.

  All the time she had lived there she had never felt unease being alone within Plas Eden’s grounds, even in darkness. Ancient pathways criss-crossed the estate, sending out a sense of security from the passing of many feet over the years. Those feet had not only belonged to the workers from the present house, but farmers from medieval villages making their way to market in the larger settlement on the banks of the Eden, more-or-less where Pont-ar-Eden stood now.

  And before that, as Professor Humphries was fond of informing her, there had been centuries of more ancient travellers following trackways between clusters of roundhouses, each tiny, extended-family sized village, held within protective stone walls. Those trackways would have been old even then, was Gwynfor’s guess, stretching back to hunter-gatherers on their long migration out of Africa, rippling out to form the human nations of the world in all their sameness and diversity.

  And all of those people, Gwynfor was convinced, would still be able to recognise the landscape within Eden as their own. The woodlands, which had once covered the entire coast and the mountains up to their summits, had been cleared from the land around, but still remained within Eden’s grounds.

  Even the lake was a natural feature. It had been widened and deepened by David’s great-grandfather, who had greatly improved the estate in the early part of the twentieth century, providing much-needed employment in the village after the ravages of the Great War. The widening had uncovered numerous Celtic swords and brooches and tiny figurines in the mud below, all long-ago offerings to forgotten gods, sent sinking beneath the waters with a memory or a prayer, like the flicking rows of tea lights left before the altar of a church. One particularly fine brooch was still on display in the British Museum in London, with the rest scattered around the National Museum in Cardiff and smaller collections.

  A night breeze stirred the air as Rhiannon set off through the old stone arch, down past the fountain with its Venus just about holding her own amongst the moss and the ivy, to the glade where Eden’s ghosts stood waiting. Around her the leaves shivered now and again as if waiting for something. Which was, as Huw would say, ridiculous. Maybe it had been the talk of Nainie that had unsettled her tonight. Along with the older ghosts of Paul and Marianne.

  As they reached the little glade, Hodge growled, deep in his throat. A low, warning growl. Jolted from her thoughts, Rhiannon came to a halt. The breeze came again, stirring the leaves around her into a quiet, sighing rustle.

  Down amongst the statues, something was moving. Hodge – never known for his bravery – let out a brief whine and pressed himself hard against her knee. The movement came again. A shadow next to Blodeuwedd, bending closer, as if to remove the trail of ivy from the statue’s hair.

  This time, the shadow stopped and seemed to turn towards them. Maybe Hodge’s cowardice had been heard above the rustling of the leaves.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said Rhiannon, loud and bold. Humans she was not afraid of. And as for Eden’s ghosts…

  ‘Oh!’ The woman’s voice sounded just as freaked as the beating of her own heart. And reassuringly mortal. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …’

  Talk about ghosts.

  ‘Carys?’ said Rhiannon.

  He did return, but I knew it could only be for a few days.

  One morning, as I approached the little office, he was there, sorting through papers. An advertisement had already been sent out to fill his post; it could well have been filled alr
eady. Nothing would be the same again.

  He must have sensed me there, hesitating in the doorway. ‘Good morning,’ he said, looking up with that familiar smile of his.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied. He was pale, and drawn. I had never seen anyone age so quickly. ‘I am so sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you.’ He saw me still hesitating, not certain whether he wanted company or not. ‘Come on in. There is so much to be done, and I’m rather in need of assistance.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The painting of Plas Eden had been taken down from the walls, I saw. It lay on the desk, already half wrapped in a soft cloth, ready to be packed away in the trunk at one side of the room.

  He followed my eyes. ‘My poor mother,’ he said. ‘She made that painting for my grandfather when she was a girl.’ He sighed. ‘She had been worried about my brother and his reckless actions this past year or more, but we never thought it would end like this. It’s why I have to return,’ he added, eying me earnestly. ‘It’s not just Plas Eden Caradoc put in jeopardy, but our business interests, too.’

  ‘You mean the hospital?’ I couldn’t help it. Selfish alarm spread through me. I cursed every moment of my restlessness, as if it had of itself caused this.

  ‘I’m afraid so. When we finally could make some sense of his affairs, it seems Caradoc had been reckless with more than just racing these new automobiles along mountain roads ’til he missed that corner. My poor mother has never taken much of an interest in the business side of the Meredith fortune. She has always been shut away in her own world, if not with her studies, then with her garden.’ He caught my enquiring eye. ‘My mother is a passionate student of ancient mythologies, when she is not working on ideas for her garden. Her father was a well-known scholar of Welsh folk traditions. He was even consulted by Lady Charlotte Guest when she was translating the Mabinogion.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, blankly, Lady Guest and her subject being equally unknown to me.