Eden's Garden

by Juliet Greenwood

  ‘That’s the cottage,’ said David, his surprise breaking in on her thoughts.

  ‘Cottage?’ Huw, who had kept himself a little apart from the conversation, as if so much tittle-tattle was beneath his notice, looked up from slicing a particularly fine Caernarfon brie.

  ‘Eden Farm.’ David pushed the photograph towards his brother. ‘Funny; we were just discussing that.’

  ‘Pity,’ muttered Huw, a crease of annoyance appearing between his brows. ‘If you’d given the Sullivans notice straight after your accident, when I suggested, Beddows might have considered taking it as part of the estate. As it is, they’re not interested.’

  ‘That wasn’t why we were discussing it.’ David scowled at Huw, who seemed to have conveniently forgotten that the conversation as they’d made their way up the drive had centred around Eden Farm being a far more suitable home for Rhiannon than a cottage in Pont-ar-Eden, and the least they could do. Since Huw would have equal rights if it came to a sale of the estate, nothing could be done without his agreement. Huw, it appeared, was not about to agree. At least not without a fight.

  And just how long had his brother been in discussions with Beddows? David asked himself, grimly. From the moment the call came through from Switzerland to tell Huw and Rhiannon about the accident? Was this an opportunity Huw had been waiting for all these years? No wonder he had been so against a long lease to the Sullivans. David cursed himself. He’d been the fool who’d listened, believing his brother, with all his business acumen, was thinking of a more profitable solution for the farm. Just how naïve can you get?

  ‘It was such a lovely place,’ came Mair’s voice, breaking into David’s inner beating up of himself. She was nodding and smiling, her eyes misted with memory. ‘That used to be the head gardener’s house, Carys, dear. Where your dad grew up. He took us there to see it once, before the new tenants came in. You could only have been about five or six. I don’t expect you remember.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Carys, slowly. ‘At least, I’d forgotten I remembered. But I remember.’ She had always thought it a dream, or a place they had visited, that childhood memory of Dad taking her to see a house with yellow roses round the door, rows of fruit and vegetables and the little orchard of wind-blown apple trees, and the arch of peas and beans that led to the tiny, self-contained, walled garden. ‘I thought it was still being run as a farm?’

  ‘It was.’ Angela was peering closely at the photograph. ‘The last tenants, the Sullivans, were brilliant. They were supplying veg and eggs to quite a few of the houses in Pont-ar-Eden. And to the Boadicea. Didn’t they just move to a place in the Midlands?’

  ‘Shropshire,’ said Huw. ‘Better growing conditions.’

  ‘But I bet no walled garden,’ returned Angela, pointedly.

  Just for a moment, a flush of discomfort passed over Huw’s solid features. ‘Their choice,’ he muttered.

  ‘And our loss,’ retorted Angela. ‘Local produce is the in thing at the moment, as well as being more environmentally friendly, and all that. I miss my veg box. Even those squash thingies no one seems to know how to cook.’

  ‘And Jerusalem artichokes,’ added Rhiannon, with a shudder.

  ‘Oh, I rather like Jerusalem artichokes,’ said Mam. ‘In moderation, of course.’

  ‘There, you see,’ said Angela. ‘The Sullivans’ farm was just what is needed in Pont-ar-Eden. I don’t see why you want David to sell it off for a housing estate at all, darling.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mam, to whom this was clearly news. Her eyes rested on Huw, who was looking less at ease by the minute.

  ‘Well, something has to be done,’ he growled defensively. ‘If David had given them the ten-year lease they’d wanted, we’d quite likely have been stuck with the farm, whatever happened in the future. Given the way things have turned out, I was quite right to advise against it.’

  ‘Nothing has been decided yet,’ put in David. ‘Especially about Eden Farm.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Such a pity,’ said Mam, at last. ‘I’d have liked to have seen the old cottage again. Your dad had such happy memories there, Carys, especially of your grandma and granddad. It would have been nice to see it again.’

  ‘Is it empty at the moment?’ asked Carys. David nodded. ‘Well, in that case, would you mind if Mam and I went over to see it, one day?’

  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ said David. ‘In fact, Mair, why don’t you let us take you round one day next week?’

  Mair beamed. ‘Thank you, dear. You always were a thoughtful boy.’ A sudden sharp gleam appeared in her eyes. ‘But I’m afraid it’ll be a bit too rough for me, cariad, especially with that track. You could always take Carys, though, and she could tell me all about it.’

  ‘Mam!’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why not, dear. You could take a camera and take pictures for me. That sounds like the best solution.’

  ‘I’m sure the estate agent could show me round,’ muttered Carys, hoping there was such a thing.

  ‘No, you’re okay.’ David cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take you there. It’s no problem.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Angela, who had been watching the two of them closely, ‘why don’t you go now, Carys?’

  ‘Now?’ Carys blinked. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back soon? I mean, Mam…’

  ‘Nonsense, dear. I’m fine,’ said Mam, who was all of a sudden as alert as could be.

  ‘We can move inside in a bit, if it gets too cold,’ said Rhiannon, who seemed quite unaware of the soft and wistful look that had appeared in Angela’s eyes. ‘We’ve still got Nainie’s chair. It gets nice and warm in Nainie’s old room, and the TV still works.’

  ‘And we can stay for as long as you like, can’t we, Huw, dear?’ added Angela. To which Huw grunted in the resigned tones of a man who knows his place in the domestic scheme of things. ‘You can take my camera, Carys,’ she added, fishing out an expensive-looking pink metal affair. ‘It’s got an amazing zoom lens, and there’s still lots of memory on the card. I can email you the pictures tonight so you can show Mair straight away.’

  ‘Sounds like a good plan to me,’ put in Gwynfor, who was still shuffling through the photographs and had missed this little scene entirely. ‘And we’ve got plenty more of these to get through, haven’t we, Mair?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Carys, feeling decidedly stitched up.

  ‘I’ll row you across,’ David said, with the abruptness of a man who knows he’ll think better of this, given half a chance to think it over. ‘That’ll be the quickest way.’

  This was getting complicated. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘It’s fine. I need to pop over and check kids haven’t been lighting fires in the apple orchard again. It’s time to give Hodge a bit of a run anyhow, and he can run for miles over there. Rabbits,’ he added to Hodge, who was already alert and on his feet in readiness at the sound of his own name. The tail banged furiously against the nearest chair leg in appreciation.

  Carys looked round at the faces watching her. Apart from Huw and Gwynfor, whose minds were clearly elsewhere, and Rhiannon who was busily tidying plates, each gave her the message that resistance was futile, and might just make her feel even more of a fool than she did at this moment. She willed herself to keep her last shreds of dignity and not blush.

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded at last, bowing to the inevitable. ‘That sounds great. Thanks, David.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, smiling faintly. Almost as if he were glad the ice had been broken between them. Carys firmly squashed the tendency for her heart to go racing off again. If David could be all grown up about this, then so could she. It was nothing personal: they were both doing this for Mam’s benefit.

  ‘That’s not Eden.’ She looked round at the sharpness of Gwynfor’s voice. He was peering closely at the little postcard in his hand.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she replied, thankful for the distraction. ‘That’s a real puzzle. It was in amongst the others, but I
don’t know where it is. Mam didn’t recognise it, either. Did you Mam?’

  ‘No,’ said Mam, shaking her head.

  ‘No writing. There isn’t even a stamp on it,’ Gwynfor said, disappointed, as he turned the card over.

  ‘We used to do that, all the time,’ said Mam. ‘When we were young. Before we could afford a camera. We’d bring postcards back as a reminder, instead.’

  ‘The writing on the front is really faded,’ said Carys. ‘That’s why I brought the original, rather than a scan. We’ve been trying to make out the name.’

  Mam nodded. ‘It starts with “Tre”. And then it’s faded away.’

  ‘We thought it might have something to do with Trefriw, further north in the Conwy Valley,’ said Carys.

  ‘Only I don’t remember it at all,’ put in Mam. ‘And there wasn’t a house like that near Conwy or Trefriw, or anywhere I remember as a child. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing the postcard before. So it must have been one from your dad’s side of the family,’ she added to Carys. ‘And anyhow, it looks as if it ends with an “i”, “c” and a “k”. And then “Hall”. That’s not Welsh.’

  ‘Treverick,’ said David, slowly. He sounded as if he had been punched right in the stomach.

  ‘It can’t be.’ Huw’s voice sharp. ‘You must have read it wrong.’

  David held out to him. ‘See? It has to be.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Huw.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Angela, watching her husband’s face.

  ‘Treverick,’ said David, peering down at the postcard once more. ‘It’s a village in Cornwall.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Rhiannon had risen, and was looking over David’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t know there was a Hall there.’ She gave a slight shudder. ‘What a forbidding-looking place.’

  Gwynfor, who had also risen to peer over David’s shoulder, looked up. ‘This was in amongst your Dad’s photographs, Carys?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carys, watching them uneasily. Huw, she saw, had turned away, as if to block out the conversation.

  ‘How very strange,’ said Rhiannon.

  ‘You know it, then?’ asked Carys.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Rhiannon. She glanced at David, who was still gazing down at the picture, a deep frown on his face.

  ‘It’s where they were going,’ he said, at last.

  ‘They?’

  ‘Mum and Dad.’

  Carys blinked. ‘I thought they were on their way to London?’

  ‘They were,’ said Rhiannon. ‘They’d told Nainie they were going to stay a few days with me. I think they didn’t want her to know. Or maybe they thought she might stop them. We were going to the opera that night, and then they were going on to Cornwall the next morning.’

  ‘Did they say why?’ asked Carys.

  Rhiannon shook her head. ‘They didn’t even tell me where they were going. They were both very mysterious about it.’

  ‘But then how do you know –’ Carys came to an abrupt halt. The answer was so horribly and blindingly obvious. She felt, rather than saw, Angela place a protective hand on Huw’s arm.

  ‘They were amongst Dad’s things, when they gave them to us,’ replied David quietly. ‘A train ticket to Cornwall. And the confirmation of a booking for them to stay overnight.’

  ‘In a hotel?’ said Carys, eying the postcard dubiously. Anywhere less like a hotel she couldn’t possibly imagine.

  David shook his head. ‘No. B&B. Sounded more like a pub. The Treverick Arms. In a village called Treverick. There was nothing about a Hall.’ He looked down at the postcard once more. ‘But that must have been where they were going.’

  I made my way quickly between the flickering street lamps, passing unnoticed as I had done that night years before.

  The rain had begun in earnest as I left the hospital, pounding on my coat and soaking through the leather of my boots. But the gusts that threw drops harshly against my face, hard as hailstones, had stirred my blood. There was no turning back now.

  When I was a girl, I had too much decorum to escape to the beach outside the village where the pebbles were tossed to and fro in the surf and great waves broke over the black rocks of the headland. I would sometimes watch from my window, when the turquoise sea was turned to grey and the fishing boats rattled in Treverick harbour, as if straining to break free and join the dance of the storm. But I always turned away, back to the fire and the piano I was supposed to be practising, or watching Aunt Beatrice as she taught me the finest embroidery.

  I knew even then that the wild dance was calling to me far more than the Mendelssohn Etude I was perfecting (for even at that age I was determined to outdo the other girls in our social circle). Let alone the tedious embroidering of Aunt Beatrice’s firescreen, with its endless shrubbery and more than its fair share of fully clothed and simpering cherubs.

  It was only later, much later, that I understood where my cowardice, and my self-satisfaction had led me, satisfaction in the small triumphs I had over half-a-dozen equally ill-informed girls who, like me, knew nothing beyond our small circle and a brief parading of ourselves in London Society.

  And by then it was too late. Far, far too late. My shallow pride and my vanity had already sealed my fate.

  I paused for a moment in front of Mr Meredith’s lodgings. I knew well enough where to find them, of course. I had not been quite able to resist passing them more than once as I made my way to the park nearby on my afternoon off. Although I never told anyone – and I made sure I hurried by, my face hidden – I could not always fight my curiosity to see where his life beyond the hospital took place.

  I raised my hand to the knocker, and again my courage failed me. But only for a moment. I could see movement behind the door, in the lights of the hall. It was too late to go back now. I knocked.

  I had expected a housekeeper. I’d braced myself. Spun a story about some urgent question concerning the hospital. But instead, I stepped back a little, as Mr Meredith opened the door himself.

  For a moment, he stood there. Boxes and a large trunk stood ready behind him. The house, I knew immediately was silent. The staff had already gone. I half expected him to close the door, or at least shoo me back to the hospital to keep my reputation intact. And, for once, words failed me. I did not know where to begin.

  He smiled that old, familiar smile.

  ‘You had better come inside,’ he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Ready?’ said David, as Carys emerged from settling Mam safely in Nainie’s old room, with Angela in full attendance and the photographs spread out on a table.

  Carys glanced at the terseness of his face. ‘Are you sure about this? We can leave it to another time, if you prefer.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ He cleared his throat, awkwardly. ‘Rhiannon’s found you this.’ Carys found herself presented with a purple mohair cardigan that reached down to her knees and was most definitely Rhiannon. ‘The air can be cold out there on the lake.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, taking possession of the fluffy softness.

  The boat tied up at the jetty was not exactly inspiring.

  ‘I hope that isn’t the same one we used to use as kids,’ said Carys.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘Rhiannon made me get rid of that one years ago. In you go, Hodge.’

  The rowing boat was larger and more substantial than it had first appeared. Carys stepped in, followed by David, as Hodge settled himself into what appeared to be a practised routine of curling up under the nearest bench.

  David detached the oars hidden in a shelf beneath the jetty. ‘Just in time,’ he remarked, as Carys unwound the rope keeping the boat in place, allowing him to pull away into deeper waters. ‘Here comes trouble.’ He motioned towards a perfectly white swan which, used to the appearance of humans heralding food, was sailing majestically in their direction, snackering with his beak at any moorhen who got in his way.

  ‘Why, is it dangerous?’ asked Carys, trying not t
o sound wimpish. Swans could break your leg with their wings. She’d read it once. And a broken leg was the last thing she needed in her life just now.

  ‘Hallelujah? No, he’s not dangerous. Rhiannon’s been feeding him along with the rest of them.’ His voice was wry. ‘He just needs a girlfriend. Swans mate for life, and no one seems to fancy him. I don’t blame them: he’s a bad tempered old bird.’

  ‘Poor thing.’ Carys smiled sympathetically at the swan, which was watching them expectantly, but with a faint air of knowing disappointment was around the corner.

  David manoeuvred around to the right direction and began pulling away, setting them slipping gently through the waters. Soon they were in the middle of the lake and heading for the small island at the very centre.

  Near-to, it could scarcely be called an island at all. Not even a duck island. Just a scrub-covered mound really, filled with nest boxes. A sign carved in slate, with an intricate surround of mistletoe and oak leaves proclaimed ‘Ynys Afalon’.

  ‘“The Island of Apples”,’ translated Carys. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Avalon. That’s where King Arthur was supposed to be buried, wasn’t it? I thought that was on Snowdon? Unless you’re from Glastonbury, of course.’

  David paused, allowing the boat to glide silently forwards under its own steam. ‘That was Dad’s joke. Calling the island Avalon. He roped in Huw and me to put that sign there, when we were little. Dad always had this thing about King Arthur.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s where we scattered the ashes. It seemed kind of appropriate.’

  Sod.

  Cary could have kicked herself. She should have remembered. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  David began rowing again, slowly, one oar, then the other. ‘I think Dad would have just loved to have lived in a time when there were knights and heroes. That’s probably why he loved cowboy films so much, when Huw and I were kids. They always had great social causes, did the Merediths. Not just in Eden, either. They set up charity schools and hospitals all over Wales in Victorian times. Even a couple in London, Dad used to say. Nainie’s father, my great-grandfather, was one of those really passionate philanthropists.’ He smiled. ‘Dad always hero-worshipped him. I suppose that’s why I was called after him. I think Dad would have liked to have been just like him. But Dad wasn’t really a brilliant businessman himself, so he never did earn the vast amounts it took to keep all the Meredith charities up as well as the estate. And besides, I think the welfare state rather took the wind out of his sails.’