This Other Eden (Skimmerdale Book 1)

by Sharon Booth

  'She's probably jealous,' Eden said.

  'Jealous? What about?'

  'What do you think! You live in this lovely farmhouse, and you have a cat, and dogs, and a beautiful pony, and chickens. I'll bet Florence wishes she could have all those things, too, so she says nasty things to you to make herself feel better. I think it's much nicer to have the things you have than the things Florence has, don't you?'

  Libby considered. 'So, you think Florence wishes she could have a pony and dogs more than posh clothes?'

  'Of course! Okay, if you had the choice, which would you pick?'

  'I'd rather live here, any day,' said Ophelia firmly.

  'Me, too,' admitted Libby. 'Poor Florence. She must be right bored in the holidays.'

  'Exactly,' said Eden. 'Fat lot of good having nice clothes does you, when you're stuck indoors all day, or you're wandering the streets. Much more fun to ride Flora and collect the eggs from the chickens and pick goosegogs!'

  They all grinned, remembering the previous day when they'd rambled round the farm, collecting as many wild gooseberries as they could find. It had been a lovely day, and the girls had thoroughly enjoyed showing her their favourite places on the farm. Now the rain had stopped and there was even some mild sunshine, it looked like a different place. The cold stone of the barns and the house had seemed warmer and mellow, somehow. The stream, or beck as the girls called it, no longer seemed like some cruel boundary, dividing Fleetsthorpe from the rest of the civilised world, but more like a sparkling celebration of life and nature, as it threaded its way through the land, heading downhill to join the River Skimmer. Everything around them had seemed lush and green, and the hills that loomed up on either side of the dale seemed more like kindly guardians than the prison walls they'd appeared to be upon her arrival. The sense of space was awe-inspiring.

  Fleetsthorpe land stretched as far as the eye could see, a patchwork of green in shades of laurel, apple, moss, fern, olive and teal, all stitched together with the golden thread of York stone walls. The only sound to be heard was the faint rushing of water from the streams that raced down the hills to meet the Skimmer, and the occasional bleat of one of the many Swaledale sheep that grazed on the hills — sturdy, thick-fleeced creatures with curled horns and black faces. Old stone field barns dotted the landscape, along with wind-bent trees, which provided much needed shelter for the sheep in bad weather. Everything smelled fresh and clean, and Eden's soul soared with the joy of recognising what a privilege it was to be standing there, part of something so huge, so ancient, so heartrendingly beautiful.

  She had allowed herself to daydream for a moment, picturing herself tearing along the moors, clad in a Victorian dress and shawl, while somewhere ahead of her, Heathcliff waited, his eyes desperately scanning the horizon for his secret love. She'd adored Wuthering Heights since she was a young and impressionable teenager and had also watched the film version so many times, her mother had threatened to snap the disc in half and make her watch Bridget Jones and Love, Actually on a loop, like normal girls. It was very odd, though, that, in her daydreams, Heathcliff no longer looked like Laurence Olivier or even Tom Hardy, but now bore a startling resemblance to Eliot. How had that happened?

  Having collected her own body weight in gooseberries, she'd announced she had no idea what on earth she was going to do with them all, and Eliot had suggested she make jam—which she'd never attempted before—and crumbles, which were his favourite pudding and could be frozen. She'd taken him up on the challenge, and that was another reason she needed to visit the supermarket, for ingredients. Now, she decided she would be buying something else while she was there.

  'You know, supermarkets sell some nice children's clothes,' she said. 'We could have a look, if you like? Get you some new outfits that aren't various shades of grey?'

  'Can we?' Ophelia looked delighted. 'Oh, but Dad might get narked.'

  'Why would he get, er, narked?'

  'I don't know. But he used to get narked a lot when Mummy came home with new clothes.'

  'Right. Well, I think even your dad would have to admit that you need new stuff. And you're growing so fast, the things you have won't fit you much longer. Clothes are essentials, and no one can tell you off when you buy essentials.'

  Libby considered. 'Okay, then. If you don't mind.'

  'I'd love it,' Eden assured her. 'Now, let's try to find you some socks that match.'

  As she dug around in Libby's drawer, her hand closed on a velvet box. She pulled it out, puzzled. 'What's this?'

  Libby and Ophelia glanced at each other.

  Eden looked at them both. 'What is it?'

  Ophelia said, 'Open it and see.'

  'It's Mummy,' whispered Libby.

  'Would you like to see her?' asked Ophelia.

  Eden hesitated. 'What do you mean, it's Mummy?'

  Libby stood up and took the box from Eden's hands. Gently, she opened the lid and fumbled with something. Then she handed it to Eden. 'That's Mummy,' she said quietly.

  Eden looked inside, surprised to see a pretty silver locket, open to reveal a picture of a very attractive young woman. She had fair hair and blue eyes, and Eden took a sharp breath as she realised how strongly George resembled her. No wonder Eliot treasured his son so much. He was a constant reminder of the woman he'd loved and lost.

  'She was very pretty,' she said softly, her heart aching for these children who had so cruelly lost her, and for Eliot who clearly hadn't got over her death. 'Whose locket is this?'

  'We've both got one,' said Libby. 'The other one's in the drawer, too. They're the same. Dad gave them to us last Christmas.'

  'We've got their photograph albums, too,' said Ophelia. 'And their wedding album. Dad said we could have them. And there's a photograph in a silver frame on the top of the wardrobe. That will be George's when he's old enough.'

  'And there's Mummy's wedding and engagement rings,' added Libby. 'We're taking care of them for Dad.'

  'Why have you got them all in here?' asked Eden. 'Why are they hidden away in your bedroom?'

  The two girls fell silent for a moment, then Ophelia, ever helpful, said, 'Dad cried. When Mummy went, he cried lots. He took all her pictures down, and he gave all her stuff away to the shop in Ravensbridge. He doesn't like seeing her photo, and he doesn't like talking about her.'

  'He really loved her,' explained Libby. 'She were right beautiful. It hurts him to see her, but he doesn't want us to feel we can't look at her picture whenever we like. That's why he bought us the lockets, so we can keep her close to us. We don't wear them much, though, 'cos we don't want to lose them round the farm.'

  'I suppose when you're older, you can wear them more. It's a lovely thought. He's a very thoughtful man ...' Eden's voice trailed off, swamped with sadness for them all. Life was so cruel.

  'She died on the way to Kirkby Skimmer,' said Libby flatly.

  'What?'

  'Her car went off the road. Dad said it wasn't her fault, but I heard Daisy talking to Adey and Mickey, one day, and I heard them saying she was driving far too fast, and it wasn't surprising she crashed. I didn't tell Dad that, though.'

  Eden swallowed. These little girls were carrying a heavy burden, and they were doing it to protect their father, but she imagined that, if Daisy, Adey and Mickey were aware of the true circumstances of the crash, Eliot was all too aware of it, too. He was obviously protecting his daughters. There was so much love in this house. How awful there'd also been so much tragedy. And it made sense now — the reason Eliot was so worried about her driving to Kirkby Skimmer with his children in the car.

  She carefully replaced the box in the drawer. 'This is obviously still raw for you all. I'm so sorry.'

  'George won't remember her, will he?' said Ophelia. 'I feel sad about that.'

  'I suppose not. Eden sighed.

  'He were only four weeks old when Mummy died.'

  'Four weeks!' Eden hadn't realised. Good God, things got worse and worse. It must have been hell at Flee
tsthorpe. She imagined the news filtering through to the farm, Eliot's shock and heartbreak, having to tell the children, coping with a tiny baby as well as his job, organising a funeral—all the time, dealing with his overwhelming grief and loss. She wished she could do something to make his pain go away, but she knew it was hopeless. Time alone would heal him, and she wouldn't be around to see him finally emerging from his mourning. She would be back in Upper Bourbury, listening to the histrionics of the Carmichaels and wondering what on earth she was going to do with the rest of her life. She knew that, after this experience, life with Cain and Honey would seem even emptier than it had before.

  ****

  Shopping with three children in tow turned out to be harder work than Eden had imagined. Trundling round the supermarket, pushing George in the trolley, while the girls held onto the sides and pulled her to a halt every five minutes to examine something on the shelves that looked interesting, was exhausting and not a little frustrating. She was used to whizzing round and getting everything she wanted as quickly as possible. Shopping wasn't her favourite thing.

  'What are you doing?' Ophelia whined, as Eden chose spices and herbs for the lamb casserole she was planning on making that evening.

  'Buying food for tonight, and you'll be glad of it when you discover how nice it tastes later on.'

  Ophelia didn't seem convinced, and even Libby looked fed up.

  Eden quickly finished collecting the ingredients for the meal and threw in some store cupboard essentials then gave them a big smile. 'Okay, so, shall we have a look at the clothes?'

  That cheered them up, to her relief. She wheeled the trolley, struggling a little, as George seemed intent on hurling himself from side to side in his seat, making the load even heavier. Libby and Ophelia were soon excitedly looking through racks of clothes, and Eden leaned against the trolley, talking to George so he didn't decide it was all too boring and throw a tantrum.

  The girls selected leggings, jeans, T-shirts, new underwear, pyjamas, and a couple of sweatshirts each. Eden added some respectable-looking skirts and sweaters that would be appropriate for school. Ophelia looked longingly at a Disney Princess costume, and unable to resist, Eden threw it into the trolley, receiving a delighted hug in return. Libby selected a backpack bearing the image of a young pop idol, which she said would be brilliant to take to school and would make all the other girls jealous. They helped Eden choose some new clothes for George, too, who seemed thoroughly unimpressed with their selection, scowling at the little trousers, shirts and pyjamas Eden showed him. The only thing that caught his interest was a pair of slippers with Spiderman on them, so Eden bought them, even though Libby assured her George had never seen Spiderman and would have no idea who he was.

  With the goods bought and paid for and loaded into the car, they headed to the bookshop, where Libby selected a Michael Morpurgo novel, and Ophelia chose a David Walliams story. After making the shocking discovery that none of the children had ever heard of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Eden bought it for George, and having put smiles on all their faces, she decided it was time to end the shopping excursion with lunch in a nearby teashop.

  'Can't believe how hungry I am.' She peered at the menu in the window of The Teapot Café, noting that they served milkshakes, which Libby and Ophelia had insisted was the only thing they would consider drinking after all their exertions.

  'Bet I'm hungrier than you,' Libby said, pushing open the door and ushering her younger sister in. 'I could eat a scabby 'oss.'

  'Oh, really!' Eden grimaced. 'What a delightful expression. Come on, let's find a table and look at the menu.'

  A huge array of mouth-watering looking cakes sat displayed at the counter. Eden planned on making a gooseberry crumble later and wanted to make sure they all had room for it, but, after all, they tended to eat late in the evenings. She was pretty sure she could fit some cake in after her lunch, and she was equally certain the children would manage it, too.

  They made short work of their meals — quiche with salad for Eden, pizza for the girls, and a lasagne for George, as Ophelia had informed Eden that it was by far his favourite meal.

  'Sure about that, are you?' Eden muttered, fishing in her bag for baby wipes and mopping George's tomato smeared face with one hand, while simultaneously scooping up dollops of mince and pasta that he had cheerfully hurled out of his high chair, with the other.

  'Oh, yes. He loves chucking it all over the place,' said Ophelia, swallowing her last bit of pizza and sitting back in her chair with a contented expression on her face.

  'I was thinking more along the lines of, "What's his favourite thing to eat",' said Eden, exasperated.

  'Oh.' Ophelia shrugged. 'You never said.'

  'Are we having cake?' Libby was already scouring the menu. 'They have triple chocolate cake in here, Ophelia, and red vel —'

  When she didn't finish the sentence, Eden stopped wiping George's highchair down and turned to her. 'What's the matter?'

  Libby stared ahead of her, and Eden followed her gaze, seeing only a couple, perhaps in their thirties, hovering round the counter. As she watched, the man turned his head their way. She noted the look of surprise on his face, but then he smiled and nudged the woman beside him, who turned and looked equally astonished to see them all sitting there.

  'Who are they?' Eden whispered.

  Ophelia turned her head away. 'Mr and Mrs Fuller. They're our friends, aren't they, Libby?'

  Libby folded her arms, saying nothing.

  Eden frowned. 'You don't look too sure. Is there something —'

  'Do you mind if we join you?'

  Mr Fuller appeared at their table, patting George's head as if he was a pet spaniel. 'My, you've grown. What a handsome chap you are.'

  George scowled and banged his fists on the tray of his highchair.

  Ophelia shuffled up on the bench, and Mr Fuller sat beside her. 'Thank you, sweetie. And how are you? Haven't seen you for a while.'

  'You don't come up to the house anymore,' said Ophelia accusingly. 'You both used to visit all the time.'

  He looked most apologetic. 'You're right. I'm terribly sorry about that. We've both been so busy, and with everything that's been going on ...' He looked at Eden, his eyes full of curiosity. 'I don't believe we've met.'

  'Your coffee.' The woman handed him a cup and waited as Ophelia and Mr Fuller shuffled farther along the bench to give her some room.

  'Thank you, darling.' The man smiled at her before turning back to Eden. 'I'm James Fuller, and this is my wife, Beth. We're long-standing friends of Eliot and Jemima. And you are?'

  Eden swallowed. 'Er, Honey Carmichael. Pleased to meet you.'

  'Honey Carmichael?' Beth frowned. 'Rings a bell. Oh, aren't you Jemima's cousin, or something?'

  'My mother was her cousin,' said Eden uncomfortably. Actually saying those things out loud brought it home to her what a web of deception she'd been weaving. She felt like a criminal, and as Beth's eyes bored into hers, she almost threw up her hands and yelled, "You've got me banged to rights, guv'nor. It's a fair cop!"

  'Goodness. You're a long way from the Cotswolds,' said Mr Fuller. As Eden raised an eyebrow, he explained, 'I'm a fan of your father. Back in my younger days, I played his records nonstop. It was the most effective way I knew to wind my father up. No offence.'

  'None taken,' Eden assured him. She'd grown up with Cain's records blaring out of the stereo. She could well imagine they'd been the bane of Mr Fuller Senior's life.

  'Your dad was a popstar?' Ophelia's eyes widened, and even Libby looked impressed, in spite of the fact that she hadn't spoken two words since the Fullers arrived.

  Eden wondered what was troubling her. It wasn't like Libby to be so unsociable.

  'Not a popstar, exactly,' said Mr Fuller with a grin. 'He was a rock star. One of the old school. Not the sort of music you'd enjoy, Ophelia.'

  'Can I listen to some of it and make up my own mind, please?' She looked indignant that he'd decided for himself th
at she wouldn't be a Cain Carmichael fan, and even though Eden was pretty certain that Mr Fuller was correct, she was rather admiring of Ophelia's determination to make her own decisions.

  'I don't have any of his stuff with me,' she said.

  Ophelia tutted. 'That's what the internet's for. I'll download some when I get home.'

  Eden and Mr Fuller exchanged nervous glances. Cain's music was definitely not something an eight-year-old girl should be listening to. It was highly doubtful Eliot would approve, that was for sure.

  'What brings you to the Dales?' Beth sipped her coffee, eyeing Eden with suspicion over the rim of her cup. 'I shouldn't have thought it would be the sort of place you'd want to visit.'

  There was an edge to her voice. Eden wondered why for a moment, then remembered Jemima's family had never bothered to visit the farm when she was alive, so it was no wonder Beth was a bit hostile to one of them suddenly turning up when it was too late.

  'I — er — I was at a bit of a loose end, and Eliot needed help with the children during the summer holidays, so I thought, why not?'

  'And your Dad made you come here,' said Ophelia, slurping the last of her milkshake. 'That's why you won't talk to him when he telephones.'

  There was an awkward silence for a moment. Trust Ophelia to say it like it was, thought Eden.

  'How are you, Libby? You're very quiet,' said Beth, providing a welcome change of subject.

  Libby shrugged. 'I'm fine, thank you.'

  'What have you been doing in Kirkby Skimmer?'

  Libby looked meaningfully at the bags of shopping, which were piled on the floor and hanging over the handles of George's buggy, but said nothing.

  Beth flushed a little. 'Shopping, then. Did you buy anything nice?'

  'Honey bought us some clothes,' Libby mumbled.

  'And books,' added Ophelia.