Eden's Garden

by Juliet Greenwood

  ‘Only to tell me what you were discussing.’

  ‘Damn Huw!’ David was struggling to his feet, coffee forgotten. ‘He promised me he wouldn’t say anything. Not until I’d talked it over with you and we’d had a serious look at all the alternatives.’ Grabbing his stick, he hobbled rapidly through the open door of the sunroom, like a man with several hundred demons behind him.

  Rhiannon sighed, picked up the abandoned mug and followed him into a courtyard protected on each side by high stone walls. Along the borders beneath the walls, rosemary and oregano spread themselves beneath fragrant arches of clematis and sweet peas, and overhanging boughs from the neighbouring orchard.

  David was standing in the centre of the enclosed space, gazing down into the water trickling over a pebble-filled urn into a surrounding pond, filled with the rapid darting of goldfish.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Rhiannon firmly, placing the mug in his hands.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.

  ‘It’s not your fault, cariad.’

  ‘That Huw tried to make you feel guilty?’

  ‘I’m sure that wasn’t his intention,’ she lied.

  David swore under his breath. ‘Of course it was.’

  Rhiannon sipped her drink without replying. She could feel fear clenched hard like a ball in her belly. There was no disguising the fact that, whatever he might have promised David, Huw had been determined to get in there first when it came to talking to Auntie Rhiannon.

  As far as Huw was concerned, she had no claim on Plas Eden at all. She had seen the way her younger nephew regarded her if she ever mentioned her exhaustion during those last months of Nainie’s life. What had she to complain of? All she had to do was sit with an old lady, cook her meals and make sure she was comfortable. It wasn’t, his look would say, as if she had to work.

  Was that his opinion of her for all the time she had been at Plas Eden? Rhiannon hoped he was fair enough to acknowledge that after the accident she had walked away from a good career in the civil service in London, as well as her friends and her life there. As an adult, would it have crossed his mind that there could have been other – even more precious – parts of her previous existence that she had left behind?

  But even Angela, who adored her husband unquestioningly, had been heard to complain that he’d never done much with their two sons when they were little and seemed to have some idea that she sat around and did nothing all day. No she had to face it. In Huw’s mind, she was a middle-aged woman who had lived rent-free in Plas Eden for the past quarter of a century, occupying her plentiful free time with her little painting hobby.

  ‘We’ll work something out,’ said David, abruptly. He gave a wry grunt. ‘Bloody skiing, eh? If it hadn’t been for me stupidly trying to keep up with the others, none of this would have happened. I knew I should never have taken that holiday. Or at least just sat on a beach for a week.’

  Rhiannon smiled. ‘You’d never have sat on a beach for a week, cariad. That’s just not your style. You’d have been on the phone to me every five minutes or so to check the guests in the west wing were behaving themselves, and I’d never have had any peace.’ She eyed him seriously. ‘Anyhow, it was time you took some time off to be with your friends. You haven’t had a holiday in years.’

  ‘Not a skiing one, obviously,’ he returned ruefully.

  ‘It didn’t have to be skiing. It could have been anything. You could just as easily have been involved in a car crash on the way to a business meeting in London. At least you are alive, and you’re going to be okay. That’s what matters.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘I couldn’t have done any of this, you know, unless you had been here to help me. And I don’t know what Nainie would have done without you all those years.’

  ‘You’d have hired a nurse,’ returned Rhiannon, stoutly.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been the same, and you know it.’ He gazed wistfully up at the long roof of Plas Eden, just visible above the courtyard. ‘Nainie would have hated the idea of Eden going outside the family. I can’t help feeling I’ve let her down.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Rhiannon was firm. ‘Nainie was proud of everything you achieved. She knew Plas Eden would never have survived unless you’d worked so hard to make it a success. She’d understand this is not your fault. It’s just one of those things.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, if it helps, I can always take over more of the running of the business…’

  ‘No!’ His scowl was fierce. ‘No. I can’t let you do that, whatever happens.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘But it’s not fair. Not again. That’s one thing I swore to myself when I was in that Swiss hospital: that I wasn’t going let you pick up the pieces again. You’ve got your own life to lead, Rhiannon. Eden has taken far too much of it already.’ He drained his coffee and began his slow, painful way back towards the sunroom. By the time he reached his chair, his face was white with pain and exhaustion. Rhiannon took his mug as he eased himself down, knowing his pride would not allow him to accept any further assistance.

  ‘It might only be for a while,’ she said gently.

  ‘That’s what we said when Nainie had her first stroke.’ He released his stick and leant back, eyes closed, his whole face tense and lined with the effort. ‘How old was I then? Twenty-three? I was only thinking of myself and Nainie and Plas Eden, not of you. You’d just started to get your work into exhibitions again. You could have had a career by now.’

  ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘Of course you would.’ David opened his eyes abruptly. ‘That guy in London, the tutor at those night classes you’d been taking…’

  ‘Jason Woodford,’ she supplied. Funny, she noted: at last she could say his name without the slightest twinge going through her. After all this time, it was as if she had finally let go and was free. A touch ironic, really, when you came to think about it.

  ‘That’s the one. He thought you were good enough to make a go of it, didn’t he? And he’s world famous.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Rhiannon turned her attention to pinching out a basil plant on the windowsill. Funny how your children – even when they were not strictly yours – never quite get their heads around the fact that you might once have had a sex life, and a pretty passionate, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other one at that. There had always been a part of her that had wondered if it hadn’t been the sex that had been the source of Jason’s enthusiasm for her work, rather than her painting skills. And, in any case, it all seemed a bit immaterial now.

  David, however, wasn’t about to let up. ‘You gave up one chance when Huw and I were kids, and you gave up another when Nainie became ill. I’m not going to let you give up another one now. You need to do your painting, Rhiannon. I know how much it means to you. Didn’t you say once you only felt half-alive without it?’

  ‘I never said that to you.’

  ‘No.’ He shut his eyes once more, the frown between his brows increasing. ‘I overheard you saying it to someone on the phone, once. I knew it was true exactly because you’d never mentioned it once to any of us. I don’t want you to live your life only half-alive. That’s not fair of anyone to ask.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘The time’s drawing on,’ said Rhiannon at last. ‘I’d better take Hodge for his walk.’

  David nodded in silence. Quietly, she fetched a fresh glass of water, which she placed within his reach, hoping he’d give in and take the painkillers next to him on the table. David might not be over-fond of the medicines being pumped into his system, and could prove as stubborn as they come, but there were occasions to just give your body a rest and allow the healing to get on with it. She hoped in her absence he’d see sense and admit that this was one of those times.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, as she changed into her walking boots, ‘you’re not to worry, Rhiannon. You’ll always have a home. Huw and I will make sure of that.’

 
‘Yes, I know, cariad,’ she replied. ‘We don’t need to think about anything like that for now. You need to get yourself well first.’

  She picked up her fleece from its hook next to the door and shrugged it on. ‘Find your lead, Hodge.’ Hodge’s ears, inherited from some collie ancestor and therefore inclined to flop at the tips in repose, stood to attention. He turned his head on one side, eyes bright with all the appearance of the highest intelligence. Rhiannon – who’d learnt long ago that the collie ancestor had been diluted over the dubious generations in between, particularly in the brains department – simplified matters. ‘Lead!’

  Hodge shot off into the house, returning a few minutes later in triumph, one end of webbing trailing from his mouth, the metal clip bouncing along on the slate tiles behind him in a trail of sparks. The lead was promptly flung at her feet, followed by Hodge vanishing through the door at the far end of the courtyard, to vent mounting hysteria at the magpies lurking with intent on the nearest cherry tree.

  ‘Dinner’s in the Rayburn, so don’t you dare try to do anything,’ called Rhiannon over her shoulder. There was no reply. David, she could see, was completely worn out and had already sunk into an uneasy doze.

  The air was cool as Rhiannon reached the ridge of high ground behind Plas Eden. In the distance, lay Talarn, gleaming orange and gold in the evening light, its castle a dark shadow against the sea. Windows of the tall B&Bs along the front sprayed out gleams of brilliance in the sinking rays of the sun. She could just make out the dots of families still on the beach, with a few that might be swimmers braving the water as evening swept away the last vestiges of warmth.

  ‘Come on Hodge,’ she called to the rustling amongst the bracken, where a dark shape shot, nose to the ground, deep on the trail of rabbits.

  Having reached the highest point, Rhiannon sat down on the single wooden bench placed facing the sea. The bench was new, scarcely weathered as yet, with its feet planted firmly in concrete. The metal plaque, still bright and shiny, bore the inscription ‘In memory of Hermione Anne Meredith, who loved this place’. Rhiannon leant back, feeling the comforting firmness of the wood against her.

  She should have known that day, she thought to herself, that this would signal the end of things. It had been a bright February morning, with frosts still lurking in the shadows, when Huw and David had trudged up the hill with the bench between them, Rhiannon following behind pushing the wheelbarrow containing spades and bags of quick-setting cement. It had been an unexpectedly cheerful occasion, with even Huw losing his dignity in the effort to dig holes in the rocky ground, followed by the tussle getting the spirit level to keep its little bubble between the lines in all directions.

  That had been their own goodbye to Nainie, even more so than the ceremony later in the afternoon, when the few tattered remains of the Meredith clan had gathered up here for the scattering of the ashes, just as Hermione Anne had decreed.

  They had seemed so much a proper family, drawn together by grief; there had been no thought of how much Nainie’s death would change them. David had taken over the mantle of Plas Eden in all but name for so long, the question of his not carrying on now had never even arisen. David was the eldest, the one who would take over the responsibility at some point. That was the way it would always be.

  Rhiannon shivered, pulling her fleece closer around her. Below, the Eden estate stretched out before her in all its rambling vastness. Plas Eden itself, long and pale between the trees. In front of the house, the lake, with the low cottage of Eden Farm on the furthest bank, surrounded by fields and gardens and the plastic-covered arches of polytunnels. And on the nearest side of the water, the little forest of oak and birch, opening into the neat circle of the glade where the statues lay.

  Outside the walls the single road led over an arched stone bridge – reputed to have been there since medieval times – to the little village of Pont-ar-Eden, its slate-roofed cottages clustered around the central square.

  ‘Oh, Nainie,’ said Rhiannon aloud. Hodge, who had settled in his favourite position leaning against the warmth of her knee, looked up, eyes large and soft. She massaged his ears, absently. Losing all this would break David’s heart, she knew it. Allowing it to happen felt like letting down Marianne, who had loved her sons with every fibre of her being and would have fought tooth and nail for their happiness. And Paul, too, who had welcomed her with gentleness and warmth from the moment Marianne had proudly brought her fiancé for family inspection, and who had spent his days battling to keep the family home intact, just like every Meredith before him.

  David might not want her to help directly, but if only there was something she could do. Something she could find that would help; some unique feature that might put Eden on the tourist map and bring in enough income for David to pay for all the help he could need.

  Her eyes rested once more on the dark hollow amongst the trees. The statues. Eden’s ghosts. Impossible – as she knew all too well – to capture by pen or camera. Beautiful and mysterious in their half-forgotten melancholy.

  The statues had always been a part of Plas Eden. Always had been, for as long as anyone could remember. She had been curious about them over the years, but Nainie had never responded to her tentative questions. She could have pressed her, but there had always been so much to do, so many things to deal with. And the statues – being the least troublesome of her responsibilities – had been the least of her worries. But supposing, just supposing, Eden’s ghosts held a history that might be the saving of Plas Eden?

  ‘Maybe I’m a fool,’ she said to Hodge, who was scenting the air as the breeze began to stir. He laid his muzzle in her lap in a sympathetic manner. ‘But it might be worth at least trying.’

  She could suggest the statues as a subject to Professor Gwynfor Humphries from the university, and that local history group he was supposed to be starting up in Pont-ar-Eden. He’d written in the local paper only a few weeks ago, extolling the importance of local heritage, and how communities could use it to bring in the tourists, even in these straightened times. She smiled down at Hodge, who was by now gazing at her in a particularly soulful manner.

  After all, what harm could it possibly do?

  I did not go into the little garden again.

  I had learnt my lesson. From then on, I determinedly ate every scrap of food put in front of me. Not that you’d notice. A glance in the tarnished piece of mirror next to Lily’s bed showed my cheeks no less pale, or hollow. But at least it kept me strong.

  After a month or so at the Meredith Charity Hospital, my legs no longer ached, and I could run up the largest flights of stairs with the best of them, however heavy a burden I might be carrying. And, strange as it might sound, I came almost to enjoy the routine of hard physical work. I could feel myself growing stronger and fitter than I had ever been. I took in deeper breaths – although perhaps not the best of places, with the fumes from the sick rooms and when the winter fog came rolling through the streets, extinguishing everything in its path. But illness no longer seemed to touch me. By day, I scarcely thought at all. At night, I fell instantly into a deep sleep.

  But, of course, this oasis of peace could not last long, however much I could have wished it.

  It started off innocently enough, just a few days before Christmas Eve. For the first time, I held coins in my hand that had not been given an absolute destiny many weeks before in the direction of soap and underclothes. Not many coins, but enough.

  I sat in my little room and eyed them with unexpected glee. This little store of money I had earned with my own hands. I had no one to answer to. I could do with it as I pleased. My instinct was to be careful and to save it. Make a little stash safely hidden away so that I would have a little insurance against wandering the streets all night again. But the other part of me threw caution to the winds.

  Poor as I now was, for the first time in my life I could choose. Suddenly, I was impatient for my afternoon off. Before then, I had felt those few hours of freedom each wee
k as a burden. If I could have simply slept the time away, I would have done. But to have stayed in the safety of the little room under the eaves would have caused notice.

  So I had done as expected, taking my way through the iron gates, and through the winding little streets to the river. Walking rapidly, with the air of one on an errand of some urgency, just as I had done in the darkness of that first night, I passed by unnoticed, unmolested, and with scarcely a word exchanged with my fellow human beings until the time came for my return.

  Now, however, I had a sense of purpose, and I could scarcely hide my excitement. When the day came, I washed and brushed and mopped at full speed, determined nothing would delay me for even a few minutes. In my mind, I had been through every street, every shop and market place, cursing myself for taking no more notice of such places than as markers for my return to the hospital. And the moment the hour came, I shot out of there, as fast as I could.

  It took me some time to find, but by the time I returned to my room that night I had a small precious store of paper and pencils. Colours had been beyond my means, but at least I knew where I could find them.

  After all my impatience, I did not know where to begin. I tried a few strokes of the pencil that night, before I heard Lily’s voice on the creaking little staircase that made the final journey to the room we shared. It had been a frustrating hour. Something that had once come to me with such ease felt utterly beyond my grasp.

  Over the next few days I tried and tried again. Still the pencil would not obey me, and now, for the first time, the

  strict regime of my working day began to irk. I had no time, and no private space to get back into the old rhythm again. My Uncle Jolyon used to say that women were unsuited to the artistic life. How could they possibly believe themselves equal to the likes of Lord Leighton or Sir Edwin Landseer? Or even Mr Turner in his early works, before the man clearly lost his mind and took to mere washes of colour.