Eden's Garden

by Juliet Greenwood

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  Carys shook her head. ‘No it isn’t. Not at all. Poor woman: no wonder she lost her mind.’

  I found him in the dawn, where the tide had brought him.

  There was a cruel illusion of life from the water lapping at his coat sleeves, and the wind stirring the fairness of his hair. But even as I ran towards that tiny, lonely figure stranded in the vastness of the beach, I knew he was gone. He had always been a timid child, afraid most of all of water. Even I knew he would not have lain so long, rocked by the incoming waves, had there been any life left in him to drag himself out of their reach.

  The sea clung to my skirts as I knelt down beside him, pulling me down. The chill of that November morning had taken everything but the very last warmth in his small body as I lifted him into my arms, and rocked him, as I had never done in all those few short years of my son’s life.

  I never knew love, you see, until I lost it forever. What did I know of children? He was brought to me each evening as I dressed for dinner: clean and polite, blinking at me shyly and only too eager to return to the familiarity of his nursemaid. His chatter amused me for a while, until it delayed my preparations, with his fat little fingers so eager to clutch at the jewels in my ears and disturb the careful preparation of my hair.

  I was happy enough to leave him to the nurse. And, as he grew older, to his father, who showed off his heir with pride, but grew impatient to take his son with him in his favourite pursuits of hunting and sailing his boat, the ‘Princess Beatrice’, around the headland, mastering the fiercest of tides.

  My husband, I had soon come to understand, was a man who had always had his own way and never allowed that things might be otherwise. His ambitions were of the noblest. To have the finest Hall in all of Cornwall, a wife all those in his circle would envy, and a strong, strapping son to follow in his footsteps.

  I gave him everything but the last. I knew that, as I cradled Charlie in my arms for that first and last time. It was as if the surf of last night’s storm had crashed in on the barriers of my self-absorption. Those long hours of lamps bobbing amongst the cliffs in the darkness and the voices calling had broken me apart.

  I had been asleep all my life. As the pale light eased across the sea, I felt I had lived my whole life in a dream. A dream in which the world had been made for me, and had been waiting, breathless for me to grow into womanhood. That once there, it would remain unchanging. Where I was a chosen one, who would never alter now I had reached perfection. I had despised Aunt Beatrice for the lines beneath her eyes, the slight sagging of her jaw, and looseness of skin where her ivory arms and shoulders should have been. That would never happen to me. I would not allow it. This was my time.

  As the waves surged around me, I understood what an utter fool I had been. I was no chosen one. No princess. No queen. And certainly no angel soaring down from Heaven. I was just another woman, who would grow old and whose life would pass, unnoticed in the endless stream of existence. And, in my blindness, I had allowed the one thing that was truly precious in my life to perish in fear and loneliness. I had not lifted one idle finger, or disturbed my comfort one iota, to attempt to plead for him.

  I held my son tight. I knew I could never let him go. Not again. Not forever. I thought of every mother who had lost a child, and I could feel their grief searing through me, along with mine.

  The tide had turned. Out in the calm of the bay I could see the tide race, just beyond the rocks, that would sweep anything that entered it out into the wide-open sea. I rose, slowly, and taking my burden with me I made my way through the waves towards that welcome oblivion.

  I was already waist high, with the surf catching at my breasts, when I heard my name. I pushed it away, but it came again, followed by a rush of water, and the warmth of a hand reaching my cold arm, staying me.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please, Ann. Don’t.’

  I tried to pull myself free, but her grasp was firm. She had always been a stubborn child. William could not control her, and she had certainly never once given the appearance of listening to me.

  ‘Go back,’ I commanded, turning towards her.

  I saw Judith shake her head, with that set to her lips I knew so well. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not without you.’

  She was lighter-built than I was, still little more than a child. I could see her already shivering in the icy chill, the waves pulling at her, ready to sweep her off her feet.

  ‘Go back,’ I repeated.

  She shook her head once more. And this time I saw the fear in her eyes. ‘Don’t leave me,’ I heard her say, as I turned my face once more towards the open sea, as the surge caught us and began to pull us out towards the tidal race. ‘Please, Ann. I couldn’t bear it. Please don’t leave me.’

  The next wave broke into a wall of surf, and came rushing down toward us.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘She’s preparing flowers for a wedding, today,’ said Carys, placing her mobile back in her pocket. ‘But she says she’d really like to learn more about her family, and she can meet us tomorrow. Any time after 10.30.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s as well,’ replied David watching her closely. That sad little story in the newspaper article seemed to have got to Carys for some reason. She’d appeared distracted ever since they had obtained their print-out of the page and escaped back out into the warmth of the afternoon, and in the sunshine he could see the pallor of her skin and the lines of strain beneath her eyes.

  It wasn’t just the Trevericks, which was, after all, a story about people who had lived over a hundred years ago, however tragic. And they were not even family. Well, at least not for Carys and most probably not for the Merediths, either, by the looks of things, postcard or no postcard.

  That return to Chester had nothing to do with work: he’d put money on it. If the accountancy firm was giving her a hard time she’d tell them to stuff it and find something else. He’d put even more money on Carys being the kind of employee no firm in their right mind would want to lose to a rival. No, it had to be something else. He’d a pretty good idea what the something else was.

  He’d taken an instant dislike to that boyfriend of hers. Not that he’d spoken to him. One glimpse across Pont-ar-Eden High Street had been quite enough. Then there had been the lack of texts arriving on Carys’ mobile, apart from a couple from Gwenan to say their mother was fine. Unless, of course, there was a flurry of messages at midnight. Only Carys didn’t seem to be expecting them. There had been no looking at watches, no hasty excuses. David had brought his iPad, just in case they needed it, but Carys hadn’t once asked to use it to check emails and they hadn’t been anywhere near an internet café.

  David frowned to himself. It was, of course, none of his business. Besides, Carys didn’t do sobbing or fainting. She’d always dealt with things quietly, in her own way. Only those who knew her really well understood how deep her feelings went.

  He hated seeing her like this. If only there was something he could do. He was hardly in a position to ask her to bare her soul, he admitted gloomily. Knowing Carys, he’d probably get his head bitten off and, given their past, he could hardly blame her. He could try distraction, though. It might not solve her problems, but when his leg was at its worst the few pain-free hours after he’d taken his medication at least made him feel human again and ready to face the next onslaught.

  ‘Come on,’ he said firmly. ‘We’re in Cornwall. It’s a gorgeous day. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of all this for one day. St. Michael’s Mount is only twenty minutes away. How about we forget the detective work and become proper tourists for the rest of the day?’

  To his relief, Carys smiled. Her eyes brightened and her shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Sounds perfect to me.’

  They climbed the narrow steps of St Michael’s Mount and made their way back across the causeway to the mainland before the tide raced back across the sands.

  With the SatNav safely removed from duty, they
explored the winding roads along the south Cornish coastline. Afternoon tea in the quaint surroundings of Porthleven was followed by walking along small sections of the coastal path above rocky cliffs, and sitting on wide sandy beaches watching the surfers parade tanned and honed bodies before donning designer wetsuits and driving the bleach-haired lifeguard (who was definitely more Australian than Cornish) to distraction by straying too near the rocks.

  An afternoon of sunshine and sea air, complete with the deliciously decadent cream tea (photographed on David’s iPhone and sent winging to Rhiannon with a promise of a pot of real clotted cream, if it survived the journey), left them sleepy and relaxed.

  ‘That sun’s getting awfully low, I suppose we ought to start making our way back,’ said David, regretfully, as he took over the wheel after their last stop.

  ‘I suppose,’ agreed Carys. They looked at each other. ‘We’re very near the Lizard,’ she added, consulting the old-fashioned paper variety of map.

  ‘It’s too far.’ He met her eyes. ‘We’d have no chance to look around if we’re to get back to Treverick tonight.’

  ‘I know.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, I know we’re already paying for the Treverick Arms, and it seems silly…’

  ‘But we’ve driven hundreds of miles to get here, and it’s not like we can pop down every weekend,’ he finished for her. ‘And we’d only have to come back again this way tomorrow.’ They grinned at each other like schoolchildren playing truant. ‘I think I’ve had enough of anything to do with Treverick and Treverick Hall for one day.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Carys, feelingly. ‘I don’t even want to talk about them. If we can find rooms, that is,’ she added, quickly, emphasising the plural, just so that there was no misunderstanding over this.

  ‘Of course.’ David concentrated on the road. ‘Let’s see if we can find a place to stay, and then we can phone the McIntyres and let them know we haven’t just driven over a cliff.’

  Carys sighed wistfully. ‘I’m going to have to come here again. There’s so much of Cornwall I want to see, and not just the Eden Project and the Lost Gardens of Heligan.’

  ‘I hope you’re not proposing those tonight? They’re miles away.’

  ‘Definitely not,’ she replied with a smile. ‘We can do those tomorrow, on the way back.’

  In the spirit of making the most of this afternoon of truancy, they followed the signs to the Lizard Point. After meandering their way through the huge, eerily futuristic, skyward-watching dishes of Goonhilly Downs they arrived at the wild beauty of the Lizard coastline, warmed to a soft orange glow in the evening sunshine.

  In the end they managed to book the last two rooms in the Paris Hotel, in the tiny harbour village of Coverack, a short distance away from the main tourist spot of the Lizard. After a day filled with visitors and sightseers making the most of the sunshine, Coverack felt like a quiet hideaway. They wandered up the steep little road past thatched, whitewashed cottages to the stretch of land above, with its view of the undulating coastline. As the sun began to sink, they made their way down again to sit in the last of the evening light on the harbour wall, drinking the wine that had somehow found itself amongst their essential supplies along with a couple of plastic tumblers.

  After the rush of the day they were both happy to sit in companionable silence, watching the surfers ride the waves inside the small rocky bay until little more than the white of the surf could be seen.

  ‘They must be mad,’ said Carys drowsily, as the encroaching darkness finally forced the wetsuited figures to tuck their surfboards under their arms, heading presumably for the nearest shower and bar.

  ‘Mmm.’ David was lost in thought. ‘I can see why you were thinking of moving down here,’ he added after a few minutes.

  Carys sighed. ‘Like plenty of other people trying to escape the rat race. I can see why the price of land here is astronomical.’

  ‘There’s always a way.’

  ‘Possibly.’ She sounded unconvinced.

  David’s heart did a couple of handsprings while he wasn’t looking. ‘So it might have to be Pont-ar-Eden, after all?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her face was a shadow in the dark. ‘It would make sense. Plus I don’t have any connections down here. At least not now.’

  ‘I see.’ That was definite sadness in her voice. A definite saying goodbye to something. Or someone. David found the handsprings in action once more. Perhaps if he approached the question very gently, very tactfully, this might be where Carys would open up a bit. His mind searched for the best place to start.

  But already it was too late. As if reading his intentions and determined to head them off, Carys was already speaking. ‘And what about you? Have you decided where you’ll go? If you do sell Plas Eden, that is.’

  Damn. He’d forgotten that part. Why did life have to be so complicated? ‘I don’t know. To be honest, I havn’t really thought that far ahead.’

  ‘I suppose you could go anywhere.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no disguising his lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘If you really don’t want to move from Eden, there’s always a way,’ said Carys.

  Ouch. He deserved that. ‘Touché.’

  ‘No. I mean it. Seriously. The whole adventure holiday thing might not be practical any more, but hasn’t it struck you how many different ways people are tapping into the tourist trade down here in Cornwall? Successfully, too, by the looks of things.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He had noticed, but without thinking of relating it to Eden. Funny how you can get stuck in a rut after so many years. Lit by her energy, a flicker of excitement began, deep inside. One he couldn’t quite trust yet. ‘There are a lot more tourists here, though.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they won’t go to Snowdonia as well. Especially if you give them something worth visiting. Look at all the people who go up Snowdon and visit Portmeirion! Then there’s all the cycling that’s taken off in Coed y Brenin over the last few years, that’s bringing in families, too. I think we should at least have a look at the Lost Gardens of Heligan and the Eden Project on the way back to Treverick and see what they do to bring the visitors in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Plus anything else we come across.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ This was a project. Something he could get his teeth into. For the first time since his accident, David could feel his passionate do-or-die commitment to Plas Eden returning. Maybe, after all, there might be a way to silence Huw and create a new future for Eden.

  He smiled into the dark. Carys always used to have this effect on him. How could he ever have forgotten her energy and that creative, quick-fire brain of hers? As kids, he’d been the one blundering on ahead, but he’d learnt to ignore Carys’ acerbic comments at his peril. And when they’d come across a particularly knotty problem she’d been the one, often as not, to come up with the solution and spur him on. How could he have forgotten?

  The truth was, he hadn’t. Not ever. The realisation was like a pressure growing inside him until he could scarcely breathe. Carys had turned her head away to watch the lights along the sea front, apparently lost in thought. Her profile was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. He leant a little closer. He could smell the salt in her hair, with vanilla undercurrents of the lip balm that was so very Carys. The urge to kiss her was becoming irresistible. He caught the glint of the streetlight in her eye just in time. Carys, he saw, was crying quietly and pretending not to.

  A feeling of helplessness swept over him. He ought to be able to do something. But that was the thing with grief: there was nothing anyone could do, just be there.

  ‘I’ll get rid of this,’ he muttered, limping off towards the nearest recycling bins with the wine bottle and tumblers to give her time to blow her nose and get herself together.

  By the time he limped back, Carys was tucking a tissue into her pocket, with her bag slung over one shoulder and ready to go.

  He tucked her arm firmly through his, in companionable fashion, as the
y turned back towards the hotel. ‘Quite a day, eh?’ he remarked, keeping his tone deliberately light.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Carys. ‘Yes it was.’ He had noticed, she realised, but he was tactfully leaving her in peace. He wasn’t expecting conversation or demanding anything of her. The strength of his arm holding hers and the warmth of his body stealing through her jumper was surprisingly comforting.

  ‘Makes you wonder what tomorrow might bring,’ David said, as they made their way past the surfers – still beautiful, even in the dark – downing pints on the sea wall, talking surf, the wave that got away, the relative merits of the south and north Cornish Coasts, and was Watergate Bay, like, the Most Awesome Place Out There?

  ‘Mmm,’ replied Carys, too drained and exhausted even to think, as they finally reached the hotel.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Karenza’s Field of Flowers’ said the sign, as Carys pulled up the next morning outside a low, whitewashed building set amongst the rolling green countryside just inland from Mevagissey.

  She had woken up with a thumping headache and puffy eyes, but a couple of painkillers and breakfast with strong coffee had soon chased them away. Now she felt calm and energised, as if last night’s tears had washed away the raw edge of her hurt, enabling her to begin moving forward at last.

  ‘Rhiannon would love this,’ David remarked, looking round at the brightly coloured hanging baskets overflowing with the hot reds and pinks of geranium and busy Lizzies, intermingled with the bright blues of lobelia. Reaching up towards the hanging baskets, late delphiniums stood amongst a riot of orange and yellow nasturtiums, with the green heads of sedum just turning to their autumn russet.

  ‘Rhiannon’s idea of heaven,’ Carys agreed, with a smile. Through an archway of jasmine and honeysuckle, she glimpsed row upon row of late summer flowers, bordered by greenhouses at the far end.