Eden's Garden (13 page)

If she was ever to demonstrate to Joe that she meant what she said, she had to carry through with this to the end. If she caved in now and went back to Chester, she would be giving him permission to assume that, when it came to the crunch, he could always alternate charm and the silent treatment until he got his own way. Carys hastily shut her mind to the possibilities of where that thought was taking her. One thing at a time. And she’d enough to deal with, right now.

‘Just going now, Mam,’ she said.

They’d cope, she swore to herself. Between them, she and Mam, whatever happened, they’d cope.

 For Carys, the next few weeks passed in a daze. There always seemed so much to do, interspersed with the visits of the nurse to keep an eye on Mam’s progress.

They were all simple, mundane things she felt she should be able to do in her sleep, but which somehow seemed to take on vast dimensions when combined with constantly keeping her emotional antennae tuned towards Mam’s needs.

At least Joe had stopped giving her the cold shoulder. They had only spoken briefly on the phone, but texts and emails began to arrive after the third day of silence. Joe was cheerful and affectionate as if nothing had happened. There was no mention of ice safaris or the Northern Lights. After the second day without any contact, Carys wondered if he might go without her, possibly dragging along a few of his mates into the bargain, to bombard her with photos and links to YouTube demonstrating just how much fun they were having. Thankfully, he appeared to have forgotten the idea and was busy at work instead.

She was relieved that he was talking to her, but she couldn’t quite help the sliver of unease that remained. Joe might insist on behaving as if this was simply an extended weekend and she’d be back at the flat before long, but they couldn’t go on like this forever. There was a discussion looming, one they couldn’t put off.

For now, Carys did her best to push such thoughts from her mind. She’d quite enough to keep her on her toes without trying to work out how to tackle Joe. Mam had been a proudly independent woman, coping with whatever was thrown at her ever since Dad died, and hated asking for anything. Carys soon gave up asking, given how much it embarrassed them both, and found herself trying to gauge from the smallest of clues if Mam was too hot or too cold, or if the cushion at her back had slipped.

She soon learnt to recognise the slight frown of anxiety that meant Mam had forgotten yet again how to work the DVD remote and was worried that the next bit of the film might turn nasty with no way of sending it back into oblivion.

Then there were Mam’s struggles to regain her independence. Even when she was watching TV or snoozing (or, more usually, both at the same time) Carys found she could never quite relax.

Her ears were always listening for the creakings and the whirr of the chair that signalled Mam getting herself upright and setting off to trudge round her room, practising her walking. Or (more alarmingly, from Carys’ point of view) setting off towards the toilet with its step and endless possibilities for tripping over. She had even caught Mam balancing cups and plates precariously in her free hand as she hobbled towards the kitchen to ‘do the washing up’.

Of course she wanted Mam to get better and be able to do things for herself again. What terrified her was the thought of Mam falling and injuring her newly replaced hip, or, even worse, breaking a wrist or an ankle. At times, it felt like being in charge of an overgrown toddler. Except this toddler was the parent of the household who most definitely saw Carys as the child and was fond of telling her where to put the dishes when they were wiped and which bits of washing went with what and at which temperature, if you didn’t want them all to come out a uniform shade of grey.

‘You’d think I’d never had a house of my own,’ Carys muttered to herself, trying her very best not to explode with irritation as Mam supervised the changing of the bed.

‘If you make a fold at each corner, it’ll be much neater,’ said Mam, frowning at Carys’ efforts to smooth down the sheet.

‘It’s a fitted sheet, Mam. It’s got elastic at the corners, see? Saves you doing all that.’

‘That’s not mine.’

‘No, Mam. It’s new. And so’s the duvet cover. Isn’t it pretty? Gwenan bought them for you. She knows you love roses.’

‘What a waste of money! Those old sheets were perfectly good. I hope she hasn’t thrown them away.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ replied Carys, who knew perfectly well that Gwenan had stuffed the offending articles in black plastic bags months ago. She could hear the process taking place when Gwenan had phoned her, outraged at the lack of decorum in Mam’s bedding.

‘And half of them are so thin, you can see your hand through them,’ she had exclaimed.

Carys realised that such things didn’t matter to Mam any more. The main thing was the familiar. Mam, as she got older, was like a cat, bonded to territory even more than to her loved ones. Her old things, the ones she had seen and felt about her since before Dad died, were her territory, marking her safe boundaries on this earth. She didn’t want the new. It confused and alarmed her and spoke to her of a brave new word that felt alien, one that was increasingly moving away and beyond her, towards a future in which she had no part.

Above all, Carys had discovered, there was Mam’s routine. Toast and cereal at eight in the morning, tea and biscuits at ten, soup and sandwiches at midday, a snooze until
The Archers
, just after two, followed by a cup of tea at four and a cooked meal at six. All rounded off by a glass of sweet sherry and a piece of cake just before bed.

Mam had always baked delicious cakes: lemon sponge, sharp as could be, dusted with icing sugar, and a dark, rich chocolate cake with a hint of cherry liqueur. Carys, who’d always had a passionate relationship with her microwave, hadn’t the first idea how to go about making a scone, let alone a full-blown cake. Feeling a little furtive, she ordered them with the groceries from Sara Jones instead. Along, it had to be said, with half the village. Nobody could make a cake quite like Sara Jones. Whatever Nesta Pugh and her WI coffee mornings regulars might think.

Carys understood the routine kept Mam feeling safe and knowing where she was in the day. But for her it was like an iron prison, keeping her constantly watching the clock and unable to get a good run at anything she tried to do. So much for any starting up as a gardener idea. She was finding it hard enough to keep up with the accounts Tylers were sending her over the internet between all the cooking, cleaning, washing and finding a plumber who would actually answer her calls to fix the leak that had developed under the bathroom sink. Not to mention shooting out to drop the grocery shopping list in with Sara Jones and pick up a few necessaries from Low-Price and the butchers while she waited for Mam’s prescription to be made up in the chemist. Everything was undertaken at top speed, before Mam’s next cup of tea was due, or in the two precious afternoons she was whisked off to her physiotherapy session or Pont-ar-Eden’s little social club.

Full, as Mam grumbled each time, of
old
people. ‘All they do is play bingo,’ she muttered, for at least the third time that week.

‘And scrabble, you said, Mam.’

‘I hate scrabble.’

‘You used to like it when we were kids.’

‘Did I?’ Mair frowned dismissively. ‘That was different.’

Okay.

Carys counted to ten, and refrained from banging her head against the wall. Her own, that is.

Mam, who had always filled her days with activity, had a low boredom threshold. What she needed was something to engage her brain. Bingo and scrabble clearly weren’t doing it. Projects. That’s how Mam occupied herself when she was well. Pruning the roses, washing the windows. Helping with the church fete and meals on wheels. Those were the kinds of things she always talked about. What Mam needed was a project.

‘What about history?’ suggested Carys, over tea that evening. There had been no word from Joe all day and she was beginning to feel a little jumpy. He always kept his phone on at work, and they hadn’t argued, so there was no reason for him to be giving her the cold shoulder again. She’d even swallowed her pride after her second text hadn’t been answered and resorted to ringing him, just to check he was okay. But Joe, it seemed, had vanished into the ether. Which was very unlike Joe.

‘History?’ Mam’s tone was not encouraging. But there was possibly just the slightest glint in her eye.

‘Didn’t you say you’d been meaning to join Professor Humphries’ group at the Boadicea?’

‘I can’t possibly go there.’ Mam was looking alarmed.

‘No, of course not. Not yet. But we could make a start here. I’ve got my laptop, and didn’t you say there were loads of old photos in the attic?’

‘Well, yes. But nobody’s going to be interested in that old stuff.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re always starting with old photos on
Who Do You Think You Are?
We could at least go through them. And then we could put anything that looks as if it might be interesting together, and take it along for Professor Humphries to look at, when you’re feeling better.’

‘Well…’ said Mam. The thought of venturing somewhere new was clearly giving her the heebie-jeebies.

‘There might be photos of Plas Eden,’ persisted Carys, doggedly. ‘Didn’t you say Granddad used to take photos when he was head gardener there? Maybe they show how the gardens used to look. You’ve always loved gardens. Those would be interesting.’

‘Well, yes…’ Mam allowed. Her face relaxed. ‘Your Granddad was so proud of that garden. Blodeuwedd’s Garden. That’s what they called it, you know. Except we used to call it the Whispering Garden. When we were kids, that is.’

‘Oh?’ prompted Carys. Mam’s eyes had brightened. Her face had lost its little-old-lady look and seemed a little more like Mam.

‘Mmm.’ There was a definite gleam to Mam’s eyes this time. ‘Whenever the wind blew through the leaves, it was like voices, whispering. Whispering secrets you could never quite hear.’

‘That sounds a bit spooky,’ said Carys, to humour her. Trying not to notice the slight shiver down her spine. She’d never been good with ghost stories.

‘Oh, you know what imagination kids have.’ Mam’s eyes were far away, lost in memory. ‘I suppose it
was
a bit spooky. But I don’t remember ever feeling afraid. Sometimes, you know, it used to feel as if somebody was there. Watching over us. And the statues. Keeping us safe.’

‘A guardian ghost,’ said Carys, smiling for her mother’s benefit.

‘Beautiful, it was,’ her mother murmured. She appeared to be drifting off once more. Suddenly, her eyes shot open. ‘It was always such a pity, so it was. You and David Meredith. Such a pity.’

Carys blinked. All these years, and not a word on the subject. Mam had seemed so relieved when she and Dad had waved Carys off at the train station, on her way to take up her place at Manchester University, without a trace of David Meredith in sight. Surely she wasn’t about to change her mind now?

It was bad enough, thought Carys, having the prospect of bumping into David in the village every time she ran an errand, without Mam singing his praises. Did Mam – who had never been exactly subtle when it came to matchmaking – really think so little of Joe?

‘And him such a nice boy, too,’ said Mam, as she drifted off into a doze.

 

Later that evening, Carys left Mam happily installed in front of her favourite film and made her way into the kitchen, retrieving her mobile on the way.

There was still no text or ‘missed call’ message on the little screen. Carys put the kettle on and reached for the teabags with a feeling of emptiness opening up inside her. It was these moments, the few moments of stillness in her day when Mam was dozing or watching TV, that she missed Joe.

It was strange: from the beginning of their relationship, they had agreed they would each keep their separate interests and social life and not always do things as a couple. In Chester, she had spent several evenings a week – sometimes whole weekends – alone in the flat without ever once feeling lonely. Time on her own to slob around, not do the washing up and watch every girly programme she could think of, had seemed a luxury. But that was knowing that soon Joe would be appearing through the door, and their life would pick up its threads once more.

She tried ringing him again. But the phone in the flat was on answer phone, and Joe’s mobile was still switched off. England must be playing, she told herself. Or maybe in his current bachelor state he was fitting in a few more games of pool. He felt far away. Almost as if he didn’t exist any more. She ached with missing him: his voice, the clean-shirt smell of him, and the smile that lit up his face when she came through the door.