Eden's Garden (21 page)

‘Hrmph,’ he grunted, sounding like Huw. He gave Hodge an encouraging pat on his haunches and strode off towards the wooden door. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the house.’

Carys turned and looked back over the neglected wilderness of garden. She was glad she had made this visit. If nothing else, just seeing the places Dad and her grandfather had loved and worked in had told her that it had been real, that sudden passionate enthusiasm of hers for growing. That dream of a smallholding, at least, had not come out of nowhere, or been an excuse for going back to college, reliving her twenties and avoiding adult responsibilities. At least that had always been real.

She wasn’t sure if something like gardening could exactly pass down the genes, but the enthusiasm had been there, all around her, all her life. Dad might have stuck to his lines of regimented beans at the bottom of the garden at Willow Cottage, while Mam indulged her passion for roses and a cottage garden flow of colour around the borders, but it was the love of watching things grow that had brought Dad and Mam together in the first place, and, she suspected, kept their marriage solid, despite the differences in their ages.

Stuff Joe. If she was offered that management job at Tylers she would rent the cheapest place she could find and save like crazy until she could afford her own plot of land. She wouldn’t mind living in a caravan or a yurt until she had saved up for a house. Or even the prefabricated eco-build she had wanted all along, which Joe had scoffed as being hopelessly new-age hippy with off-grid power and compost toilets.

Well now she could have all the compost toilets she liked, thought Cary defiantly. And nobody could stop her.

 Inside, Eden Cottage was quaint and old-fashioned with low beams and sash windows set deep within its thick, whitewashed walls. It was probably, Carys thought, still very much as it had been when her grandparents lived here.

As David and Hodge had disappeared to inspect guttering and check the outbuildings for signs of raves, dope-smoking dens and any other illicit goings-on, Carys was free to roam as she wished. She made her way through the house, Angela’s camera clicking away.

A neat little bathroom had been fitted into one of the rooms on the first floor, the roofs of the two remaining bedrooms sloping under the eaves. Downstairs, there was a large kitchen with a long, solid wooden table that looked as if it hadn’t moved in a hundred years or more.

The kitchen had been the centre of Eden Farm, Dad always said. Carys didn’t really remember her grandmother, and the only photographs were of a very old lady, small and wrinkled, but bright-eyed and beaming with pride as she held Nia in the family christening gown, with Gwenan and Carys on either side.

But Dad, especially as he grew older, had talked of a younger, vibrant woman. One whose kitchen always smelt of baking bread, and who kept a kettle permanently on the go on the range for the stream of visitors who filled the kitchen with conversation and laughter. Each Christmas, Dad said, the cottage had been stuffed to bursting with children as well as adults; even that time there was snow up to the lintel of the door and it was so cold half the village went skating on Eden lake.

The range had gone, replaced by a cream-coloured Aga, but the kitchen still had the feel of a place just waiting to be filled once more. David was right, thought Carys: this was a Rhiannon kind of place. All ready and waiting for life to come bursting through the doors.

From the kitchen, she made her way into a living room, with a huge inglenook fireplace set off to one side. This in turn opened out into a sunroom, not unlike the one at Plas Eden, although on a much smaller scale.

A key hung on a little hook to one side of the French windows. It turned easily in the lock, allowing her to step onto a small patio area overlooking the lake. In the distance, across the water, she could just catch a glimpse of Plas Eden.

Carys sighed wistfully. Over the hedge surrounding the cottage, she could make out the roof of the nearest polytunnel and the wall surrounding the kitchen garden. It was all very well being practical and resigning herself to working for Tylers fulltime for the next ten years or so.
This
was what she wanted to do. Right here, in front of her.

Plas Eden might be the Meredith’s family inheritance, but hadn’t her ancestors helped create the garden? Plus kept it flourishing for a hundred years or more. Probably as long as Plas Eden itself had existed, in fact. In the days before supermarkets and the freezer, Plas Eden couldn’t have survived without its kitchen garden to keep its inhabitants supplied with fresh fruit and vegetables all year round. No wonder the older inhabitants of Pont-ar-Eden felt themselves entitled to have a say: after all, if it hadn’t been for generations of Evans working away, the Merediths would have all died out from scurvy long ago. Not that she expected a Meredith to see things this way, and she was certainly too proud to beg. Especially where David Meredith was concerned.

But there was another option. From the nearest barn she heard the sharp buzz of a ring tone, quickly silenced, followed by the sound of David’s voice. She wasn’t looking for an inheritance or a stake in a grand house, but a business. One that she could start now, while Mam still needed looking after and that she could grow as Mam – hopefully – became more independent.

A business idea. Wasn’t that what Merlin had said he would support? A business idea that would help the village. If David was already looking at allotments, he might well be open to considering other ideas as well. A Victorian kitchen garden brought back to life and providing locally grown food to homes, hotels and restaurants could be just the kind of enterprise that Pont-ar-Eden needed, whatever might eventually happen to the house.

It would of course mean staying in Pont-ar-Eden for the next few years, if not more. Carys frowned to herself at the distant crunch of approaching footsteps over gravel. Her stomach gave a wobble: Devon and Cornwall had always been the destination of choice when she and Joe had been discussing a smallholding. Not that she was familiar with the south coast, but Joe had family in Taunton and hadn’t she spent half her life trying to get away from Wales?

Then there was David Meredith. Mam and Angela would no doubt be ordering wedding cakes and planning marquees and rose arches for Plas Eden’s grounds at the mere hint that she was staying.

But not if Plas Eden itself were sold. Anyhow, Carys told herself firmly, what did it matter? She was over David Meredith. She’d been over him a long time ago. The kamikaze stomach and the tingling all over her finger ends were just hormones. And hormones didn’t get you anywhere. They only brought heartache, and wasting years of your life with idiots like Joe who were only ever going to do what they wanted to do in the first place.

She was over David Meredith. She was over men in general, in fact. All she wanted now was to get on with creating a life for herself. And she could do that fine on her own, thank you very much. You didn’t even need a man to have children nowadays, if it came to that. It had been a storyline on
The Archers
, so even Mam must be aware of the possibility. From now on, she was going to live her own life, and no one could stop her.

‘That was Rhiannon,’ came David’s voice. Carys jumped. He was closer than she imagined. His eyes, she discovered, were scrutinising her face, almost as if he could read her thoughts.

‘It’s not Mam, is it?’

‘No, you’re okay. Mair’s fine. She’s just having a nap. Rhiannon was asking if we’re on our way back. It’ll be dark soon.’

‘Oh.’

He was still standing there, eyes on her face. She knew that look. It was David Meredith gearing himself up to say something. Heat shot through her, taking her by surprise and knocking the breath from her body. She didn’t want to know what he was going to say. She didn’t care. She was over David Meredith, and she didn’t want to give that treacherous heart of hers any excuse to think otherwise.

‘I’ll lock up, then.’ She turned briskly back towards the French windows. ‘This has been great. Thank you so much for bringing me.’ She sounded stiff and formal in her own ears, which was fine by her. ‘Mam will just love all these photos. They’ll bring back happy memories that she can keep forever.’ She could feel David still hesitating behind her. ‘I’ll meet you at the front door, shall I?’

That finally seemed to do the trick. ‘I’ll find Hodge,’ he muttered, limping off back towards the barns.

There was a nano-second when she was tempted to go after him. But it was the briefest of nano-seconds only. Carys concentrated on locking the French windows, placing the key on the little hook set to one side of the door. As she did so, a swirl of greenery caught her eye. Not real leaves, but painted ones, emerging from a wash of white paint. It looked as if somebody had been cleaning away the top layer of paint to uncover them. The leaves were decidedly those of a vine. Bunches of dark grapes were half uncovered at one side. A butterfly appeared a little further down, and below that the blue-green of a kingfisher sat on a branch, staring eagle-eyed at some invisible patch of water below.

There was such exuberance in the colours and the lines of the drawing, she couldn’t help but smile. Further down the wall she could see another patch had been cleaned, revealing a riotous profusion of harebells and poppies, interspersed with camellias and tall yellow iris with nodding clusters of lily-
of-the
-valley at their feet, surrounded by deep orange wall flowers and spikes of blue stock. All of which had been interwoven with the delicate ramblings of a dog rose.

Whoever had painted those, she thought, had had such a zest for life, it was catching. It was obviously old. Dad had never mentioned there being a painter in his family. Plenty of gardeners, but no artists. Too busy earning a living, no doubt Dad would have informed her, roundly. But the painting was there, all the same. And painted by someone with skill and verve, who could catch the arch of a swallow’s wing with the merest flick of a brush.

‘Ready, then?’ called David from the front door, his voice echoing through the house.

‘Just coming,’ she replied.

 

The light had softened as evening crept around them, leaving the sky an impossible, fragile blue, and the summer-evening smell of autumn in the air.

‘I’ll row,’ said Carys, as they made their way back to the boat. David might be setting up a fine speed, but he had spent the day working in London, followed by a long train journey, and nothing could disguise the increased limp in his damaged leg.

‘There’s no need.’

‘Oh, so you think I’m not capable?’

‘Of course not,’ he replied, on his dignity. ‘I’d never even suggest such a thing.’

‘Good.’

Just for a moment he hesitated, but then he grinned. ‘Bolshie women, eh?’ he muttered under his breath to Hodge. ‘Story of my life.’ He settled a slightly bemused Hodge underneath the passenger seat and sat down. ‘There,’ he remarked, with only a touch of irony. ‘Happy?’

‘Very,’ conceded Carys graciously, settling the oars into the water.

David smiled to himself. It was good to see that Carys had relaxed a little and regained her sense of humour. There was something troubling her. It wasn’t just her mam: something deeper, more raw. Something that had been eating at her on their earlier journey, taking the smile and the life out of her.

He was glad, after all, that she hadn’t given him the chance to ask just now. It was none of his business. His concern might have appeared horribly intrusive, and he could feel anger simmering deep inside her, just waiting to be unleashed. She was keeping a lid on it, but only just. Whatever it was, he sensed, this was something Carys was going to have to work out for herself. But there was still a dull ache inside him, wishing he could help.

Carys had pulled them away from the jetty and was now manoeuvring the little boat to take a wide berth around Avalon. They’d been too young, he acknowledged, watching Carys, her face turned away from him as she concentrated on avoiding the treacherous mudflats around the little island. Too young, too naïve. Too innocent of life and the unexpected places it can take you. What they’d once had was in the past. He admitted the fact to himself. Maybe he’d always had a fantasy that one day they would meet up again and the old feelings would be there, just as they’d always been. Maybe, he admitted with an inward cringe, he had had – especially in the early years – a vision of Carys returning contrite, admitting she could not live without him, and of him forgiving her. Graciously, of course.

After today, he would always know that the Carys of this dream, the Carys he remembered, was gone forever. It was a new Carys in front of him, handling the oars with an inner confidence he had not noticed before. A Carys who was older, sharper, with a new edge to the gentleness he remembered so well. She had thrown off the constriction of Rhiannon’s mohair jumper when she sat down to row, allowing him to see that the soft arms he remembered had hardened into muscle; not the vanity variety of bicep gained from slavery to a gym, but the strong healthiness of someone accustomed to hours of physical work.

This was a Carys he didn’t really know at all. It was like losing her all over again.

As they cleared the island, the facade of Plas Eden, with its encroaching ivy, loomed up on the far shore. Carys brought the boat to a halt, steadying it gently with a touch of the oars.

David gazed over Eden lake, its waters turning an indigo sheen as the sun began to leave the sky, to where the house glowed pale amongst the shadows of hills and trees.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ sighed Carys, a little wistfully.

‘Yes, it is,’ he replied. Across the little boat, his eyes sought out hers. She met his gaze for a moment, then turned to look over her shoulder as she prepared to set off once more.