Eden's Garden (26 page)

‘Ordinary?’

‘Not like Eden.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She couldn’t tell if he were disappointed or relieved.

‘She’s rather sweet.’ Carys wasn’t ordinarily a fan of
mock-Grecian
garden ornaments. But although the nymph might not have been carved by the skilled hand that had created Eden’s ghosts, she had a livelier face than the usual round of urn-bearing goddesses. ‘There are more here, as well.’ Now that her eyes had adjusted to the gloom beneath the trees, she found stone creatures hiding beneath the undergrowth. A fox slunk through the silver feathers of a santolina. A tiny dragon reared on its hind legs, stone fire rising into the air from behind a tangle of nasturtiums. A family of rabbits sat as if listening to a decidedly Victorian-looking fairy sitting on a toadstool.

‘It’s like the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens,’ said David, joining her. He pointed to the far side of the waterfall. ‘No wonder that nymph is smiling.’

Carys laughed. Sitting on a stone, hooves and all, a satyr was grinning with decidedly lustful intent at the smiling nymph, who didn’t appear to object. ‘Someone had a sense of humour,’ she said.

‘No gnomes, I see.’

‘Definitely no gnomes.’

‘You’re right; they aren’t a bit like Eden’s statues,’ said David.

‘No,’ replied Carys. ‘And the Victorians did love this kind of thing.’

They glanced at each other. ‘Still weird,’ said David, at last.

‘Mmm,’ said Carys. It was growing decidedly dark by now. Her spine began to tingle.

Without warning, there was a rustling of the bushes and a creaking of broken sticks above them.

‘Shit,’ muttered David. He grabbed Carys’ hand, and in a moment they were out of there, back down into the formal gardens and out through the arch onto the cliffs.

‘What the hell was that?’ whispered Carys, breathing hard, as they finally came to a halt at a safe distance from the gardens.

‘Poachers, most probably,’ he replied, doing his best to sound rational.

Behind them rose the high-pitched meowling of one serious catfight.

It was Carys who gave in first, bursting into laughter. After a moment of trying to keep his dignity, David joined in.

‘What a pair of idiots,’ said Carys, at last. Her hand, she discovered, was still being held. David appeared to realise this at the same moment. He released it hastily.

Carys glanced at his face in the semi-darkness. But it was turned away, as if trying to find the path once more. Hurt shot through her, taking her by surprise and sending her stomach into a tight knot.

The silence was becoming decidedly awkward.

‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I’m starving.’

He turned back. An emotion passed briefly over his face. Relief, most likely, that she hadn’t taken the unintended gesture seriously, decided Carys. At least, she told herself firmly, she hoped so. That feeling of rejection just now was her being silly. A shadow of something they had lost long ago. It was being physically close to him again, stirring up all those old emotions, that was all. It was a memory. It didn’t mean anything. How could it? She should be glad David didn’t appear to want anything more than companionship on this journey. That’s exactly how she wanted things to be.

‘Me too,’ David was saying.

‘Come on, then.’

They found the path, a strip of pale gravel in the dark, and made their way back towards the street lamps. The quay was still full of visitors, but they managed to find an outside table at a café overlooking the harbour.

To Carys’ relief there was no question of being lured into a secluded candle-lit supper among these crowds. David didn’t appear to mind, but chatted easily away as if they had never been anything other than childhood companions and their fish, when it arrived, was fresh and delicious. Carys found herself relaxing. They’d been such good friends, she and David, when they were kids. They’d spent hours in each others’ company, just talking or swimming in Eden lake. Maybe friendship was all it should ever have been, she thought to herself, a little sadly.

The decision to return to the Treverick Arms for a drink turned out to be a wise one, as they were both falling asleep before they had half-finished their first glass, the eight-hour drive finally catching up with them.

‘Night!’ called Carys, making her way to her room deliberately without any lingering. The moment the door was shut, she felt she could hardly stay awake long enough to crawl into bed. But by the time she had cleaned her teeth and changed into her nightshirt, she was wide-awake again. She wrapped herself in a dressing gown, and made herself a cup of tea and sat by the open window for a while.

From nearby came the quiet murmur of voices, interspersed with laughter. There was a smell of salt in the air, and the rush of faraway rollers. In the distance, under a starlit sky broken with cloud, she could make out the sudden flash of white as the waves broke, making their way towards the dark shadows of the cliffs.

She hadn’t thought about Mam once. Just for a moment she felt guilty for such betrayal. But Mam was safe and no doubt obeying Gwenan without protest. At least without any outward protest. Gwenan was more than capable of keeping Mam well fed and out of trouble, even if she did disapprove loudly of
Coronation Street
and
Britain’s Got Talent
, making Mam feel hesitant about watching them, even in the privacy of her own room. But that, thought Carys, was for Mam and Gwenan to sort out among themselves. You can’t live someone’s life for them and you can’t protect them. And sometimes, out of nowhere, stuff happens.

Until she had looked after Mam, she had never really appreciated her own life. Free. Independent. With a career, and all things possible. Choices Mam had never had.

Mam had always put her family before herself. She’d never said whether she minded being the one who supported Dad, and made sure her three daughters passed their exams and didn’t linger with the latch-key kids around the off-licence (the precursor to Low-Cost) after school. Mam had always had part-time jobs that didn’t pay well, but could be fitted around looking after her own parents as they grew older and call in on Dad’s sister, Aunt Menna, when she was ill. She’d never said if once, when she was younger, she’d dreamed of another life. It had never occurred to Carys before to wonder.

She didn’t want Mam’s life. Merlin was right: that was exactly what passing exams and getting out of Pont-ar-Eden had been about. Carys didn’t even want her sisters’ lives. They might be sisters, but they were very different. And the future? Carys sighed. One day, no doubt, she would get over the pain and sense of betrayal that still ground at her insides. One day she would be able to forget Joe and move on.

The sound of a sash window being pulled up close by made her jump. Was that David? Silently, she wriggled off the window seat. Being so close to him in the darkness felt uncomfortably intimate. How little she knew about his personal life, it struck her. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend or a fiancé, any more than she’d talked about Joe. There was bound to be a woman, somewhere in the background. He was a nice guy, even without being lord and master of his very own Downton Abbey, and there weren’t many of those to go around.

What was she thinking of? Carys shook herself. An entire queue of women camping outside the gates waiting for the chance of becoming mistress of Plas Eden would be nothing to do with her. Maybe being this close to David Meredith, even after all these years, wasn’t such a good idea. His physical presence was confusing her, stirring up long-buried emotions and preventing her from thinking straight.

But it was only for a few days. Tomorrow they would find what they could about Treverick and the demolished Hall, then move on to North Devon and her original plan of looking at possible smallholdings. That would clear her head and get her brain back in focus again. Maybe David coming along on this trip had demonstrated just how impossible she would find it to live anywhere near Plas Eden if he remained there. It might be the very thing that pushed the balance towards staying with the Devon plan.

Exhaustion and sea-air finally catching up with her, Carys crawled into bed and was instantly sound asleep.

 David was already seated in the little dining room. The rest of the guests were still in their rooms and he was talking with a tall woman in her early fifties, with a well-defined face – of the kind that advertises no nonsense tolerated in this pub, thank you – and a mass of curling brown hair, holding an empty tray in her hands.

‘Oh, I know; they’re charming, aren’t they,’ she was saying, with a smile. ‘We couldn’t believe it when we did a bit of exploring and found they were still there. There are loads more of those animals. One of the volunteers is repairing the ones that can be saved, and we’ve been talking about raising money to make reproductions of the rest.’

‘Hi,’ said Carys.

‘Morning,’ said David, smiling up at her. ‘I was just telling Mrs McIntyre about our adventures in Treverick Gardens last night. They’ve just started doing a local history project here in Treverick, too, as it turns out.’

‘Really?’ This was a stroke of luck.

‘Yes.’ Mrs McIntyre, she discovered, was eying her closely. No doubt, like her husband, trying to fathom their relationship. ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘they’re all the rage, nowadays, and it’s really taken off over the past six months. I suppose that’s what prompted the council to look at renovating Treverick Gardens. Plus making an extra tourist attraction of course.’

‘Of course.’

Mrs McIntyre smiled. ‘You must be Carys. I’m Mary. Can I get you tea? Coffee?’

‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks.’

‘Right you are.’ Mary McIntyre disappeared into the kitchen.

‘Sleep okay?’ asked David.

‘Like a log. And you?’

‘The same.’ He grinned, slightly sheepishly. ‘Nothing like scaring yourself silly to wear you out.’

Carys laughed. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever forget that.’

He sipped his coffee in silence as she sat down. The awkwardness was suddenly back again, an invisible gulf between them. Carys drank the glass of fresh orange juice next to her plate and frowned at the menu without really seeing it.

Within minutes, Mrs McIntyre had returned with an individual cafetiere of fresh coffee on a tray, plus a small jug of warm milk and a bowl of chocolate-brown sugar lumps.

She took their breakfast orders – bacon and eggs, naturally – transferring them in a low murmur to her husband, who set to work straight away.

‘So it was Treverick Hall you were interested in, Rob said,’ Mrs McIntyre remarked, rejoining them in the dining room.

‘Yes,’ said Carys. ‘We couldn’t find anything about it.’

‘There was a Hall.’ Mary McIntyre was tidying small sprays of freesias and carnations at each table and paused next to them. ‘It’s got rather a sad history, I’m afraid. It was pulled down just after the Second World War. It had been going to ruin for years.’

‘Oh.’ Carys met David’s eyes. So that was that, then.

‘Did you find some mention of it, then?’ Mary scrutinised them both with open curiosity. ‘When you were doing your history project, that is. Snowdonia, wasn’t it, you come from? Long way. Maybe someone came here on holiday?’

‘That’s probably it.’ Carys reached into her shoulder bag. ‘I found this postcard in my mother’s attic. That’s what started it all.’

‘Really?’ Mary took the postcard with eager hands. ‘We’ve been trying to find a good photograph of the Hall. They’re really hard to come by. I had no idea there were postcards. I never thought. This must be the Hall in its hey day.’ She peered closer. ‘Ugly great thing, isn’t it.’

Carys eyed her with surprise. Mrs McIntyre sounded almost angry. ‘But those gardens are beautiful,’ she said, uncertainly.

‘Yes, the gardens are.’ Mrs McIntyre’s face relaxed. ‘The Trevericks were known for their gardens. There were some quite famous garden designers among them, down the ages. Amateurs, of course.’ Her tone was dry. ‘The rich have to have something to fill the hours where earning a living should go.’

‘So “Treverick” is a family, as well as a village?’ said David.

‘Yes. Well, it was. The immediate line died out with William Treverick at the beginning of the twentieth century. He left no heir, and no one in the family seems to have wanted to take on responsibility for the place. All sorts of relatives came out of the woodwork to fight over the money. But not the Hall. I suppose they knew no one would even want to buy a place like that after the First World War. No one wanted to be servants anymore, and that way of life had gone. Apart from a very few. Treverick Hall just fell into rack and ruin until it was requisitioned by the army in the 1940s. There’s a cousin in St Ives. Jon Phelps. He might know more. I can ask him, if you like?’

‘That would be great. Thanks,’ said David.

‘Although I should warn you, he might not be prepared to share much with strangers. He’s a bit protective about the family, is Mr Phelps. Personally, I don’t see why. Dig deep enough, and there are tragedies and scandals in most families, I think you’ll find.’

‘Tragedies?’ David’s voice was sharp.

Mary McIntyre looked up from the card. ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were back to scrutinising his face closely. ‘Treverick Hall seems to have been one of those places that just attract tragedy. There’s a story in the village, you know, that when the tide is high in Treverick Bay, you can hear the sound of someone weeping if you listen carefully.’

‘Really?’ Carys had never been convinced by ghostly
goings-on,
but she felt a finger of ice edging down her spine.

Mary nodded. ‘It’s quite true. I’ve heard it myself, once or twice. It’s the way the wind blows through the rocks, of course, but it’s quite eerie, all the same.’ She looked up. ‘It’s all part of the local tradition that the house and the family were cursed. But then I expect they say that about a lot of these old houses.’ She turned her attention back to the postcard, turning it over in her hand. ‘Pity there’s no writing. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea who it might be from?’

Carys shook her head. ‘’Fraid not. There isn’t even a stamp, so it couldn’t have been posted.’

‘Oh, yes. So I see. How very curious.’ There were creaks on the stairs from the bedrooms, accompanied by voices. In a moment, Mary was back to being a landlady once more. ‘Well, I’m sure Jon Phelps will be eager to hear all you have to tell him. I’ll phone him as soon as breakfast is over.’

‘Thanks,’ said David.

‘Not at all.’ Mary grinned. ‘To be honest, you’ll be doing me a favour. My history group have been trying to get Jon to let us see family photographs and find more information about the old Hall. With this postcard, he might just open up a bit. Good morning,’ Mary called brightly to next group of guests as they appeared, bending under the low beam of the doorway. ‘Mr and Mrs Johnson, isn’t it? I’m Mary McIntyre. There’s a table for you over here, by the window. Now, what can I get you. Tea? Coffee?’

 

Jon Phelps was a small, wizened man in his mid seventies. His house – once they found it after several scenic tours of the higgledy-piggledy back streets that comprised St Ives’ one-way system – was a 1920s-style whitewashed bungalow, set on the southernmost outskirts of the town.

‘This craze for family history,’ he remarked disparagingly, as he led David and Carys onto a small balcony overlooking the coastal path and the cliffs. ‘History was history, in my day.’ This wasn’t exactly a promising beginning.

They sat down at a wooden table in the centre of the balcony, where a slightly built woman in her early sixties – who might possibly have been a nurse, but who had been firmly introduced as Mr Phelps’ housekeeper – was pouring tea.

‘It’s very kind of you to give up your time, Mr Phelps,’ said Carys.

He grunted. ‘Yes, well. Persistent woman is Mary McIntyre. Women never give up, do they?’ As if to prove his point, he directed a severe glance towards the housekeeper. ‘Yes, that will do, Mrs Boscawen. Thank you. I’m sure we can manage now.’

‘There’s plenty of tea in the pot,’ said Mrs Boscawen, taking not the slightest bit of notice of his tone. ‘And I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Just give me a shout. And no more than two sugars, Mr Phelps. You know what the doctor said.’

‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Mr Phelps, irritably. He placed two chocolate biscuits in his saucer, with an air of defiance. Mrs Boscawen shook her head with indulgent despair. Carys caught her eye, and a look of silent understanding passed between them. Mrs Boscawen grinned, picked up the empty tray, and made her way back inside the house.

‘Mary said you might know a bit more about Treverick Hall,’ said David.

Jon Phelps stirred his third sugar lump into his tea and reached with silver tongs for a fourth. ‘It was my sister Laura who set them all off on this. Leaving all those bits and pieces to the Treverick Historical Society in her will. Can’t see why. No one had ever shown much interest before. Very proud of the Treverick connection, was Laura.’ He eyed them severely. ‘Leave well alone. That’s what I say. No point in raking up the past. And people love it, of course, poking over other people’s misery. I mean, that’s all you see on television these days, isn’t it? If it isn’t those dreadful game shows and so-called celebrities climbing Everest.’

There was a moment’s silence.

David cleared his throat. ‘Mary mentioned that the house seemed to attract tragedy,’ he persisted.

Mr Phelps drained his cup in one fell swoop and set about demolishing the biscuits before Mrs Boscawen could reappear. ‘Mmm,’ he said. His eyes were sharp. Carys had a feeling he was playing for time. Almost as if he wanted to come to a decision. ‘Mary said you had some photographs you might like to show me.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said David, sounding deliberately hesitant, so that Carys had to turn away to hide her smile. ‘We wondered if there might be some link to Treverick Hall. Not that we want to put you to any trouble.’

The old man finished his second biscuit and placed another two on his saucer, as if the first ones had never moved. Mission apparently accomplished, he sat back in his chair. ‘So where are these photographs, then?’

John Phelps went through the photographs of the statues and Plas Eden without any particular interest. He paused for a fraction longer on the greening Venus poised in the midst of her fountain. A slight frown tugged at his brows. But then it was gone, and the photograph placed at the back of the selection in his hand. The postcard of Treverick Hall, on the other hand, remained on the table in front of him.

‘Magnificent,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘Travesty, that’s what it is. Requisitioned by the army during the war, you know. Then it was abandoned and pulled down in the 1950s, like so many of our great buildings.’

For a few minutes he sat deep in thought.

‘Mary told us about the last of the Trevericks,’ said David, at last.

The old man roused himself. ‘William Treverick, you mean?’

David nodded.

Jon Phelps shook his head. ‘Tragedy, that was. Old William was the very last of the Trevericks. The proper Trevericks. Laura and me, we were just second cousins.’ A wistful look came into the faded blue eyes. ‘He died there, you know. In Treverick Hall. Wouldn’t leave it, not until the last. There are letters from him. The Historical Society’s got them now, I suppose. You’d have to ask them. He hoped right until the end that someone would come and take it over. Look after the place. Restore it to its former glory. But of course they didn’t.’

‘Who were the letters to?’ prompted Carys, as he seemed to lapse back into thought once more.

‘Oh, he never sent them. Left in the house, they were. He had a younger sister. Judith Treverick. Pretty little thing. The family always said he got mightily confused before the end. He was continuously writing letters to poor Judith, quite forgetting that she was long gone.’ He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘Long gone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Carys.

Jon Phelps sniffed. ‘You’d have thought the National Trust would have taken the Hall and the grounds over. Would have been a great thing for Treverick. Tourist attraction. That’s what it might have been. But now, of course, it’s far too late. Far, far too late.’

‘But if they restore the gardens…’ began Carys.