Free Eden's Garden by Juliet Greenwood Page A

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