Eden's Garden by Juliet Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page B

love with somebody else and worked it out anyhow.’
    ‘Yeah, well,’ said Poppy, scornfully. ‘Live by the robot, die by the robot.’
    ‘Except he didn’t die. Not really. But she got punished, all the same.’
    ‘Typical.’
    Carys swirled her tea again. ‘I always felt sorry for Blodeuwedd, being made to be only what someone else wanted, with no choice and no chance of living her own life at all.’
    ‘Not exactly a happy story to call a garden after, if you ask me.’ Poppy gave a wicked grin. ‘I’ll bet you it was some lord of the manor telling his womenfolk what to expect if they didn’t toe the line.’
    ‘Probably,’ replied Carys, gloomily. Out of the corner of her eye, she became aware of an exceedingly sharp-eyed gaze from Poppy, who was sitting bolt upright and quite clearly gearing herself up for the interrogation of the century.
    ‘Oooh, aren’t they gorgeous,’ cooed Carys hastily, as a creak of the stairs heralded the arrival of Stuart balancing one fluffy-haired , slightly damp-faced and wobbly-smiling twin on each arm, each clutching a very dog-eared cloth animal of the vaguely bunny variety.
    ‘This is Miranda, and this is Miriam,’ announced Stuart, bending each appropriate arm towards her with irrepressible pride. ‘Say hello to your Auntie Carys. Tea-time, I think.’ He handed his lavender-smelling parcels over to Poppy. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’
    Carys watched as tiny, perfect little fingers, with tiny, perfect little pink nails, clutched at her outstretched hands, with the general intention of directing them towards one mouth or the other. Somewhere near her heart, a terrible ache had begun. The ache of the full realisation of what this illness of Mam’s could mean, and of a future maybe lost forever.
    ‘There’s a story there, somewhere.’ She looked up to find Poppy still watching her. Maternal adoration hadn’t quite banished the sharpness of her gaze.
    ‘I’ll take the cups through, shall I?’
    ‘Don’t think you’ll always escape that easily,’ called Poppy after her, as Carys fled.

     
     They put me in with one of the maids, in a room at the very top of the charity hospital. It was small, with just space enough for two beds tucked either side under the eaves, with a small chest of drawers dividing them.
    Lily her name was. I took her to be no more than eighteen. At first, she appeared a little afraid of me, but as she grew accustomed to my presence she began to chatter in the brief moments we spent there between our work and sleep.
    I had never thought myself as old before, but Lily made me feel ancient with her constant talk of the pair of winter boots she was saving for and sighing after a fashion plate she had purloined from a discarded newspaper. And when it was not her hair or her clothing she was fussing over, it was the young man she was stepping out with each Wednesday afternoon, her half-day off.
    The questions she asked! As if, in my supposed state as a widow, I knew everything there was possibly to know about the male sex. I could hardly say I felt I knew nothing at all, and even less, if possible, than I had known before. But at least, for the most part, she didn’t stop to listen, any more than in other of her ramblings, leaving me to murmur something every now and again but mostly left free to pursue my own thoughts.
    And I had been, as ever, too quick to dismiss her. A few days taught me that, when it came to essentials, Lily’s head was screwed on. Her Tom might bewilder her at times, but she knew enough to keep herself out of serious trouble. Helped, maybe, by the sight of so many wretched women and their tiny, sickly babies too weak to cry, and who died, more often than not, in the few steps between the gateposts and the infirmary. Perhaps it was the girls, some no older than twelve, who came in disfigured with the disease already eating away at them. Enough, it had to be said, to kill even the most reckless of youthful