The French Gardener Page 13

  At five o’clock, Henrietta left Clare in charge of the shop to nip across the street to Troy’s for her cut and blow-dry. She had felt low all day. Little by little, Cate’s bitchiness had worn her down. Humor wasn’t much of a shield against Cate’s carefully aimed arrows. “It makes her feel better to pull you down,” said Troy, settling her into the chair. “I’m going to give you long layers, darling. It’ll lift you. You need a lift in more ways than one. That Cate’s a miserable old cow. You know what they say? Happy people are nice people, unhappy people are nasty people. Cate is clearly unhappy. She might make the best coffee in Dorset but she’s as bitter as a bar of Green & Black’s.”

  “I’m not happy in my skin, Troy. I’d feel better if I had less of it!” She gave a weak laugh.

  “There’s too much pressure on women these days to be thin. Thin doesn’t mean happy.”

  “But it means married.”

  “Not necessarily. There are plenty of men out there who like fulsome women. You’re not fat. Fat is Rev. Beeley.”

  “She also happens to be five foot tall.”

  “A gnome, darling. Which is why she’s unmarried. No one wants to marry a gnome.”

  “A Womble?”

  “Seen any lately?”

  “Haven’t been to Wimbledon Common for years.”

  “You’re a proper height and a gorgeous, voluptuous shape. You should celebrate your size, not hide under clothes made for women four sizes larger than you. I’m going to give you a killer hairdo.”

  “What’s the point? There aren’t any single men in Hartington.”

  “I bet there’s somebody here, right under your nose.”

  “You?” She gazed at him longingly.

  “If only,” he sighed. “But I’d make you even more miserable. You need a man to make love to you, not to put you on a pedestal and worship you while he makes eyes at the postman.”

  “Not our Tony?”

  “Not specifically, no. There has to be someone in Hartington. Isn’t that what happens in romantic novels? The heroine always ends up with the local man she’d never noticed before.”

  “I’ve looked at every man who walks down the street. Perhaps I’m not destined for marriage. I’m destined to envy other women with prams and pushchairs, fridges scattered with school drawings and timetables. I’d make a good wife. I’d cook him delicious dinners, run him hot baths, massage his feet after a busy day, organize his life like a secretary. I’d give him roly-poly children and a bit of roly-poly myself. I’d make him happy. But all the good I have to give is turning sour in my belly. If I don’t find someone soon I’ll ferment into vinegar and won’t be of any worth to anyone.”

  “You talk a lot of nonsense, Etta. You’ve got plenty of time.”

  “But I don’t want to be an old mother.” She clutched her belly. “I want to have children while I’m young enough to run in the mothers’ race.”

  “You’ll always be young enough to make the picnic.”

  “But what’s the fun in making a picnic on a Zimmer frame?” She watched pieces of her hair drop to the floor like feathers.

  “It’ll happen and when it does I’ll be more than a little jealous.” He watched her smile. “God made me gay to torment me.”

  “He made you handsome to torment me,” she giggled.

  “At least we can laugh about it. That makes it bearable.”

  “Just. There comes a point, though, when laughing isn’t enough.” They gazed at each other in the mirror, across the insurmountable space that separated them, suddenly serious. He bent down and planted a kiss on her exposed neck.

  “I do love you, though,” he said, frowning.

  “I know. And I love you. You’re my friend. Hell would be a place without you.”

  Derek Heath began on the cottage the following week with the help of his two sons. Their radio, an old machine splattered with layers of paint, was positioned on the windowsill as they ripped out the kitchen units and retiled the floor to the sound of Queen’s We Will Rock You. Derek’s older brother, Arthur, came out of retirement to help. Dressed in immaculate white coveralls, he mended the leak in the sitting room and repapered the walls. Mrs. Underwood brought them trays of tea and biscuits, lingering to chat longer than was necessary. Mr. Underwood joined her, finding jobs to do by the river to justify his presence. The moment Storm and Gus finished school they left their bikes on the gravel and hurried to the cottage to watch. Derek patted them affectionately, remembering his own boys as children, musing at the rapid passing of time. He gave Gus small tasks while Storm helped pour the tea and hand round biscuits. Miranda watched them tear out Mrs. Lightly’s memories and felt a moment’s regret. This was “their” cottage. It was where she had left the scrapbook. She couldn’t help but feel ashamed of her callous disregard for the woman’s past.

  Fatima came for an interview. She was a big-featured woman with brown skin and small brown eyes, her head covered in a scarf. Her lips were full and when she smiled the gaps between her teeth were large and black. She was short and round in the middle, like a honeypot, her feet clad in sandals and white socks. Before Miranda could explain what she wanted Fatima silenced her with an extravagant sweep of her hand. “I know how rich people like their houses cleaned,” she declared in a thick Moroccan accent. “You won’t be disappointed. Fatima clean your house until it shine.” She flashed Miranda a wide smile, a gold filling catching the light. “Fatima know.” She was decisive. Miranda was left no option but to hire her. “You have made the right decision,” she exclaimed portentously. “You will not regret it.” Miranda returned to her desk to write an article for Eve magazine on the joys of self-employment, and wondered how all those other self-employed mothers managed to get anything done!

  David arrived on Friday night exhausted and in an ill temper. However, the fish pie Mrs. Underwood had left for dinner transformed his mood so that when he tucked into the apple and blackberry crumble he was almost jolly. “Darling,” he said, taking her hand. “Things are looking up!”

  “I think so,” she agreed. “It feels like home.”

  “The fires are lit, dinner is delicious. Gus hasn’t played truant all week.” He sat back in his chair. “This is the life.” He patted his stomach. “Now I’m going to have a bath and turn on the telly. See if there’s anything worth watching.” He left Miranda feeling a mixture of pride and resentment. The house was perfect but he hadn’t asked about her, or about the children. He simply assumed that Gus had behaved himself because she hadn’t told him otherwise. She drained her wineglass and looked at the dishes David had left on the table. Before she indulged in self-pity she remembered the scrapbook smoldering in her study. The mere thought of it caused a frisson of excitement to career up her spine. She wouldn’t tell David. It would be her secret. The thought of holding something back gave her a sense of superiority over her husband. A sliver of control. She’d load the dishwasher and wash up, watch television with him and share his bed but, on Sunday night, when he left, she would have the scrapbook to curl up with and someone else’s love to feast upon.

  XII

  The pink light of sunset setting the sky aflame

  At the end of October the cottage was finished and Jean-Paul returned to Hartington. Miranda had woken in a good mood, deliberated over what to wear, finally deciding on a pair of Rock & Republic skinny jeans tucked into boots, an Anne Fontaine white shirt and an extravagant spray of Jo Malone Lime, Basil & Mandarin scent. She had taken time to wash and blow-dry her hair, leaving it long and shiny down her back. Not that she wanted to look as though she’d taken trouble; after all, he was only the gardener.

  He arrived in late afternoon. Gus and Storm were on half term, hanging around the bridge, waiting for the enigmatic Frenchman to appear. Gus pretended he wasn’t interested, throwing sticks into the water, but in fact was curious and putout that Storm had already met him.

  When Miranda opened the door her heart stalled a moment; he was even more handsome than she reme
mbered, in a felt hat, sheepskin coat and faded Levis. He stepped into the hall and took off his hat. His graying hair was tousled and he ran a hand through it, casting his eyes about the place, searching for ghosts in the shadows.

  “The children are waiting for you at the cottage,” she said. “I’ve filled your fridge so I can offer you a cup of tea down there.”

  “Good, then let’s go.”

  Miranda followed him onto the gravel. The sky was a deep navy, turning to pink and gold just above the tree line. The air was damp, the ground wet from a heavy shower that morning. Brown and red leaves gathered on the grass, blown about by the wind, and a couple of gray squirrels chased each other up the oak tree. Jean-Paul watched them and, for an instant, was sure he saw three little faces peering out like Red Indians in a tepee. He hesitated, Miranda’s nervous chatter muffled against the sudden eruption of children’s laughter. He squinted and strained his ears, but the laughter blended with the wind and the little faces were swallowed by the dusk. It was just the evening light filtering old memories; the oak tree was dark and empty and silent.

  They continued down the path to the bridge where Storm and Gus waited. When she saw him, Storm broke into a run, eager to show off to Gus. “Mummy! Mummy!” she cried. “I’m going to make magic in the garden!” Jean-Paul’s face relaxed into an affectionate smile, the sight of the children putting right all that was wrong about the place. “We’ve tidied the cottage for you,” she said proudly, springing beside him like a kangaroo. Gus remained on the bridge watching Jean-Paul warily from behind a curtain of dark hair. Jean-Paul was Storm’s friend.

  Jean-Paul sensed Gus’s suspicion as if it were a miasma of smoke around him. He nodded affably then proceeded towards the cottage. He knew not to force his friendship. The child would come when he was ready. Miranda opened the door with the same rusty key that Ava had used a lifetime ago. They had both been young then; neither knowing that they would forge a love so strong that in all the years that followed she would remain at the very center of his heart like a thorny rose—beautiful but inflicting pain. The house was the same, the gardens remained, though neglected, their cottage barely touched: yet Ava had been the breath that had brought it all to life. Without her, the place was dead.

  He stepped inside. There was a smell of fresh paint and polish—and the unexpected scent of orange blossom? He was aware that Miranda was expecting a reaction but he wanted to be alone to retrace their every moment together. The afternoons they had made love on the sofa in front of the fire, the mornings they had crept beneath the sheets to hold each other for a few stolen moments, the terrible day they had sat staring at each other across the kitchen table knowing it had to come to an end, as inevitably as a tree losing its leaves in autumn.

  He took off his coat and almost stumbled into the kitchen where Miranda put the kettle on to make tea. Storm opened a packet of digestive biscuits. Gus crept in out of the dusk. Jean-Paul looked around the room and saw that everything had changed. There were new units, a smart black Aga, gray floor tiles where there had been wood. Miranda looked at him anxiously. “Do you like it?” Storm brought him a biscuit and he was once again wrenched away from the past. The little girl’s bashful smile soothed the cracks in his heart.

  “I like it,” he replied.

  Miranda’s shoulders dropped with relief. “I’m so pleased,” she said, taking cups down from the cupboard. “I did a big shop for you. I didn’t know what you’d want so I bought a bit of everything. You can borrow my car if you like and check out the town. Sainsbury’s is a few miles out the other side, past the castle. I must take the children to the castle. I haven’t had time yet.” Jean-Paul remembered her using that excuse before. Time. He glanced at Gus standing shiftily in the corner and felt his loneliness; it leaked out of every pore.

  “Will you show me where I will sleep?” he asked Gus. The little boy shrugged and left the room.

  “I’ll show you!” Storm squeaked, hurrying out after her brother.

  “But you gave him a biscuit,” retorted Gus angrily, grabbing her shirt.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” Jean-Paul said calmly. Both children turned to stare at him with wide, curious eyes. “Come upstairs,” he added, striding past them. Once in the bedroom he opened the window. “I think you will find there is a family of squirrels who think that this is their house.”

  “I know,” said Gus, sitting on the bed. “I’ve seen them.”

  “You have?”

  “This was my secret camp,” he said grumpily.

  “I think you can do better than this,” said Jean-Paul. “How about a camp in a tree?”

  “A tree house?” said Gus, unconvinced.

  “A tree house built in the branches so that in summer no one knows you are there. A tree house that has an upstairs and a downstairs.”

  “There isn’t one of those here,” Gus scoffed.

  “Not yet, but we will build it.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Not on my own. But you and Storm will help me.”

  “Mummy says you’re the gardener,” said Gus.

  “Isn’t a tree part of the garden, too?”

  “The hollow tree!” Storm cried. “But that’s going to be my secret camp.”

  Jean-Paul shook his head and sat on the bed beside Gus. “Come here, Storm,” he said, beckoning her over. She stood before him, her bottom lip sticking out sulkily. “Do you remember I told you about the magic in the garden?”

  “Yes.”

  “The magic only works when we all act together. Do you understand?” Storm frowned, Gus looked skeptical. “What is the point of being at different ends of the garden? There is only so much that we can do on our own. Imagine what incredible things we can create together?”

  “Can we build the tree house tomorrow?” Storm asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Jean-Paul. We will breathe life back into the garden and the sound of children’s laughter will once again ring out from the old oak tree. I cannot bring the love back but I can create new love. That is how I will remember her.

  Downstairs, Miranda had made the tea. She took it into the sitting room on a tray and lit the fire. She was pleased with the cottage. It was cozy and clean. The carpet had been replaced, the walls repapered and new curtains hung, breaking on the floor in generous folds. She had kept all the books and ornaments. He wouldn’t know that they had belonged to Phillip Lightly. She hoped the children weren’t bothering him. For a man who had no children of his own he was very sweet and patient with them. She wondered why such a handsome man had never married. Perhaps he had suffered a terrible loss or tragedy that had prevented him from sharing his life with someone. He had the air of a man used to being on his own.

  After a while all three came downstairs. Jean-Paul sat beside the fire, in the armchair that Miranda had had recovered in green ticking. She gave him a cup of tea and sat opposite him. She had a tendency to chatter when nervous and made a deliberate effort not to overdo it. After all, she kept telling herself, he was just the gardener.

  “The children are on half term this week. I hope they don’t get in your way,” she said.

  “Jean-Paul is going to build us a tree house,” said Gus, trying not to sound too excited in case it didn’t happen. He was used to his father making promises he didn’t keep. “If he’s not too busy,” he added. Jean-Paul looked at him intently. Like “time,” the word “busy” bothered him.

  “Your tree house is at the very top of my list of priorities,” he said seriously. “What is a garden without a tree house? What is a garden without magic? We have to build a tree house for the magic to work.” Storm giggled. Gus stared at Jean-Paul, not knowing what to make of him. He had never come across an adult who put his desires first. Jean-Paul turned his attention to Miranda. “I will walk around the garden tomorrow and see what we can salvage, what needs to be cut back, what needs to be replanted. Already I can see the wild garden needs to be replanted so that it flowers in the s
pring.”

  “Whatever you suggest.” Miranda didn’t want to know the details. She just wanted it done.

  “Is there a vegetable garden?” he asked, blinking away the sudden vision of Archie, Angus and Poppy dancing around the bonfire that autumn evening after roasting marshmallows on the flames.

  “Yes, it’s a mess.”

  He turned to the children. “How would you like to help me plant the vegetable garden in the spring?”

  “Me, me!” Storm volunteered immediately. “What shall we plant?”

  Jean-Paul rubbed his chin in thought. “Marrows, pumpkins, rhubarb, raspberries, strawberries, potatoes, carrots…”

  “You’re going to plant all those?” said Gus.

  “Of course. With your help. After all, you’re going to eat them.”

  Gus screwed up his nose. “I hate rhubarb.”

  “You won’t hate our rhubarb.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” enthused Miranda. “You’ll meet Mrs. Underwood. She cooks for us. There’s nothing she likes more than fresh vegetables. There’s a farmers’ market in town on a Saturday, though I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been yet. I’ve barely had a moment.”

  “Then, what we don’t eat we will sell.” Gus’s eyes lit up. “And you, Gus, can take a cut of the money.” Jean-Paul looked at Miranda for approval. She nodded. She could tell Gus was warming to Jean-Paul, in spite of himself. He was an independent child. He didn’t need attention like his sister, or at least he didn’t want to look as if he needed it. She put that down to his age. He was just beginning to flex his wings. He had never been one of those needy children who wanted his parents around. She watched him assessing the new arrival with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. There was something compelling about Jean-Paul, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with his magic flute.