The French Gardener Read online

  “Let me know when you’re ready for pudding,” she repeated with a smile. “Syrup sponge was Mr. Lightly’s favorite.”

  After lunch David’s satisfied gaze rested on his wife. There was nothing like a belly full of good food to make him feel horny. He ran his hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. “How would you children like to watch a video for a while?” Miranda frowned. Hadn’t he forbidden Gus to watch television? “Mummy and I would like a siesta.” Her frown melted into a smile. Gus jumped down from his chair.

  “Make sure you watch something that Storm will enjoy,” Miranda shouted as they bolted for the playroom. David took his wife’s hand.

  “How about it, Mrs. Claybourne?”

  “How about it indeed,” she replied, squeezing his hand. She felt the warm sensation of their reconnection.

  “Well done, darling. You’ve found a cook and a gardener. There’s a fire blazing in the hall and the children are happy. Now you can make me happy.” He stood up and led her out of the room.

  “I don’t think Mr. Underwood is a proper gardener,” she murmured as they walked into the hall.

  “He’ll do for the time being. He can light fires and burn leaves. Besides, it’s autumn. There’s not a lot one can do in autumn.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me this used to be the most beautiful garden in England. I’m beginning to feel we’re committing a terrible sin not looking after it.”

  “It’s only a garden, darling.” He led her upstairs and into the master bedroom. “Now let’s get down to the important business before I have to catch that train to London.”

  Gus and Storm sat in front of the television watching Nanny McPhee. They had already seen it before, loads of times, but it was the only DVD that they both enjoyed. Storm noticed Gus had been rather quiet over lunch, as if he was keeping a delicious secret. He fidgeted on the sofa, his gaze drawn outside by an invisible magnet. After a while he announced that he was bored of the movie and was going outside. “Can I come, too?” Storm asked, not because she wanted to play with him, but because he reeked of something mysterious.

  “No,” he replied. “I want to play on my own.”

  “That’s not very nice,” she complained. “You’re a poo!”

  “You’re a baby.” He stood up and marched out of the room.

  Storm gave him a minute, then followed him.

  Gus noticed Mrs. Underwood’s car had gone, taking Ranger with it. He was disappointed. The dog had been good company. The perfect company, in fact, for a boy who liked to play on his own. He wasn’t stupid like Charlie. Gus ran off through the field to the little bridge. The clouds had cleared and the sun shone, catching the ripples in the river and making them sparkle. The air was sweet with the smell of wet earth and foliage, and the breeze had turned unexpectedly warm. He hurried across to his secret cottage, and climbed inside.

  Storm watched from a distance. She had never been to that side of the garden. There was something wild and enchanting about it as the light glittered magically on the raindrops quivering on the grass and leaves. She saw her brother disappear inside the cottage and stood awhile looking about. The stone bridge delighted her, reminding her of the bridge in Winnie-the-Pooh. She leaned over and gazed onto the water. Below, she could see pebbles and rocks hidden among the weeds. She wondered whether there were fish and decided she’d ask her mother for a net so she could catch one. Then she turned her attention back to the cottage. Gus had been in there a long time. She knew he’d be cross if he discovered she had followed him. She bit her nails and gazed longingly at the cottage, half hoping that Gus would appear. But he didn’t. She wondered what he was doing in there. Slowly, she began to walk towards it.

  She peered through the window to the left of the front door. It had already been rubbed clean by Gus’s sleeve so she could see inside. She gasped as she took in the room. Someone obviously lived there. With an accelerating heart she tiptoed around to the window on the other side of the front door. Pulling away the long tentacles of ivy so she could see in, she thought perhaps this was Snow White’s house or Goldilocks’s and imagined the seven dwarves were out with their spades or the three bears were sleeping upstairs.

  Suddenly Gus appeared around the corner. “What are you doing here?” he demanded “This is my house!”

  “No it isn’t,” she retorted, withdrawing from the window.

  “I told you I wanted to play on my own.”

  “But I’ve got no one to play with.” Gus’s rejection was like a slap on the face. Storm’s cheeks burned and her eyes glittered with tears.

  “Tough!”

  “I want to go inside.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because only boys can climb in and besides, you don’t know the password.”

  “What’s a password?”

  “You see, you don’t even know what it is.”

  “You’re mean.”

  “Go and cry to Mummy then.”

  Storm began to sob. Gus watched her impassively. “You’re not my brother!” she said. “I hate you!” And she turned and ran along the riverbank, ignoring the little stone bridge that would lead her home.

  V

  The little stone bridge at sunset. The amber light playing upon the smooth surface of the river.

  Gus watched her go then returned to the cottage. He was furious that she had discovered his secret but felt a niggling worry that she hadn’t returned over the bridge, but had continued up the river into unknown territory. In London their mother had never let them out of her sight. In the park, if they had so much as disappeared behind a bush she would have called them back, her voice tight with panic. Now Storm was wandering about on her own. Gus felt guilty. If anything happened it would be his fault. The worry didn’t niggle for long. He began to explore upstairs where two bedrooms and a bathroom nestled beneath the eaves. The sun shone in through the windows and caught the flakes of dust stirred up by his footsteps, making them sparkle like glitter. It was quiet and warm, the air charged with something magical. Gus forgot all about Storm and stepped inside the first bedroom.

  Storm hurried along the riverbank, sobbing loudly. She hated Gus, she hated the countryside, she hated her new school and she hated the new house. She wanted to go back to London, to her old bedroom, to her school where she had lots of friends, to all that was cozy and familiar. After a while she came to a fence. On the other side was a field full of cows. Afraid of the possible presence of a bull, she leaned on the gate and rested her head on her arms, her woolly coat soaking up her tears like a sponge.

  Suddenly she was aware of being watched. She heard the squelch of hooves in the mud and a gentle snorting as the shiny black cows warily approached her. If she were Gus she would have tried to frighten them, but Storm was frightened herself. She raised her eyes but dared not move. They formed a semicircle on the other side of the gate, jostling each other forward, their large eyes bright and curious. Storm was sure they could knock down the gate if they wanted to.

  “Put out your hand,” came a voice beside her. She was surprised to see a stranger lean on the fence and extend his hand towards the cows. He smiled at her and his weathered brown face creased about the eyes where the crows’-feet were already long and deep. He had the kind of smile that warmed a person from the inside and Storm immediately felt better, as if the lonely hole in her heart had been temporarily plugged. She remembered her mother telling her not to talk to strangers. But this man was nice, not at all like the horrid men she had been warned about.

  Storm copied the man and stuck out her hand. At first the cows didn’t move any closer, just observed the extended hands, snorting their hot steamy breath into the damp October air. Storm waited, excited now that she was no longer alone. She noticed the man’s hand was rough and dry, the skin on his palm etched with hundreds of lines like a road map. At last the cows began to edge their way towards them, slowly at first and then with growing confidence. Storm began to tr
emble as one of the cows stretched its neck and brought its wet nose closer. “Don’t be afraid,” said the man. He had a funny accent. “They’re Aberdeen Angus cows, very gentle creatures. They are afraid of you.” He put his hand closer to hers and the cow blew onto their skin. “You see. She likes you.” With the back of his fingers he stroked the cow’s nose. The cow put out her tongue and licked Storm’s hand.

  “Her tongue is all rough,” she said, giggling with pleasure.

  “That’s because it’s got to grab hold of the grass. If it were smooth the grass would slip through.” The rest of the herd now saw that the two humans were friendly and surged forward, wanting their own turn. “We have some new friends,” he said and laughed. He was surprised that the child had suddenly made him happy. A while ago he had been sitting on the riverbank, head in his hands, the unhappiest he had been in twenty-six years.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Storm.”

  “Storm is an unusual name. My name is Jean-Paul.” He studied her flushed face, grubby where her tears had fallen, and felt a wave of compassion. A child her age shouldn’t be wandering the fields on her own. “Do you live near here?”

  “Hartington House,” she replied, repeating the name her mother had taught her. Jean-Paul blanched and for a moment he was lost for words. “It’s the other side of the river,” Storm continued. But Jean-Paul knew that. He raised his eyes as if he could see over the trees to where the house nestled in the neglected gardens.

  “I think I should take you home,” he suggested quietly. Storm nodded, disappointed. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to stay with the cows. Jean-Paul sensed her disappointment. “You can come back another time. The cows will always be pleased to see you. They know you now.”

  “My brother doesn’t want to play with me,” she said. “He’s mean.”

  “Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

  Storm shook her head sadly. “Just Gus.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Not long,” she replied. “We used to live in London.”

  “I bet you did not have such a big garden in London.”

  “We didn’t have a garden at all, but we had the park.”

  Jean-Paul shrugged. “But a garden is more magical than a park. Gardens are full of secret places.”

  “Gus’s house is secret.”

  “You need to ask your father to build you a playhouse of your own.”

  “He’s busy,” she said, lowering her eyes so that her eyelashes almost brushed her cheek.

  “Then you should make a house in the hollow tree.”

  “The hollow tree?”

  “The hollow tree in the wild garden.” The child had clearly never heard of the wild garden either. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  They approached the little stone bridge. Jean-Paul cast his eyes at the cottage and his face turned gray. “That’s Gus’s secret house,” said Storm, pointing at it. Jean-Paul said nothing. His heart had broken all over again. She had gone. Why had he bothered coming back? What had he expected to find? He should have let ivy grow over his memories as it was growing over their cottage. He should have moved on. But he loved with all his heart. If he suffocated his love he would surely die with it.

  “Come, Storm. I’ll show you the hollow tree.” He walked over the bridge without glancing back at the cottage. The wild gardens, once full of purply-blue camassias and buttercups, cowslips and fluffy dandelions, had been neglected. Instead of being cut down for winter, the grasses were long and out of control. How he had loved to walk through them on those balmy spring evenings on his way to the cottage. Now it had been starved of love.

  “You see that tree over there.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. He pointed to a large oak that dominated the garden. “It’s hollow.”

  “What does hollow mean?”

  “No inside. It is like a shell. You can climb in it and make it into a camp.” He took a deep breath. “It’s been done before,” he added quietly. Storm’s curiosity was aroused, but Jean-Paul began to walk towards the house. “Shouldn’t we let your mother know that you are back?”

  “She’s busy,” said Storm. Jean-Paul frowned. He ran his hand through his dark hair, now graying at the temples, and looked at the little girl inquisitively. “I doubt she is too busy to notice that you have been gone. How old are you, Storm?”

  “Nearly six,” she replied proudly.

  “You are very grown up. But even grown-ups look out for each other. Let’s go and tell her you are back, just in case, eh?” His natural instinct was to hold her hand. How often he had walked those gardens holding the hands of small children, teaching them the magic and mystery of nature. But he knew it wouldn’t be appropriate with this little girl. Instead, he put his hands in his jacket pockets and continued to walk towards the front of the house.

  It was just as he remembered it: the soft gray stone walls and tiled slate roof; the tall, elegant chimneys where doves used to settle and coo; the three dormer windows with their little square panes of glass where the children had peered out and waved. The symmetrical harmony of the design and the peaceful way it melted into the surrounding trees and shrubbery as if they had all been created at the same time and grown old together.

  Jean-Paul rang the bell. Storm stood beside him, waiting for her mother to appear. She didn’t imagine she would have been worried; Mummy had been asleep. After a while, the door opened to reveal Miranda in a brown velour tracksuit, hair pulled back into a ponytail, cheeks glowing. She looked at the strange man and then at Storm and felt a sudden pang of guilt. “Are you all right, darling?” she said, crouching down to look at her daughter. She could see from Storm’s grubby face that she had been crying. “What happened?” She directed her question at the stranger.

  “I found her down by the river. She was alone.” Miranda noticed the man’s French accent. She couldn’t fail to notice, too, how attractive he was. “My name is Jean-Paul.”

  “Please come in,” she said. “Thank you so much for bringing her home.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you,” he said, his face solemn.

  “You’re not troubling me at all. Please, I’d like to thank you.” Miranda wished she wasn’t so scruffy. It was very unlike her to be seen without makeup and she was sure her tracksuit had a stain on the thigh. She couldn’t bear to look. “I can’t imagine what she was doing down by the river. Goodness, my children are running wild. Our neighbor, Jeremy Fitzherbert, only brought Gus back from the woods a couple of days ago. They’re used to London parks and small gardens.” Jean-Paul followed Miranda down the corridor to the kitchen. He noticed at once how different the house was on the inside and felt the dramatic change in vibration, as if a cold draft ran through the hall lowering the temperature in spite of the fire in the grate. Storm skipped beside Jean-Paul. He was her new friend.

  “I thought you were watching a video,” said Miranda to Storm, taking two cups from the painted cream dresser and placing them on the black granite worktop. “Would you like tea or coffee, Jean-Paul?”

  “Coffee, please,” Jean-Paul replied, perching on a stool.

  “We saw some cows,” said Storm. “One licked my hand.” Storm held it up, grinning proudly.

  “God! How horrible. You’d better wash it at once. I hope you haven’t put your fingers in your mouth.” She shuffled Storm to the sink, turned on the tap and lifted her up. Storm grabbed the soap and put her hands under the water.

  “Her tongue is rough so she can eat the grass,” the child continued.

  “That’s right, give them a good wash,” Miranda encouraged, more concerned about germs than the nature of the cow’s tongue. When she had finished, Miranda put Storm down and began to make the coffee. She noticed Jean-Paul looking at her with a bemused expression on his face. His mouth was sensual, uneven and twisted into a small smile. His eyes were warm, toffee-brown and deep-set, surrounded by long dark lashes. What struck her most was not the color, t
hough it was rich and velvety, but their expression. They were filled with compassion as if he had a deep understanding of the world.

  “We’ve just moved here,” she said, pouring ground coffee into the machine. “We’re still adjusting.”

  “Change takes time. But this is a beautiful place. You will be very happy here.” The way he spoke sounded almost prophetic.

  “What brings a Frenchman to Hartington?”

  “That is a good question. I don’t really know myself.”

  “You don’t look like a tourist.”

  “I am not.”

  Storm pulled a stool over to where Jean-Paul was perched and climbed up. “Jean-Paul is going to build me a little house in a tree,” she said, smiling up at him.

  “She was sad she didn’t have a secret house, like her brother,” said Jean-Paul.

  “Gus won’t play with her, that’s the trouble. He’s nearly eight. Storm’s too little for him. Do you have children?”

  “No, I never married,” he said.

  What a waste of an attractive man, she thought.

  “Gus will be going to boarding school next year,” she continued.

  “Boarding school? He is very little.”

  “Believe me, if anyone needs boarding school, it’s Gus.” She chuckled, opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk. “Besides, I work. The sooner they’re both packed off to boarding school the better.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a journalist. A frustrated novelist, actually. I like to think that when the children go to boarding school I’ll have the time to write a book.”

  He looked down at Storm. “Little Storm will go, too?”

  “When she’s eight and a half. I’ve got you for a while longer, haven’t I, darling?” said Miranda, smiling at her daughter. But Storm only had eyes for the handsome Frenchman.

  “What do you do, Jean-Paul?” She poured coffee into his cup and handed it to him.

  He hesitated while he took a sip. Then he looked at her steadily and replied, “I garden.”