The French Gardener (12 page)

It was late. The sun had set, the sky was a deep navy studded with stars and there was a misty moon. She walked across the field towards the river. She wasn’t going to apologize, but she was going to ask his advice on the cottage garden. Perhaps he did have ideas. She hadn’t given him a chance.

The bridge looked silver in the moonlight, straddling the river that trickled gently in the silence. She loved the night. It was like being wrapped in velvet. Her spirits rose as she approached the cottage and she walked with a bounce in her step. The lights were on, the smell of smoke scenting the damp air with nostalgia. She stood a moment gazing at the little house, lit up as if by spotlight, enjoying the romance of it. Then she knocked on the door.

Jean-Paul’s face blanched with surprise when he saw her. She wore a T-shirt under her purple dungarees and seemed not to feel the cold. He shivered as the wind swept into the hall. “Come in,” he said, standing aside. She took off her boots and walked into the sitting room. There was a fire in the grate, a box of paints and glass of murky water on the coffee table. Jean-Michel Jarre resounded from the tape recorder. She hadn’t imagined he could paint.

He didn’t offer her a drink, but stood in the doorway waiting for her to speak. She walked over to the fire. “I’ve come to ask your advice,” she said, suddenly losing confidence. He had bathed, his hair was still wet. His blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up, hung over his Levis.

“Advice?” He looked unconvinced. “Why would you want to do that? You clearly don’t think I have anything to offer.”

“That is not true,” she protested.

“Oh come on, Ava!” he exclaimed, striding into the room and flopping onto the sofa. He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. “You’ve sent me off with Hector. How do you know what I can do and what I can’t do?”

“I don’t,” she conceded. “Let’s be honest, shall we? You coming here was not my idea. It was Phillip’s. I didn’t want you. I didn’t need any help. I’m more than capable of doing it on my own.”

“Then why are you here asking my advice?”

“Because I am at a loss and perhaps you can help me. You said yourself not to judge people. I judged you. I’m hoping I was wrong.”

“How can I help you?”

“The cottage garden.”

“Ah.” He sat forward, put his elbows on his knees and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Ava felt a surge of relief. Her white flag had been accepted. “The cottage garden,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve tried, but I can’t picture it.”

“As it happens, I have had some thoughts.”

“You have?” He reached over the arm of the sofa and pulled out a large ring-bound block of artists’ paper.

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“I have painted something for you,” he said.

He placed the book on her knee. She gazed at it, speechless with admiration. There, in vibrant colors and bold, confident strokes, was a picture of her cottage garden. A grassy path snaked across it, bordered on both sides by flowers and shrubs, glistening on a bright summer’s day. In the middle was the mountain ash, encircled by a pretty round bench in French gray. It was perfect. She could not have dreamed a more beautiful garden.

Hartington House, 2005

Miranda’s eyes stung with tears. Folded in half and stuck to the page was the picture of the cottage garden. The colors were as vibrant as the day they had been painted. She ran her fingers across the paper, over pink roses and white lilies, and imagined the dawning of love. For a moment she felt a wave of melancholy at the emptiness in her own heart. But it came and went before she allowed herself to analyze it. If she filled her days with her work and the practical chores of running the house she wouldn’t feel the ache, like stuffing a hole with cardboard. She focused all her attention on the picture. That bench was still circling the mountain ash. She wondered whether they had sat there, creating the gardens together, their affection growing with each plant they sowed. Suddenly she was gripped with enthusiasm. Perhaps Jean-Paul could resurrect that garden, breathe life back into it and she could live awhile, vicariously.

Although there were no names in the scrapbook she assumed the book belonged to the previous owner, Mrs. Lightly. Little was written about the physical aspects of
M. F. Much was written about his nature: one moment smiling and joyous, the next sullen and petulant. A creative young man, swathed in frustration. She wondered why Mrs. Lightly had left the book in the cottage. As it was weighted with so much significance, it was unlikely that she would forget it. Or perhaps she felt the affair was best left in the past. Miranda could imagine the old woman chuckling at the absurdity of her girlish crush and leaving the book behind deliberately.

It wasn’t written as a love story, with a beginning, middle and end, but as a series of memories. Miranda wanted to submerge herself in them and take her time. She flicked through the pages, pausing occasionally to dwell on pressed leaves and flowers and the sentences written beside them in Mrs. Lightly’s pretty looped writing. She was aware that she was meant to be getting the cottage ready for Jean-Paul. She didn’t have the time to linger over someone else’s love affair. However, the book was compelling, like a whole world compressed into a hundred pages. The love story held such allure. She knew if she allowed herself to read on, she would lose herself completely. She closed the book reluctantly. There were things to be done in the house. Mrs. Underwood was coming at midday to discuss the details of her employment. Mr. Underwood required direction. She had to find out who the local builders were, not to mention the domestic chores she had to undertake until she found a housekeeper to do them for her. She left the cottage with the scrapbook tucked under her arm, a spring in her step.

As she made her way up the field towards the house she saw Mrs. Underwood’s car on the gravel. Ranger was cocking his leg on one of the tires while Mrs. Underwood waited on the step, arms crossed over the buttress of her expansive bosom, her face sagging in repose.

“Hello!” Miranda shouted, quickening her pace. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been delayed. Got to sort out that cottage for the
gardener.” She checked herself, remembering the woman’s husband. “The
landscape
gardener.” Mrs. Underwood nodded. “I haven’t seen Mr. Underwood yet, I assume he’s in the garden.”

“Oh aye, keeping himself busy, I should imagine. Hard to keep that man down.” Miranda unlocked the door. Mrs. Underwood sighed. “Sign of the times. In my day, no one locked their doors. We were in and out of each other’s houses all day long. It’s not like it was.”

“Well, you didn’t have microwaves and e-mail, mobile phones and satellite telly, did you? So, it’s not all bad.”

Mrs. Underwood looked appalled. “What do you need all that rubbish for? They don’t save time, just give you more time to fill up. Everyone’s running around like headless chickens. In my day we all had time for a chat.” Miranda thought it best not to argue. People like Mrs. Underwood were content to sit in the past and lament the wicked ways of the modern world.

Miranda hid the scrapbook in her study, then took Mrs. Underwood into the kitchen to discuss wages and hours. She noticed Mr. Underwood had filled the log baskets and lit the fires while she had been out. The air smelled of burning wood. Mrs. Underwood commented on it proudly. “Mrs. Lightly always had the fires lit. Not that she ever felt the cold. Oh no, Mrs. Lightly wore short sleeves even in snow and I never saw her shiver.” Now Miranda’s curiosity had been aroused, she wanted to know more about the woman in the scrapbook.

“Let’s have a cup of tea, Mrs. Underwood,” she suggested, pulling out a stool. “What will you have? Earl Grey?”

“Allow me, Miranda.”

“You sit down, Mrs. Underwood.”

“I insist. I can’t sit like a pudding being waited on by my employer. It’s not right.” She took the kettle from Miranda
and held it under the tap. “Besides, I’ve got to get to know the kitchen. It’s changed since Mrs. Lightly was here.”

Miranda sat on the stool. “What was Mrs. Lightly like?” she asked. “I’ve heard all about her beautiful gardens, but nothing about her.”

Mrs. Underwood paused a moment. “She was an original. God broke the mold when He made her. Mr. Lightly was very English. Tall as a tree, with a big friendly smile. Everyone liked Mr. Lightly. He was the sort of man who always had time to talk. Mrs. Lightly, she was an eccentric. She’d come alive like a fire, telling funny stories and entertaining everyone, then she’d suddenly run out of fuel, make her excuses and leave. You always knew when she’d had enough. Those that didn’t would find themselves talking to the walls. She’d be out in her garden, alone on that bench, enjoying the silence. She liked to be on her own best of all, though that’s not to say she didn’t love her children and Mr. Lightly. Besides them, I’d say she
liked
and
tolerated
, but she wasn’t a sociable person like Mr. Lightly. Mr. Lightly liked having guests in the house. You’d never imagine for a moment that she didn’t like entertaining. But she didn’t. I could tell. She was happier when she had the house to herself.”

“What did she look like?”

Mrs. Underwood plugged the kettle in and took two cups down from the cupboard. “She wasn’t beautiful like you, Miranda. She was handsome, I’d say. Her features were so alive, her expression so kind and sensitive that she became beautiful the better you got to know her. Some people are like that, aren’t they? Mrs. Lightly wasn’t vain. She didn’t plaster her face with makeup or do her hair all fancy. It was long and curly. She’d twist it up on the top of her head and stick a pencil through it, then spend all afternoon looking for her pencil.” She chuckled again. “She was scatty. The house was full of clutter because she never put anything
away. She had a wonderful sense of humor. Everything had a funny side, even the bad times. Though I don’t imagine her finding a funny side to Mr. Lightly’s sickness. After that I didn’t see much of them. They stopped entertaining and withdrew. She looked after him herself.” She shook her head, popping two teabags into the pot. “That’s love, isn’t it? If my old man got sick I’d do the same for him. They drive you up the wall, but you love them. Wouldn’t want to be without them.”

Miranda instinctively knew not to mention the scrapbook. Mrs. Lightly’s secret love was probably known only to the two of them. “The cottage,” she began carefully. “Who lived there?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mrs. Underwood looked puzzled. “I think it’s been a ruin for years.”

“It’s adorable.”

“Mr. Lightly’s brother used it as a weekend cottage, but that was before I knew them. I think Mr. Lightly tried to rent it out after his brother moved away. But it’s very impractical being in the middle of a field.”

“Did you always cook for them?”

“Not in the early days. They had an old cook called Mrs. Marley. She was famous for chocolate walnut cake, but a person can’t live on that alone, can they? When Mrs. Marley retired I came to do the odd weekend. They had a lot of literary types down here from London. They’d play charades after dinner, I’d hear them whooping with laughter from the kitchen. Mr. Lightly was a famous writer, you know. I once read his name in the papers. He won all sorts of prizes. He was a very modest man, though.”

“What did he write about?”

“Wine. He spent a lot of time researching in France. He’d leave Ava alone in the house for weeks on end while he traveled to vineyards. Their cellar was quite something, I tell you. Full of dusty bottles as old as me!”

“Ah, that would account for all those French books in the cottage.”

“Mr. Lightly loved books. His study was full of them. Piled up on the floors and tables, spilling out into the hall. His study was where yours is now. I’m glad to see you’ve filled them.”

“There’s nothing more depressing than empty bookcases.”

“Mr. Lightly didn’t have enough space. Probably why he had to use the cottage. I’ve only ever read one book.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“
The Secret Garden
. Mrs. Lightly gave it to me. It took me weeks to finish. I’m ever such a slow reader. I prefer to sew. If I’m not cooking and growing my own vegetables, I’m doing my needlepoint. I sit by the fire with my feet up doing my needlepoint while Mr. Underwood watches the telly. That’s the way I like it, Mr. Underwood in his armchair, me in mine, feet up, watching the telly. Oh the things they have on these days, it’s a wonder people leave the house!”

They drank their tea, agreed to the hours and wages of Mrs. Underwood’s employment and Miranda handed her a key. “That’ll suit me perfectly,” said Mrs. Underwood, putting her cup down on the sideboard. “If you’re still looking for a housekeeper, I know a lady who could do it. Fatima, she’s Muslim. Mother of Jemal who owns the convenience shop in town. She’s looking to do something now her granddaughter’s gone to university. She’s a good woman and hard-working, I should imagine. Jemal will open on a Sunday if you ask him.”

“How do I get in touch with her?”

“I’ll be seeing her this afternoon. I’ve got to go and buy some ketchup. My grandchildren are coming on Sunday and little Kevin won’t eat anything unless it’s covered in ketchup. Such a pity! I’ll give Fatima your number and tell her to call you.”

“Thank you. She sounds ideal. By the way, who’s the local builder? I need to get that cottage ready and it’s in a right state!”

“That’ll be Derek Heath and his boys Nick and Steve. You’d better give him a call right away if you want to get them before Christmas. They’re very booked up. Hard to pin down.”

“Are they reliable?”

“Reliable? Gold dust, that’s what they are, gold dust! You can bring your fancy builders down from London but nothing compares to the local boys. Half the price, too. They’re honest, hard-working lads and they get the job done.” She smiled wickedly and winked. “Easy on the eye, too. I’d have thrown my cap at Derek if I hadn’t been married to Mr. Underwood. I’ll be happy to take them cups of tea.” She jotted the number down for Miranda. “Tell them it’s urgent, they’ll sort something out. They know the house well. Used to do the odd thing for Mrs. Lightly.”

Once Mrs. Underwood had gone, Miranda telephoned Derek Heath on his mobile. To her surprise he said he could start in a week—the job he had booked had been canceled. “You’re lucky,” he said in his country drawl. “Or perhaps it’s fate. I’m not a believer myself, but my wife is and she’d say it was definitely meant to be.” Miranda put down the receiver and thought of Jean-Paul. Was he fate, too?

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.”