The French Gardener (14 page)

When Jean-Paul awoke it took him a moment to orientate himself. He opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the bedroom ceiling and heard the twittering birds in the chestnut trees outside, heralding the dawn. He could see the sky through the gap in the curtains, slowly turning a pale shade of gray. He lay there with nothing but a memory. A memory so strong he could smell the scent of damp grass in her hair, feel the softness of her skin, run his fingers down the smoothness of her face, hold her slim body against his and kiss her lips. Then the memory faded, turning cold beside him. Their cottage remained but her love no longer warmed it.

Why had he come? What did he hope to achieve? Surely it would be better to return to his château? He sat up and rubbed his eyes. How could he return now, without her? His whole life had been gradually moving towards this point. He had dreamed it, planned it, fantasized about it. He hadn’t considered what came after. He got up and walked into the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him unhappily, his eyes raw, the shadows dark beneath them. He looked old.
Oh God, if nothing comes after, I can’t go on. I can’t live in nothing
.

He dressed, made himself a cup of strong coffee and left the cottage. He was eager to get outside, to look around the garden, to find her there beneath the rotting foliage and make her flower again. It was a crisp morning. His breath rose on the air like smoke. The scent of damp earth was sweet on
the breeze and those squirrels, intrepid and mischievous, watched him walk over the bridge then made a dash for his bedroom window, only to find he had outwitted them and closed it.

He stood a moment in the middle of the field that had once been Ava’s wildflower garden. The oak tree dominated it like a small fortress. He would build the children their house and they would play in it as Archie, Angus and Poppy had done. He crouched down and ran his hands through the wet weeds that grew in abundance. He’d have to start again. Mow it all down and replant it so that in March it would dazzle with crocuses, cowslips, daffodils and buttercups. Ava had loved to see the summer flowers when she opened her bedroom curtains in the morning. He looked towards the house. It was bewildering to witness it belonging to another family, strangers using the rooms that had once been Ava’s and Phillip’s. Miranda had redecorated. She had even ripped out the kitchen and replaced it. The house was far more splendid than when it had belonged to Ava and yet it had no soul. It was a beautiful show house; but it didn’t live.

He strode across the gravel to the archway in the hedge. There was now a smart black gate, its hinges oiled to perfection. The walled vegetable garden was, as he expected, neglected and overrun with weeds. The old brick wall was intact, but the borders were heaped high with dead flowers and bushes, the climbing roses falling away from the wall and drooping sadly. The box that lined the vegetable patches was in need of a dramatic haircut. It wouldn’t take long to tidy it all up and replant. They’d have vegetables in spring. He was heartened to see the apple trees, the ground beneath them scattered with decaying fruit. He bent down and searched for one that was edible, then took a bite. The taste made him smile with gratitude that some things never change.

He wandered along the stone pathways that led through
the vegetable patches. He was uplifted to see the arched frame that straddled the path still in one piece though no sweet peas had flourished there that summer. He’d grow runner beans there with Ava’s favorite pink and white sweet peas and the children would help pick them as Poppy had loved to do. He found Hector’s old toolbox in one of the greenhouses, Ava’s gardening gloves and instruments beneath a table strewn with empty pots and seed packets. It would be a challenge to sort the place out, but he knew he could do it. He’d do it for her.

The herbaceous border was as overgrown and ignored as the rest of the grounds but he found a wheelbarrow full of dead branches at the far end, indicating that someone had already started weeding. He didn’t imagine that was Miranda. She had the hands of a woman who had never done a day’s digging—as clean and manicured as his had once been. He looked down at his fingernails, short and ragged, his palms rough and lined like the bark of a tree. No one would ever imagine the smooth, insouciant man he had once been. He had shed that skin in this very garden. Finally, he came to the dovecote. How often he had used it in his paintings. In the pink light of dusk, the pale liquid light of morning and in the silvery light of a full moon.

Ava had been surprised to see that he painted. She hadn’t imagined him to be artistic. She had written him off as a shallow, spoiled young man who drifted aimlessly through life without a care in the world. But he had been far from aimless; his longings were bullied into hiding by his controlling father. At Hartington he had been able to set them free. To paint without guilt. To create and be admired for it.
You gave me so much, Ava
.

It wasn’t long before the children found him. Gus was prepared for disappointment, his face long and sullen, his fringe hiding the spark of hope in his eyes lest it serve only
to humiliate him. Storm ran ahead enthusiastically, too young to have been crushed by her parents’ lack of interest. Jean-Paul greeted them with a smile, their presence in the garden banishing his sorrow like sunshine breaking through cloud. “I am glad you are up,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “I thought I would have to start without you. Are you ready? We have lots of work to do.” He led them off to the greenhouse where they picked up the tools Jean-Paul selected, then proceeded towards the hollow tree.

“It’s completely hollow,” Storm cried, poking her head out at Gus. Her brother forgot his resentment and climbed in, as enthralled as she was.

“It’s a real den,” he said, gazing around at the husk of bark that formed a perfect playhouse. “We should find something to put on the ground. Something soft,” he said.

“Like hay,” she volunteered.

“Yes, like hay. Jean-Paul!” Gus shouted, sticking his head out. “Where can we find hay to line the floor?”

“You won’t find hay at this time of year. But wood shavings will do and I know just the place. We need wood for the tree house and a ladder. Come with me!”

They pulled their supplies in a cart across the field to the tree. Jean-Paul left the children in their den while he returned for the ladder, where Ava had always kept it in one of the greenhouses. When he got back, Miranda had emerged from her study and was watching the children while they excitedly told her about their project. She had never seen them so animated. Not even
Lord of the Rings
had put so wide a smile on her son’s face. When she saw Jean-Paul, she thrust her hands into her coat pockets and grinned. He smelled her lime scent on the breeze. She would be good-looking if she didn’t have the pinched look of a woman starved of affection. “I see you’ve been busy,” she said, hugging her sheepskin around her. His eyes were
drawn to her feet. She followed his gaze and grinned. “You can take the girl out of London but not London out of the girl!” She laughed, knowing her open-toed Gina heels looked ridiculous in the countryside.

“If they are going to help me in the garden, I have to bribe them with a house. From here they will be able to see the church spire of Hartington. I’ve looked around the garden. There is much to do. Who has been weeding in the border?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Underwood. I’ve just hired him. He’s helping out. You know, clearing up the leaves.” She didn’t quite know what he did. “He’ll be here somewhere.”

“He can help me then. I need more than one pair of hands. It is a big job. We need to get things cut back and replanted. Is there a nursery nearby?”

“Yes. A big one by the golf club. You can’t miss it. It’s rather good, so I’m told. Take my car.”

Jean-Paul leaned the ladder against the tree and scaled it, a plank of wood and baler twine under his arm. In spite of the cold he worked in shirtsleeves and jeans. He was slim-hipped and lithe, moving from branch to branch as if trees were his natural habitat.

“Gus, pass me the hammer,” he instructed, pulling a nail out of his breast pocket and placing it between his lips. Gus scrambled out of the tree. He climbed the ladder with the hammer and passed it to Jean-Paul. “Right, come up here and hold this plank still.” Gus glanced at his mother. She was looking up at him, her face suddenly serious.

Fueled by his mother’s attention and Jean-Paul’s confidence in him, Gus did everything he was told with eagerness. Jean-Paul didn’t treat him like a little boy, but as an equal, as capable of assisting as any man. He ran up and down the ladder with tools and twine, passed him small planks of wood and sticks. He watched the Frenchman build a platform around the branches. Once that was secure, he built the walls,
leaving gaps for two windows and a door. He made a proper roof using two boards of plywood he had found in the barn, and a sturdy beam. For the door he used an old cupboard that he knew had been Poppy’s; it fitted perfectly. Gus didn’t mind that it was pink. Phillip had hated throwing things away, keeping the oddest assortment of objects from curtain poles to an old wood burner in a shed attached to the back of the barn. Miranda was surprised Jean-Paul had found it. She didn’t even know it existed.

She looked at her watch, aware that she should have been writing, but Jean-Paul was compelling. She’d get to her computer after the children had gone to bed and then she would answer all the e-mails requesting articles and changes to the ones she had already submitted. Right now, she was enjoying watching the Frenchman entertain her children.

“We will leave the ladder here for the moment,” Jean-Paul told Gus. “Until we build our own steps. For that we need the right size wood. You can come with me and choose it. There must be a timber yard here somewhere.”

“Mr. Fitzherbert will know,” said Gus. “He’s our neighbor.”

“Then we will ask him,” said Jean-Paul, climbing down the ladder. Gus remained on a branch, gazing over the treetops to where the spire of St. Hilda’s soared into the sky. “Look! It’s Mr. Underwood,” he exclaimed, waving. “Mr. Underwood. I’m in a tree!”

Mr. Underwood gazed up at the tree house. “It’s a palace!” he gasped, taking off his cap in homage.

“This is Jean-Paul, the landscape gardener,” said Miranda, hoping Jean-Paul would have the sense not to correct her.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Underwood. “I’ve been doing a bit of clearing up,” he informed him importantly. “There’s a lot of work to be done in the garden. I’m glad there’ll be the two of us.” Jean-Paul looked at the elderly man and recognized his need to feel useful.

“I’m glad to be of help,” he said with a smile. Mr. Underwood puffed out his chest and nodded. “We have two more helpers. Gus and Storm,” he added with a wink.

Mr. Underwood nodded again, his lips curling into a grin. “They can look out for fryers up there.”

“Fryers?”

“Rabbits,” said Mr. Underwood. “I’ll get my gun out and kill the buggers. Put them in the pan and fry them. That’s all they’re good for.” Jean-Paul remembered watching rabbits at dusk with Ava and her children. Poppy used to leave bowls of carrots for them, delighting when she found them empty in the morning.

Jean-Paul clicked his tongue. “We’ll secure the vegetable gardens so they can’t get in. I’d prefer to befriend them than make them my dinner,” he said with a chuckle.

“I’d like one as a pet,” said Storm.

Jean-Paul patted her head. “You’ll soon be sharing your den with them,” he said. “Them and the squirrels.”

Miranda returned to the silence of her study with reluctance, sat at her desk and switched on her computer. After a while she was absorbed by her e-mails and finally by her article, her fingers tapping swiftly over the keys.

That afternoon Jean-Paul took Gus and Storm to buy seeds. Gus helped fill their basket and chose the vegetable seeds with Storm, taking the packets down from the stand as if they were sweets. The seeds he couldn’t purchase there he’d get sent from Les Lucioles.

On the way back they stopped at Jeremy Fitzherbert’s farm. Jean-Paul remembered it well. Jeremy’s father, Ian, had run the farm back then. Jeremy had been in his twenties. He had helped out during the harvest, rouging and manning the dryer. Jean-Paul doubted he would remember
him
. They had never been introduced.

Jeremy was in the workshop with his manager, discussing the need to replace the old Massey Ferguson tractor. When he saw the children standing in the doorway, he broke off his conversation and approached. Mr. Ben trotted up to Gus and sniffed his boots, his thick tail wagging with excitement. They smelled of Ranger. “Hi there,” Jeremy exclaimed.

“My name is Jean-Paul. I’m working for Miranda Claybourne up at the house.”

“Ah.” Jeremy nodded. “These two helping you, are they?”

“They are. I couldn’t do without them,” he replied, smiling. Jeremy was warmed by the Frenchman’s grin.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need timber to make a ladder for the children’s tree house. I thought you might know where to buy some.”

“Buy some? Good Lord. You don’t need to buy it. I have a barn full of timber. We’re constantly felling trees. Come, I’ll show you.” The two men walked through the farm followed by the children and Mr. Ben. It was exactly as Jean-Paul remembered it. The dryer was the same, scattered with wheat from the harvest. The barns were still peeling their green paint, the corrugated iron roof thick with moss and leaves. He remembered bringing the children to play on the mountains of wheat in the summer with Ava. Ian hadn’t minded the mess they made, patiently sweeping the ground once they’d left. He’d have done anything for Ava Lightly.

Jeremy’s barn was full of timber, logs and hay bales. “As you see, we’ve got more than we need.”

“If you can spare some, we’d be grateful.”

“You’d be doing me a favor.” He looked at Jean-Paul, an unlikely figure in Hartington. “How are you finding it down there?”

“I only arrived yesterday.”

“Oh,” Jeremy replied, wondering what Miranda had hired him to do. “They’re nice people, the Claybournes.”