The French Gardener (26 page)

“I’ve moved on,” she said simply.

“Good.”

“I’ve decided I don’t need another child. I don’t want to be chained to the nursery again.”

“Quite.”

“I’m just beginning to enjoy my freedom.”

They wandered around the town, a pretty cluster of reddish-brown buildings built around a square dominated by an ancient church and a town hall. In the middle was a fountain shaded by neatly clipped trees. A couple of old men in caps sat smoking pipes on a bench, and a grandmother and child threw crumbs to a flock of pigeons. There was a small market where wizened country folk sold fruit and vegetables and tall bottles of olive oil. A skinny dog played with an empty Coke can. They drank coffee in a little café that spilled onto the pavement, served by waiters in black and white. A group
of men in waistcoats played draughts in the corner and a couple of salesgirls smoked and gossiped. The streets were cobbled and narrow so that people were forced to park their cars and walk. A few tourist shops sold patterned tablecloths and soaps. Ava bought some lavender bath oil for her mother and sprayed herself with orange blossom perfume. Then she bought the scent. A small indulgence, but Ava was not extravagant and she couldn’t remember the last time she had bought something for herself beside plants. “This will always remind me of France,” she said, sniffing her wrist, then she walked lightly out into the street, where Phillip was looking into the window of an antiquarian bookshop.

“Shame they’re all in French,” he said.

“Come on, don’t you have enough books?”

“Oh no, there’s always room for more.”

They returned exhilarated from the walk. Antoinette appeared in the hall from the drawing room. “You must need some refreshment,” she said. “Tea or lemonade?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Ava replied.

“Same for me,” said Phillip, following Antoinette into the drawing room where the two Great Danes lay in front of the fireplace.

“I’m going to go upstairs and put my shopping away,” she called after him.

“All right, darling,” he replied. She clutched her parcel, excited by her purchases, and ascended the stairs. As she was walking along the corridor towards her room, a door opened and a hand grabbed her, pulling her inside where it was dark and cool.

“Don’t say a word,” Jean-Paul hissed. Ava was stunned. He had closed the shutters; thin beams of light filtered through the cracks.

“You’re crazy!” she hissed back.

“Crazy for you!” he replied, pulling her onto the bed.

“What if someone…”

“They won’t. Relax,
ma pêche
. I said I would arrange something and I have.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

He laughed, then looked at her with an expression so serious and so tender that her stomach lurched. “For you, I would wait forever.”

Hartington House, 2006

Miranda sat at her desk. The usual place, the usual music, but while her fingers hovered expectantly over the keys of her laptop, inspiration didn’t come. She had been asked by the
Daily Mail
Femail section to write about her experiences of moving out of London to the countryside. How the reality had turned out to be less blissful than the vision. She could have written it on autopilot a couple of months ago, but now she felt different. She could hear the children’s voices behind the wall of the vegetable garden and yearned to be with them. Country life was an adventure with Jean-Paul when they were home. He took them camping at night to watch badgers, to the river to catch fish, up to the woods to build camps and light fires, to watch the pheasants feeding and the rabbits playing. Her children, who at first had found nothing to do in the countryside except miss the city, were as much part of nature now as the animals they watched.

As for her, she had grown accustomed to leaving her hair unbrushed and wearing little makeup. There was no pressure in Hartington to look glamorous all the time. It was a relief. She didn’t mind wearing gumboots and, although she
still retained a muted longing to wear the beautiful clothes that languished in her wardrobe, she had no desire to return to the frenetic social life that had driven her to exhaustion in London.

She wrote a swift e-mail to the editor suggesting the article be a positive one. The editor replied it had to be negative; they already had another journalist writing the positive now. To hell with it! They’d have to find someone else. “Right,” she sighed, standing up. “That’s the last time she’ll ask me to write for her. Another door closes!” But as she wriggled her foot into a Wellington boot she realized that she didn’t care.
I should be writing a novel, not picking away at meaningless articles
.

Miranda went out to the vegetable garden where Jean-Paul was planting seeds with Storm and Gus. The children were on their knees, their small hands delving into the earth. Mr. Underwood leaned on his pitchfork, having done very little all morning except stand about making obvious comments like: “I’ll be damned, there’s a caterpillar, Storm.” Or: “Well, that’ll be a worm.” Miranda didn’t mind. She was in good spirits. Jean-Paul was more uplifting than sunshine. In fact, just being near him was a bolt of excitement. He made her feel good about herself. Not that he asked her much about her life—they talked mainly about the garden—but he took an interest in what she said. He encouraged her to learn about plants, to take pleasure from the bulbs emerging from the soil and the small creatures who lived among them. He enjoyed simple things and his fascination was infectious. Miranda soon found herself on her hands and knees planting potatoes and flicking through cookbooks to find interesting things to make with them when they were ready to harvest. She took pride in herself and her home, but most of all she began to enjoy being
with her children to the exclusion of everything else. They all shared their enjoyment of the garden and that was thanks to Jean-Paul.

The garden looked magnificent. The blossom was out, the lime green leaves on the trees were turning frothy, birdsong filled the honey-scented air. Fat bees buzzed about the borders where bulbs were now flowering. The wild garden was peppered with buttercups, purple camassias, cowslips and feathery dandelions. In the cottage garden a luxuriant bed of green shrubs grew up with tulips, narcissi and primulas. In the middle of it stood the mountain ash like a sailing ship in a winding river that was the grassy path. Beneath her canopy of white flowers was the circular bench where Jean-Paul sat from time to time, his brow furrowed in thought. Miranda had often seen him there, though what troubled him she was still too polite to ask.

“Mummy, look at this one!” Gus beckoned his mother to observe the worm he was waving in the air. “It’s enormous.”

“I want to keep one as a friend,” said Storm. “Can I, J-P?”

“Of course. We can put it in a jar and give it a name.”

“Why not call him Worzel the Worm,” suggested Miranda. Then, inspired by the idea, she announced that she would go get a jar.

“Clever Mummy,” said Storm, spotting another worm hiding in the soil and bending down to pull it out.

“That’s a fat one,” said Mr. Underwood, chuckling happily. “You’ve got quite a few there.”

“Bring something to drink,” Jean-Paul shouted after her. “This is thirsty work, eh!”

“
Je suis faim
,” said Storm.

“
J’ai faim
,” Jean-Paul corrected. “
J’ai aussi soif
,” he added.

“That means thirsty,” said Gus.

“Gus-the-Strong and Bright-Sky, you are learning fast!”

“That’ll be French,” said Mr. Underwood, nodding admiringly.

“Correct,” said Jean-Paul, grinning at him. “You, Mr. Underwood, are as clever as an old fox!”

While Miranda was in the kitchen, the telephone rang. It was Blythe. “Hi there, stranger.” Miranda was pleasantly surprised. She hadn’t heard from her friend since their lunch before Christmas.

“How are you?” Miranda asked.

“Fine. I have to go to court next Monday for the settlement.”

“Don’t let him get off lightly. Remember what David advised.”

“How is he? I haven’t seen him for a while.” She sounded down.

“Truth is, Blythe, I don’t see much of him either. He’s working really hard. Comes down late on Friday night and leaves early Sunday afternoon.”

“You should take a lover,” said Blythe brightly. “That’s what I’d do if I were stuck in the middle of the countryside. Happens all the time, I should imagine.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she replied, thinking of Jean-Paul.

“I just want the whole thing over and done with, then I can move on with my life.”

“Why don’t you come down for the weekend?” Miranda suggested. “David would love to see you. The gardens look beautiful and I’d like to show off the house.”

“You’re settling in then?”

“Yes. Right now, there’s no place I’d rather be. I wake up every morning to the sound of a hundred birds in the trees and the scent of flowers wafting in through my window. It’s heaven. Do come, I’d love to see you.”

“I thought you were a city girl.”

“I was, I’ve just got out of step with the rhythm of London. I prefer the slower pace down here.”

“I haven’t seen many of your articles. Have you stopped working as well?”

“Just a little pickier!”

“Has the countryside quelled your ambition?”

“There’s just so much to do down here, I don’t seem to find time to get to my computer.”

“It sounds blissful. When do you want me?”

“Whenever you like. Things are very relaxed in the country. I have no plans.”

“This weekend I’m tied up but the one after I’m free.”

“Great. I’ll tell David, he’ll be thrilled. If you’re not careful he’ll give you some more of his advice. Great big pearls of wisdom.” She laughed.

“I could do with that, believe it or not. You know, most of our friends have taken the bastard’s side. I’m known as a scarlet woman.”

“Ignore them. He’s just got a bigger mouth than you.”

“Oh, I do miss you, Miranda. You’re such a good listener.” She sighed. “You’ve made me feel so much better.”

“Come down here, my garden will make you feel wonderful. I feel utterly transformed.”

“You
sound
utterly transformed. Though I wonder how long it will take before you scamper back up to the city?” asked Blythe cynically. “All those designer collections. You can’t have changed that much.”

“We’ll see,” Miranda replied nonchalantly, feeling not an ounce of envy for her friend. She put down the receiver and passed her eyes over the jug of cow parsley that sat on the kitchen table and the three baskets of lilac hyacinths Jean-Paul had put on the windowsill. The air was infused with spring.

She made up a jug of elderflower cordial and found an empty jar in the storeroom. As she walked back into the hall she glanced into her study, where her laptop sat in shadow. She didn’t feel guilty or frustrated. She almost skipped through the French doors onto the terrace. The sun was out, the air was warm, Jean-Paul was in the garden, transforming the place with his own unique brand of magic. Magic she was beginning to understand.

The children had gathered a merry collection of worms and beetles, which they poured into the jar along with a few leaves and blades of grass. “Will they die?” Storm asked Jean-Paul.

“Not if you only keep them for a short while. Put them back at the end of the day. They belong in the garden.” The children set off in search of more. Mr. Underwood finished his cup of juice and returned reluctantly to the dovecote. A few trees had come down in February. He took up from where he had left off before the children’s laughter had lured him into the vegetable garden.

Miranda sat on the grass with her own cup of juice as Jean-Paul set about putting up the sweet pea frame with pig wire. She watched him work, his fingers rough, his nails short, the hands of a man who had worked in gardens all his life. There was something rather moving about those hands and the way his face looked sad in repose. “Have you always been a gardener?” she asked.

“For as long as I can remember.” His hands paused a moment. “My life before meant nothing. I tossed it away on frivolities.”

“What inspired you?”

“My mother. I grew up on a vineyard in Bordeaux. She was a passionate gardener.”

“Is she still alive?”

“No. She died last summer.”

“I’m sorry. You were close?” She slowly prised him open like a rare and mysterious shell. She knew there was something beautiful inside if only she could get in.

“I was her only son. We were very close.”

“What was she like?”

He looked at her steadily, as if weighing up how much he should tell her. His eyes took on a softer shade of brown. “She was dignified and quietly spoken. She had an air of serenity. She was very strong.”

“Was she beautiful?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“She had black hair that she tied into a chignon. I rarely saw it down, except at night before she went to bed. She would kiss me good night when I was a boy and I would see her like that, with her hair down, and I thought she must be an angel, she was so beautiful. It would fall down her back shining like silk. As she got older it went gray. Then I never saw it loose. She never lost her dignity or her serenity, right up until the day she died.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die? She can’t have been old.”

“She was seventy-three. She died in her sleep, peacefully. There was nothing wrong with her. She simply didn’t wake up.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Like a clock, her heart ceased to tick.”

“Is your father alive?”

“Yes. He lives in Paris. They were not close.”

Boldly she asked the question she had been longing to ask since she first met him. “Jean-Paul, have you ever been in love?” For a moment she feared she had gone too far. His face closed into that of a stranger, pulled down and gray with sorrow. Startled, she was about to change the subject, ask him about the vineyard, coax some more memories from him, but he answered before she had time to speak.

“Once,” he replied evenly. “And once only. I will never love again.”

Miranda felt a wave of disappointment, as if his answer had crushed her heart. She stared into her empty cup. “Would you like some more juice?” she asked, endeavoring to break the silence and return to the way they were. But the shell had snapped shut.

“So you pour all your love into the gardens,” she said hoarsely. He didn’t reply, but his face softened and his lips curled at the corners. “You have a gift, Jean-Paul,” she continued, emboldened. “Your love not only makes the garden grow but my children, too. They’ve blossomed like those cherry trees. Thanks to you they don’t fight all the time. They’ve stopped watching television. You’ve taught them the wonders of nature and the fun there is to be had among the trees and flowers. I’m so grateful.”

“It’s not all me,” he said, taking a pot of sweet peas to plant beneath the frame. “Your children want to be with you and David.”

“I didn’t know what to do with them before,” she admitted. “In London they had a nanny. I realize now that I never really saw them. They’d leave in the morning for school and Jayne would pick them up in the afternoon and whisk them off until six. All I had was bath time and bedtime. I was afraid of upsetting them so I let them watch videos when I should have read them stories and listened to them. Gus was such a problem, fighting with the other children at school, disrupting the classes. Moving out here has been the best thing we ever did for him. He’s really settled down. It’s thanks to you, Jean-Paul. You and the garden.”

“Gus just wants to feel important and valued, Miranda. Have you noticed how he looks at you?”

“
Me
?”

“Yes. He wants your approval and your admiration. Children are very easy to please; they just want your attention and your love.”

“I
do
love them.”

“It is not enough to tell them you love them. You have to show them. Words mean nothing if they are not backed up with action.”

“How come you’re so wise when you don’t have children of your own?”

“Because I learned from a very special woman many years ago. She put her children above everything, even above her heart’s desire. They came first.”

“Is it wrong to be a working mother?”

“Not at all. You have to satisfy yourself as well. If you are unhappy they sense it. Children need their mothers and fathers. Gus needs his father.”

“I know.”
But he has you. You’re better than any father. You include him, inspire him, play with him, build him up, make him feel special and important. You’re the one he looks up to. You’re the one he loves. David only thinks of himself
. Suddenly, a dark cloud of resentment cast her in shadow. “I need a husband, too,” she confessed huskily.

“Tell him,” he said simply.

She stood up, collected the empty cups and jug and sighed. “Life is so complicated. Love is complicated.”