The French Gardener (5 page)

“Thank you. You see, we need someone like you.” Although, as he put his stumpy finger up his nose and wiggled it about, she wasn’t quite so sure.

“Got an itchy nose,” he explained, giving his finger another wiggle.

“Thank you, Mr. Underwood. Now tell me, I gather you worked for Jeremy Fitzherbert?”

He withdrew his finger and wiped it on his jacket. “I worked on the farm for over forty years. Ploughing, sowing, but what I enjoy most is gardens. Have you seen the toadstools in the woods?” His eyes shone like hematite.

Miranda shook her head. “Toadstools?”

“Aye. There’ll be a fair few up there. It’s a wet autumn. D’you know that the mushroom itself is only the fruit of the mushroom plant?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s only when the plant growing in the ground becomes strong enough to produce seeds that mushrooms appear.”

“Really?” She tried to sound interested. This wasn’t going quite as well as she had thought.

“There are a lot of edible toadstools but most people don’t know that. They eat only mushrooms. Mrs. Underwood cooks a good toadstool soup. She knows which ones to eat and which ones not to eat.” Miranda noticed Mr. Underwood’s large belly. He was clearly well fed. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

“This is a large property, Mr. Underwood.”

“Mrs. Lightly did it all on her own,” he said, nodding slowly with admiration.

“Didn’t she have anyone to help her?”

“Only Hector. It was her passion.”

“Well, it’s been left to go wild for a year at least. There’s a lot of work to be done. I’m not sure that you’re strong enough to do it on your own.”

He looked affronted. “Not strong enough!” he gasped, insulted. He jumped up, took off his jacket and stood, flexing his muscles in his shirtsleeves. “Look at this. Hard as rock it is. Hard as solid rock.”

“Thank you, Mr. Underwood.”

“You’re as old as you feel, m’lady. Inside here I’m a strapping lad.”

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood is very lucky to have you. Tell me, how well does she cook?”

He rubbed his belly. “The little wife? She’s a good woman. No one can cook like Mrs. Underwood.”

Miranda decided to take a gamble. Desperation compelled her to be impulsive. “We’re looking for a cook,” she said. Mr. Underwood’s weathered face widened into a smile and his round cheeks shone pink.

“Look no further, m’lady. Mrs. Underwood will feed you all up good and proper. Used to cook for Mrs. Lightly when she had visitors.”

“So she knows the place?”

“Aye, she does.”

“Would she have the time?”

He nodded eagerly. “Aye, she’s got time all right. Little nippers are grown up now with nippers of their own.” Miranda’s mind was racing.

“I’d like to meet Mrs. Underwood,” she said firmly. “Perhaps she could come up tomorrow and cook Sunday lunch for the
four of us. As for you, Mr. Underwood, let me speak plainly. This place is a mess and you clearly know a thing or two about gardens. Perhaps you could start sweeping leaves and chopping logs so we can light our fires and I’ll keep looking for someone”—she hesitated, anxious to find the right word so as not to offend him—“to work with you on the landscaping side. I think this place requires two pairs of hands, don’t you?”

Mr. Underwood nodded slowly. He didn’t quite understand what she meant by landscaping. However, he loved chopping logs and lighting fires, and was already envisaging vast mountains of leaves.

“I’ll pay you eight pounds hour and you do as much as you’re able.”

“That’s as good to me as plum pudding, m’lady,” he replied, clearly pleased.

“Call me Mrs. Claybourne,” she added.

“Mrs. Claybourne, m’lady.”

She sighed and let it go. “You can start on Monday and don’t forget to tell Mrs. Underwood to come up tomorrow, if she can—perhaps she could call me to discuss details.”

David returned from Cate’s Cake Shop in a good mood. He strode into the kitchen where Miranda was roasting a chicken and grabbed her around the waist, kissing her neck behind her ponytail. “You were right about that coffee. It’s given me a real buzz. Charming people, too. I can’t think why we never explored before. It’s a quaint place.”

“Do you like it?” She turned to face him, leaning back against the Aga.

“I had a little chat with the locals, gave them a bit of advice about their businesses.” He smiled mischievously.

“Oh, David, you didn’t?”

“Of course I didn’t. What do you take me for, a pompous ass?”

“I should hope not!”

“I chatted to Cate, who’s definitely hot for me. Colonel Pike—asked him a bit about the war. They all knew who I was. Of course, I can’t remember them all by name, but they were suitably deferential. I think I’m going to enjoy being lord of the manor. Should spend a little more time down here. It’s like living fifty years ago. Can’t think why we didn’t move out sooner.”

“That Cate’s a snake in the grass. Watch out for her.”

“Saw your notice up on the board. Sweet!”

“It’s not sweet. It’s practical. You’ll see, it’ll do the trick.”

“Let’s hope so. The lady of the manor shouldn’t be getting her fingers dirty in the garden and cleaning the house. I want my wife to have the smooth hands of a duchess.”

“Lucky my work is all at the computer then, isn’t it?”

“How did your meeting with Mr. Underwood go?”

“He’ll do, for the moment. We still need a proper gardener. He can do odd jobs, raking leaves, mowing, logs, that sort of thing. His wife is coming to cook lunch tomorrow. She used to cook for the previous owners.”

“I’m impressed, darling.” He lifted her chin. “I never thought you’d pull it all together.”

“I’ve been so busy…” He silenced her with a kiss.

“Shhh. Don’t forget your biggest client!”

Miranda awoke in the middle of the night. David lay on his stomach, fast asleep. She watched him for a moment, his back rising and falling in the silvery light of the moon that entered through the gap in the curtains. Lying there beside her he looked like a stranger, remote and out of reach. She could almost feel the heat of his body and yet he was so very far away. They seemed not to connect anymore, as if the miles that separated them had distanced them spiritually, too. She listened to the wind whistling over the roof of the house and felt an ache of loneliness, an ache she usually suppressed by being busy. After a while she climbed out of bed, slipped into her dressing gown and padded into her walk-in closet. She closed the door and turned on the light. Decorated like a boutique with shelves and drawers in mahogany, it was the room she had particularly looked forward to: an entire room dedicated to her clothes. Now the dresses and suits which hung neatly on wooden hangers divided by season and occasion seemed redundant. She laughed bitterly. What occasion? She had nothing to go to down here. She had no friends. Even her friends in London were beginning to forget she existed.

One by one she pulled the dresses out, gazing at them longingly. She was talking to herself.
You, darling little Dolce number. With the Celine handbag and Jimmy Choo shoes, you cut a dash at the charity ball at the Dorchester and at David’s fortieth birthday party. Together we turned every head in the
room. And you, Tulah trouser suit with your pretty shoulders and long trousers, with those Louboutin heels and Anya Hindmarch handbag, you carried me through those girls’ lunches in Knightsbridge and committee meetings for Haven Breast Cancer. And you, little black Prada dress, a must-have for any woman worth her fashion credentials, now you sit like a ghost from my old life with boxes and boxes of exquisite shoes and barely used handbags. In London I always felt glamorous. I always had confidence. But down here, in Hartington, I’m disappearing. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m losing my sense of self
.

With increasing regret she opened each shoe box and took out the shoes, holding them up and turning them around in her hands as a jewelry expert might look at diamonds in the light. She was only thirty-three and yet she felt life was over. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror she was struck by how stringy she looked. She didn’t have the youthful bloom she was once envied for; there were blue-gray shadows under her eyes and her skin was pale and sallow. She had to get a grip. Sort herself out. Go running, meet people, invite friends for the weekend. She couldn’t allow herself to wallow in self-pity, that wouldn’t keep David interested. The thought of hitting Ralph Lauren for a stylish country wardrobe made her spirits rise before she realized she had no one to leave the children with. If only she could get away for a day, Bond Street would surely resuscitate her. Those who think money doesn’t buy happiness just don’t know where to shop, she remembered with a wry smile, turning off the light and returning to bed. David slept on, oblivious of his wife’s unhappiness.

The following morning Gus wandered around to the front of the house and saw an old Fiat parked on the gravel. He looked at it curiously. It was rusting, muddy and the pale gray paint was peeling. In the backseat sat a springer spaniel breathing fog on the windows. He tapped his knuckle against
the glass. The dog wagged his tail. Gus wondered who the dog belonged to. When he walked away the animal began to bark. “Shut up, you silly mutt!” he shouted.

“Who are you calling a silly mutt? Not my Ranger, I hope.” Gus was stunned to see a strange woman standing at the front door of his home, her hands on wide hips, who fixed him with narrowed eyes. “You’ll be young Gus, then,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. Her jaw was as square as a spade. The boy knew instinctively that this was a woman one didn’t confront. “I hear you have quite a bite on you.” Gus wondered how she knew. She looked at his bewildered face and softened. “Let’s give Ranger a run around. He’ll be misting up the windows of my car.” She strode down the steps towards the vehicle. “Open it then, lad, it’s not locked.” Gus did as he was told and Ranger jumped out, wagging his tail excitedly and springing up to greet his mistress.

“Who are you?” said Gus, watching her pat the animal fondly with capable, pink hands.

“I’m Mrs. Underwood. I’ll be cooking your lunch today, young master Gus. Roast leg of lamb, potatoes from my own garden, beans, peas and carrots. You look like you need some color in those cheeks of yours.” Gus rubbed them with his hand. “Growing lads like you need vegetables. Off you go, Ranger, and have a run around!” The dog did as he was told and galloped off into the field that led down to the river. “That used to be a beautiful meadow of wildflowers.” She sighed and shook her head. “Mrs. Lightly would have a seizure if she saw what has become of it.”

Gus followed her back into the house, leaving Ranger to run about the property, which he seemed to know. The aroma of cooking meat filled the hall and Gus’s stomach rumbled. “I’d have thought a family like you would be at church,” said Mrs. Underwood, walking down the corridor towards the kitchen. “I’d be there if I weren’t here. Can’t say I’m a great
fan of Rev. Beeley. I like a man to represent God. A man I can look up to. After all, Jesus wasn’t a woman, was he? If he’d been a she, no one would have taken a blind bit of notice.” Gus half-listened to her chatter, curious to see what she was cooking.

Miranda was perched on a stool in the kitchen, reading the papers. The smell of cooking had drawn her there, too. She was in a good mood. It felt right having Mrs. Underwood stooping over the Aga. She was as a cook should be: big, fat and enthusiastic, though Miranda couldn’t help but spare a thought for her husband who was half her size in all but belly. “Giving Ranger a run around,” said Mrs. Underwood, washing her hands in the sink. “He’ll be in the river by now.”

“Smells good, doesn’t it, Gus?” said Miranda. “Mrs. Underwood is cooking for us today. And Mr. Underwood is going to help in the garden.”

“He might be old but he’s as strong as an ox, Miranda,” said Mrs. Underwood. Miranda noticed that she had been called by her Christian name right from the first while Miranda called her Mrs. It didn’t seem right, but there was nothing she could do. Mrs. Underwood was clearly a woman used to doing things her own way and Miranda was young enough to be her daughter.

“Where’s Dad?”

“In the sitting room. Now don’t go and bother him, he’s reading the papers.”

“Can I watch
Lord of the Rings
?” he asked.

“No, darling. You know Daddy said you can’t watch it for a week. Why don’t you go outside? It’s not raining.”

“There’s nothing to do.”

“Nothing to do?” Mrs. Underwood gasped. “In the countryside?”

“Where’s Storm?” he asked despondently.

“In the playroom.”

Gus put his hands in his pockets and wandered out.

Mrs. Underwood had to bite her tongue. She didn’t know Miranda well enough to tell her how to entertain her children. With all that land there was plenty to do. Poor London kids, she thought, they need to be taught how to have fun in the countryside. By the look of their mother, who had gone back to reading the papers, she wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

Gus couldn’t face sitting in the playroom. Storm wasn’t interested in doing the things he liked and he couldn’t watch television. Instead, he went out the front door to kick the gravel, looking for something to destroy. He found a stick on the ground. It wasn’t large enough to torment the donkey, but it was the perfect size to throw for a dog. He headed across the field towards the river, scanning the countryside for Ranger. He hadn’t explored that side of the garden. The field didn’t look like much and was overgrown with weeds. The other side was more exciting with the field full of sheep, Charlie, and the woods beyond. But Ranger had gone this way. Mrs. Underwood said he liked the river.

After a while he came to the river. It was about twenty feet wide, straddled by a gray stone bridge. A path had once run down the field, over the bridge and on to the little cottage that nestled among a cluster of chestnut trees. Gus could tell no one lived there. The windows were dark and dusty. Distracted by a noise in the water, he turned his attention to the river. His spirits rose when he saw Ranger climbing up the bank and shaking his black and white coat until it stuck up in pointy tufts. “Ranger!” he shouted. The dog bounded up, his tail whirring like the propeller of a helicopter. He let him sniff the stick then threw it as far as he could. Ranger was used to the game and galloped after it. Gus patted him when he returned with the stick in his mouth, dropping it at the boy’s feet. He threw it again and again.

What finally brought the game to an end was Gus’s curiosity about the little abandoned cottage. There was something compelling about those blind windows and neglected walls where ivy was slowly creeping over the bricks like a patient octopus. He left the stick on the ground and approached it. The door was locked, the pale blue paint chipped and peeling. He rubbed a window with his sleeve and peered inside. To his surprise the room was full of furniture. There were a sofa and two armchairs in front of a fireplace that gaped like the mouth of a corpse. Pictures hung on walls decorated with stripy yellow paper. If it hadn’t been for the damp patch that darkened one corner it would have almost looked inhabited. He wandered around trying all the windows until he came to one that was broken and swinging on its hinges. He seized the opportunity and climbed inside.

His heart pounding with excitement at this new discovery, he forgot the injustice of being punished for a fight he didn’t start and began to explore. The rooms were small and gloomy. He wished he’d brought a torch. There were papers on the desk in the sitting room, a wastepaper bin full of rubbish, books on the shelves against the wall, logs in the basket beside the fire. Everything was as if the occupier had gone out one day and never returned.

Gus explored every room. There was a modest kitchen with a rough table on which two teacups were placed alongside a teapot, milk jug and an empty plate. The little cottage was like a shrine and although Gus was only a boy, he sensed he was walking over someone else’s sadness. It was as if the air was damp with tears.

After a while his rumbling stomach reminded him of Mrs. Underwood’s roast lamb. He climbed back out the way he had come and called Ranger. The dog was waiting outside, lying against the wall of the cottage, strangely subdued. “Come on, you silly mutt, it’s lunchtime.” The dog made no
move to follow. Gus tried to tempt him with the stick, but still he did not come. “Well, I’m not missing out for you. Stay if you want to, but I’m going home.” He set off over the bridge and through the field. It wasn’t until he was back at the house that the dog appeared, galloping over the long grass towards him.

“Where have you been?” Miranda asked when she saw her son’s sweaty red face and sparkling eyes.

“Nowhere,” he replied secretively. He wasn’t going to share the cottage with anyone. “Just mucking around outside.”

“Good. It’s lunchtime. Go and call your sister. We’ll eat in the dining room.” Storm was watching
Fifi and the Flowertots
on television. Gus would have been furious had he not made such an exciting discovery down by the river. Storm waited for him to complain and was surprised when he didn’t. Reluctantly she turned off the television and followed him through the house to the dining room.

David had spent the morning reading the papers and watching golf on television. It hadn’t occurred to him that his wife might welcome his company. They were growing used to being apart. Besides, after a busy working week he needed time on his own to unwind. The smell of roast lamb wafted through the house mingling with the wood smoke from the fire Mrs. Underwood had insisted on lighting in the hall. Mr. Underwood had filled the basket with logs the day before from the barn that stood beside the walled vegetable garden. The Lightlys had clearly enjoyed fires, for the barn was full of neatly chopped wood. As David walked across the hall to the dining room he felt rather smug: He was the proud owner of a proper country house.

“Something smells good,” he exclaimed, finding his family already at the dining room table. He peered over the sideboard where the roast leg of lamb was placed, ready to be carved.

“I think we’ve found our cook,” said Miranda.

“I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve tasted it,” said David, pulling out his chair and sitting down. “I think we should use this room more often,” he added, casting his eyes over his wife’s tasteful decoration. Mrs. Underwood entered carrying a tray of vegetable dishes. David made a move to help her.

“Oh no you don’t, Mr. Claybourne, I can manage it. God didn’t make me big and strong to let others do my work for me.” Miranda was slightly put out at hearing her husband David referred to as mister. Mrs. Underwood balanced the tray on the corner of the sideboard and unloaded the vegetables. Gus had never seen so many. “These potatoes are from my own garden, they taste like potatoes should.” There were beans, peas and carrots, sprinkled with parsley and butter. She began to carve. The meat was tender and rose pink in the middle. David’s mouth watered.

The first bite confirmed what Miranda already knew. Mrs. Underwood would be a fine addition to the family. “I don’t think I’ve tasted better,” said David, as the lamb melted on his tongue.

“It’s organic Dorset lamb,” said Mrs. Underwood proudly. “There’s a farmers’ market in Hartington every Saturday morning.”

“Really?” said Miranda.

“I’m surprised you don’t know about it.” She placed the gravy on the table.

“I don’t go into town much.”

“You will. Once you’ve settled in you’ll get to know it and its people. The best way to become part of the community is to go to church. The Lightlys always sat in the front pew. There wasn’t a person in town who didn’t like them.” Miranda cringed at the idea of playing lady of the manor, but it added another piece to David’s picture-perfect country life.

“I think it’s a terrific idea. It’s about time we got to know the locals.”