The French Gardener (17 page)

“Well done.” He grinned boyishly. “We do, don’t we, Shrub?”

“Yes, darling, very healthy.”

He leaned forward and kissed her neck. “You smell of damp grass.”

“I can’t. I’ve had a bath.”

“You always do. It’s in your blood. You know it’s not like normal blood, it’s green.”

“You’re silly.” She considered telling him what Jean-Paul had said. But it sounded so arrogant, assuming a young man was flirting with her. She was so much older and she wasn’t pretty. She had hands like sandpaper and unruly hair; she didn’t wear makeup and fashionable clothes. She was probably as far from Jean-Paul’s tastes as it was possible to get. “I think those girls hit it off with Jean-Paul,” she said instead.

“I think Donald hit it off with Samantha,” he replied, chortling at the recollection.

“Mummy was furious. I don’t see any harm in enjoying the company of a girl. It makes him feel young. It’s not like he’s flirting in an embarrassing way.” There was a pause as her mind turned back to Jean-Paul. “They’re in the cottage,” she continued. “I hope they’re having fun.”

“I wouldn’t look too closely if I were you. Those girls have definitely been over the guns a few times.”

“Do you think?”

“Oh yes,” he replied knowingly. “They’ll give Jean-Paul a run for his money!” He turned to embrace his wife. “So, we roll about a bit, do we?” He breathed into her neck and the bristles on his face tickled her skin. She wrapped her arms around him and returned his kiss. He was warm and soft and comfortingly familiar. How could Toddy refer to her husband as an old slipper? If she tired of making love to Phillip she’d be tired of life.

“Mummy,” came a small voice from the doorway. Both parents sprang apart as if scalded. “I can’t sleep.” It was Angus, in his blue airplane pajamas, hugging his toy rabbit. Phillip sighed resignedly, kissed his wife and left the bed to sleep in his dressing room. There wasn’t room for the three of them to sleep together comfortably. Ava watched him go with regret, then patted the bed.

“Come on, darling. Mummy will look after you.” Angus crawled beneath the blankets, closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. Ava lay on her side holding her child’s hand, stroking the soft skin with her thumb. Her heart flooded with tenderness before she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

November brought shorter days and cold winds. At night the gales moaned around the house like mischievous ghosts bent on frightening the children into their parents’ bed. It hardly rained. The air was dry, the sky cerulean, the light bright and crisp upon the red leaves of the sweet gum trees. Jean-Paul and Ava busied themselves planting the wild garden. As the days moved towards Christmas they grew together like trees, barely aware of their intensifying friendship. They began to anticipate each other’s actions, to understand without having to explain, and they laughed all the time. Having thought that they had nothing in common, they realized that they had a great deal. Above all, they were both enchanted by the magic of the garden and the secret world of the flora and fauna that inhabited it.

When the children returned from school Ava didn’t like to work unless she was doing something that included them. Time with her children was precious. Ava knew they liked to have Jean-Paul around. He took time with them and played games that were always creative and original. They’d watch birds, drawing them in notebooks their mother gave them, writing their habits in their large, childish scrawl. Poppy collected feathers and stuck them onto the pages along with leaves of interest. She would have stuck creatures in there
too had her mother not explained that they were living animals to be treated with respect. “Just because they are small, doesn’t mean they don’t feel as we do. If you were to look down on us from a great height we would be as small as them, but we feel pain, don’t we?” So Poppy carried around a shoe box in which she collected worms and slugs to look at closely before setting them back in the earth.

Jean-Paul helped the children sketch. He taught them how to observe and put down on paper what they saw. Angus, although only six, had a natural talent, taking his sketches back to the house to color in at the kitchen table. Ava framed the best and hung them in her bedroom.

One afternoon in early December they went on an expedition to the woods. The cows had been let out into the field beyond the thyme walk. The children liked to tame them, putting out their hands so the animals could lick their skin with their rough tongues. Ian Fitzherbert had taken the time to explain why they had tongues like that and how they had five stomachs in order to make milk. The children considered all animals their friends, even the hairy spiders that Ava secretly loathed. Every time Archie collected one for his jar, she was tempted to scream, but she knew she’d only teach her children to fear them. So she smiled proudly and told him how clever he was and how deliciously juicy they were with their fat little bodies and swift legs as they scurried about the glass. She showed them webs, especially after a rainfall when they sparkled with gems, or in winter when the frost made them glitter. She reminded herself that spiders were ugly by no fault of their own. How could she love gardens if she didn’t love all who lived in them?

That evening they carried baskets to fill with “treasure” from the woodland floor. Poppy searched for feathers, many from the pheasants and partridges Ian Fitzherbert reared, but also those of pigeons and smaller birds. The boys preferred
more substantial things, like conkers, but they had gathered those in October, polishing them and tying them to string for their games. Now there wasn’t much to collect except mushrooms. Ava wasn’t sure which were edible and which were poisonous so she forbade the boys to touch them, encouraging them to find other things like unusual leaves, or spent cartridges from shoots.

As they busied themselves among the trees and bushes, Jean-Paul and Ava walked together up the path that cut through the middle of the wood. They didn’t feel the need to talk. They watched the children, praised their efforts when they ran up to show what they had found, but otherwise they walked in the comfortable silence of old friends. The light was mellow as the sun hung low in the western sky, hitting the tops of the trees and turning them golden. It was chilly down there in the shadow, but Ava wore only a T-shirt and her face glowed with warmth. They watched the changing colors of sunset, moved by the melancholy of the dying day. Finally they reached the edge of the wood. Jean-Paul stopped walking.

“There is great beauty in the tragedy of sunset,” he said.

“It’s because it’s transient,” she replied, gazing across the field. “You can enjoy it for a moment only and then it is gone, like a rainbow.”

“I suppose it is human nature to want what we cannot have.”

Ava pretended not to notice the significance of his words.

“I love this time of year,” she said brightly, walking on. “The weather is crisp yet there are still leaves on the trees, turning into wondrous colors. Midwinter makes me sad. Nothing grows, everything is dead.”

“I admire you,” he said suddenly.

Ava laughed. “Whatever for? I don’t think there’s much in me to admire.”

“You have a loving family. Your children are happy. Your home has a magical warmth to it. And you, Ava, you have an inner beauty that grows the more I get to know you.”

“Really, Jean-Paul, that’s very sweet. I’ve never thought I have an inner beauty.”

“You do. You have a quality I have never seen before. You are contradictory. You seem very confident and yet I sense that inside you are not as you appear. You are a great storyteller, a good entertainer, and yet you prefer to be alone. You pretend you like spiders but I can see that they frighten you. You are a good woman. For that I admire you the most.”

“Thank you,” she said briskly. “I’ll tell Phillip. He’ll be pleased someone admires me.”

“I don’t think he would be pleased to know another man is falling in love with his wife.”

Ava was silenced.

“You don’t have to answer. I know that you are married and that you love your husband.”

“Then why tell me?” she asked crossly. This declaration would spoil what had been an enjoyable friendship.

“Because one day you might surprise me and tell me that you feel the same way.”

She thrust her hands into her pockets. “I’m far too old for you,” she said, trying to make light of it, not daring to look at his face. “You’re my employee. You’re not allowed to fall in love with your boss.”

“I cannot help myself.”

“You’re French, you fall in love with everyone.”

“You are wrong. I have never lost my heart to anyone.”

“Please, Jean-Paul, save your flirting for Lizzie and Samantha. They are more your age and they are free to love you back.”

“Don’t you see? I feel nothing for those girls. They are nice enough. But you are wise and creative and original.
There is no beauty for me in faces that show nothing but their youth. I enjoy every line on your face, Ava, every expression, because it is always changing. Their faces are blank by comparison. They haven’t lived. You are an old soul. You have lived many lives, and so have I. I feel I have been looking for you all my life, Ava. That the hole in my heart is your shape exactly. It keeps me awake at night.”

They walked on, the silence now awkward between them.

“I’m sorry if I have made you sad,” he said at last. “That was never my intention.”

She looked at him. His face was drawn into a frown and his eyes seemed to have sunk into shadow. She felt a wave of compassion.

“I’m sorry, too,” she replied, realizing that this wasn’t a silly joke. As a friend, he deserved to have his feelings treated with respect. “I’m sorry that I can’t love you back,” she added softly.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Not if you want to stay.”

“I want to stay. I wish I hadn’t said it now. I wish I hadn’t destroyed our friendship.”

“Oh, Jean-Paul, how could you?” Impulsively, she hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. She caught her breath. It felt so natural to be there. She pulled away, unbalanced. “We still have so much to do in the garden. I need you.”

They continued to walk along the side of the wood. The sun sank lower until it was a mere orange glow on the horizon. The children ran out of the woods, their baskets full. Archie held a spider in cupped hands and Poppy had tucked feathers into her hairband. Angus had collected snails and a giant mushroom, in spite of his mother’s instructions. “We’ll show it to Mrs. Marley,” Ava said, taking his basket from him. “She’ll know if we can eat it. In the meantime, don’t lick
your fingers. I don’t want you to get a tummy ache.” For the rest of the way home the children remained close. Ava chatted about the garden, trying to put Jean-Paul’s words out of her mind. But they hung between them like neon signs, impossible to ignore.

Back at the house, Jean-Paul lingered a moment on the gravel. “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?” she asked, taking off her boots.

“No. Thank you. I’ll get back to the cottage. I feel like painting.”

Ava understood. When she felt melancholy she liked to sit alone in the garden. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Good night,” he said, resting his eyes on her for a moment longer than was natural. She watched him walk towards the field, his footsteps scrunching heavily on the stones. She closed the door. Once in the light, outside looked pitch-black.

That night she sat in the sitting room with Phillip, trying to read. The fire glowed in the grate and Crystal Gayle sang out from the gramophone. After a while she realized she had read the same page twice. Her eyes scanned the words but her mind was playing over and over her conversation with Jean-Paul. It was a shock to discover that he felt something more than friendship. She would have written off his confession as a natural rite of passage for a Frenchman had she not seen the depth of feeling in his eyes. He had not been playing a game. He really had fallen in love with her. She turned the page, dismissing it as a fever from which he would soon recover. She glanced at Phillip, sitting in the armchair, his reading glasses on his nose. He sensed her gaze and raised his eyes. “What are you looking at, Shrub?”

“You,” she replied with a smile.

“Do you see anything you like?”

“I see someone I love,” she said truthfully.

“I’m so pleased. Anything less and I’d be very disappointed.”

“Silly!” He returned to his book.

She shook Jean-Paul from her mind and returned to hers. However, Jean-Paul’s confession had made a small chink in her heart, by way of her vanity. A chink that, though tiny, weakened the whole.

Miranda began to cry. Alone in her study, curled up in the armchair beside the fire, she ran her fingers over the red leaf of a sweet gum tree stuck on the page with glue. She had been married for eight years, but she had never felt a love as intense as Ava’s.

Hartington House, 2005

David didn’t seem the least bit curious about Jean-Paul. The garden was Miranda’s department, like decoration and general maintenance; he trusted her judgment. Mrs. Underwood was a treasure and her husband, although eccentric, kept the home fires burning and the paths free of leaves. Of Fatima, who worked two mornings a week, he had no opinion. He had no desire to meet the housekeeper.

The first weekend after Jean-Paul had moved into the cottage David didn’t notice much difference, except for the tree house which kept the children occupied right up until bath time. Gus had shown it off proudly, demanding that he climb the ladder and take a look inside the house which boasted a toy cooker, table and two chairs. Storm showed him the hollow tree camp, although he was too big to enter himself. He wondered what sort of gardener would go to the trouble of building such an exquisite playhouse. They didn’t ask to watch DVDs and Gus left his PlayStation in his bedroom. He also noticed the children played together without quarreling. That was a miracle in itself. His curiosity was aroused, but, as Jean-Paul did not come up to the house, David felt no compulsion to introduce himself. Besides, it wasn’t fair to disturb him on his weekend off.

But by the end of November he began to notice a marked
change. The borders looked groomed, the soil was a rich brown and free of weeds, the dead clematis that had scaled the front of the house was pulled down and carted away. Great heaps of rotten foliage were piled high in the vegetable garden ready to be burned. The stones along the thyme walk had been weeded, the balls of topiary trimmed into perfect spheres. The gardens were a pleasure to behold, even in winter. He didn’t usually bother to walk around his estate, from a combination of inertia and lack of interest, but now he was drawn away from golf to enjoy the marvels of his property.

The more David saw, the more his admiration grew. Miranda showed him around enthusiastically, pointing to the things Jean-Paul had done, deriving pleasure from these rare moments together. She watched her husband’s astonishment with a real sense of achievement, feeling her spirits soar to the bright blue skies where a buzzard now wheeled in search of prey. She wanted to take his hand like they had done in the early days of their marriage, when they used to spend Sunday mornings wandering around the Serpentine before nipping into Jakobs for lunch, but something stopped her.

“The children help. They rush home from school to dig up all the weeds and fill the wheelbarrow. He showed them how to roast marshmallows on the bonfire. Even Mr. Underwood was dancing around it like a Red Indian. It was so funny.” She recalled that she hadn’t laughed like that with David in a very long time. Perhaps she never had.

David started to feel uneasy. “I’d better meet this Jean-Paul. He sounds like Mary Poppins,” he said grudgingly.

“That’s exactly what he is! The children can’t get enough of him. Storm has made friends with Jeremy’s cows and Gus has taken an interest in planting bulbs. He likes playing with the worms he digs up.”

“Well, let’s go down to the cottage and see if he’s there.”

“I don’t think we should disturb him on a Saturday.”

“I’m the boss. I can disturb him whenever I like.” He sounded more severe than he meant to. Miranda followed him across the field. The children waved from their tree then disappeared inside.

“That tree is a godsend. It keeps them busy for hours. They never tire of it.”

“I suppose it’s better than television,” he grunted. Miranda frowned. A moment ago he had been so happy. She mentally replayed their conversation, wondering if it was something she had said.

At the cottage, smoke billowed from the chimney, suggesting that Jean-Paul was at home. David knocked on the door and shoved his hands into his pockets. It was bitter out of the sun. Jean-Paul had been painting in the spare room. When he heard the knock on the door, he put down his brush and went downstairs to open it. David extended his hand and introduced himself formally. He did not smile. Jean-Paul was not what he expected, though he was relieved to see how old he was.

“Please come in,” said Jean-Paul, standing back to allow them into the hall. “It’s cold outside.”

“But beautiful,” Miranda added, shrugging off her sheepskin coat. “The children are in your tree. We can’t get them out!” David noticed the excitement in her voice and felt his irritation mount.

“I see you’ve been busy in the garden,” he said, wandering into the sitting room. The fire glowed, Crystal Gayle sung out of the CD player. “Do you really like this music?” he asked.

“Of course,” Jean-Paul replied with an affable shrug.

“I suppose you are a different generation,” David went on. Miranda began to feel uncomfortable. She so wanted her husband to like him.

“Please, sit down. Can I make you coffee or tea?”

“No thanks, we’re not staying. I just wanted to meet you. I trust my wife’s judgment, but I like to know those I employ.”

“Naturally.” Jean-Paul looked like a father might look at his son. He understood the younger man’s disquiet. David was as transparent as the river Hart. “I hope you are satisfied with my work so far. You have a beautiful home. You could not have chosen a more charming house anywhere else in England.”

David straightened up, flattered by the Frenchman’s words. “I’m impressed with the tree house,” he said, returning the compliment. He found the ease with which Jean-Paul had mollified him almost as irritating as his jealousy. “It’s good to see them enjoying themselves.”

“You were right to leave the city. Children need to be in the countryside where they have space to run around. They are full of energy. You must be very proud.”

“I am,” he replied. “We both are.” He turned to Miranda and took her hand. The sensation of his skin against hers made her flinch. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”

“Thank you.” Jean-Paul smiled. Miranda’s heart flipped and even David felt moved to smile in return. “If there’s anything you need, let me know. Before you arrived I hadn’t turned my thoughts to the garden so we’re probably in need of tools and things.”

“You have everything. The previous owners left everything behind.” Jean-Paul’s face grew suddenly serious.

“Good. Well, we’ll leave you in peace. Maybe take the children for a walk.” Miranda looked at him in astonishment. He had never taken the children for a walk, nor, as far as she could remember, ever taken
himself
for a walk.

Once outside, he dropped her hand. “He’s perfectly nice,” he said, striding towards the bridge. “I see he’s taken a shine to the children.”

“They’ve taken a shine to him, too,” she replied.

“He’s not what I expected.”

“Really? What did you expect?”

“Another Mr. Underwood.”

“Oh no,” Miranda laughed. “He’s well educated.”

“What’s he doing gardening then, if he’s so well educated?”

“Perhaps he loves it.”

“Doesn’t make much money.”

“I don’t think he cares about money.”

“Has he left a wife back in France?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He chuckled cynically. “He’ll soon make his way through all the women in Hartington. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He’s much too good-looking.”

“Oh, really, darling! He’s not like that at all.”

“Just because he doesn’t flirt with you.” She dropped her eyes to the ground and shoved her hands into her pockets. There was a sharp edge to his words which caused her pain.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I should hope not. He knows his place.”

When they reached the hollow tree David announced that they were all going for a walk. “I want you to show me your cows, Storm,” he said, watching her crawl excitedly out through the hole in the bark. Her hair was strewn with twigs and pieces of moss and her cheeks glowed. Gus jumped down from halfway up the ladder, wishing he had something to show his father.

With Storm leading the way, they retreated over the bridge and along the riverbank towards the field of cows. Jean-Paul heard their voices and went to watch them at the window. He stood awhile, enjoying the sight of the little girl skipping through the long grasses. Poppy used to walk with a dance in her step, her dark hair flying about her shoulders in the wind, pretending to be a butterfly or a reindeer. Storm was beginning to learn the magic of the garden that Poppy had
known instinctively. It was an enchanted world, ready for her to explore. He looked forward to showing her spring, when the ground would come to life and all the work they had put in would reward them with flowers. Then the magic would really begin.

Gus walked behind his father, whacking the grass with a stick, as if he carried the weight of the world on his small shoulders. There was something angry about him, simmering at his core like lava. His eyes were cold as if to protect himself from disappointment and he always looked up from under his fringe with a mixture of expectation and mistrust. Now that Jean-Paul had met both parents, it was easy to understand the boy’s frustration. He knew that children needed to be listened to, needed love and time. He didn’t doubt Miranda and David loved their children, but they had little time to give. He recalled the little gestures that daily demonstrated Ava’s love for her children. That sort of foundation was a priceless gift for a child; a solid base camp from which to embark upon life.

He returned to his painting. With each brushstroke on the canvas he felt connected to her again.

Storm talked to the cows as if they were her friends, stroking the short hair between their eyes. “You see, they know me,” she said proudly. “Jean-Paul says they have five stomachs.”

“Lucky them,” said David. “I wish I had five stomachs. Then I could eat five times as much of Mrs. Underwood’s crumble and custard.” Storm giggled. Miranda watched her happily. It had been a long time since they had all done something together. Gus sat on the riverbank and picked the grass absentmindedly. Miranda went to join him.

“Can you see any fish?” she asked.

“No.”

“I need to buy you a rod. I’m sure Jean-Paul knows how to fish.”

“He’s going to get me a net so I can catch them.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “We’re going to build a camp in the woods so we can watch deer. He says we’ll see little ones in the spring. We might even see a badger. I’m going to make a spear so I can kill them.”

“I’m sure that’s not Jean-Paul’s idea!”

“Can I have a penknife for Christmas?”

“I’ll have to ask your father.”

“Please!”

“We’ll see.” The thought of Gus with a penknife was rather alarming.

After lunch David didn’t retreat as normal but suggested they light the bonfire in the vegetable garden. Gus informed him that it was Jean-Paul’s pile of rubbish to be burned the following week. “We’re going to be Red Indians again,” he said, demonstrating by making a whooping noise with his hand over his mouth.

“It’s my house and therefore my pile of rubbish,” said David, striding off to put on his boots. Miranda realized he was jealous of Jean-Paul. That was why he had taken her hand and why he had gone for a walk with the children. Jean-Paul was a better father to the children than he was. Instead of reveling in David’s jealousy, she felt ashamed of it; ashamed that her husband had to compete with the gardener to prove himself a worthy father.

That night they made love. After weeks of no contact Miranda knew she should have felt grateful, but she felt only resentment. She knew his actions were motivated by the presence of Jean-Paul. He was marking his territory like a dog pissing on a tree. She closed her eyes and tried to put Jean-Paul out of her mind. But suddenly it was Jean-Paul’s mouth kissing her and his hands caressing her and, in that delicious moment, she realized that the Frenchman excited her. With unexpected ferocity she held her husband close, wrapped
her arms and legs around him and tried to focus on the familiar feel of his skin, as if afraid those disloyal thoughts would drive him further away.

The following morning they went to church. As it was their first visit, they were viewed with the same excited curiosity as new animals at the zoo. The Reverend Freda Beeley clasped David’s hand enthusiastically between her own doughy ones. “It is such a pleasure to see you. I knew you would come eventually.” Her voice was thick and fruity. Storm and Gus giggled at the sight of her fearsome bosom that wobbled beneath her robes as she spoke, giving her the shape of a blancmange.

As they walked down the aisle, Miranda caught the eyes of Troy and Henrietta and smiled in surprise. She had thought only old people went to church. Troy’s eyes widened at the sight of her belted Dolce & Gabbana coat, leather boots and fur collar, and Henrietta waved discreetly, envying her effortless glamour and slender silhouette. David made for the front pew, fully expecting it to be on permanent hold for them, the first family of Hartington, but it was occupied by old Colonel Pike, scowling at all that was bad about the modern world, like female vicars, and Joan Halesham and her octogenarian beau, studying the prayer book through thick spectacles. Grudgingly he sat in the pew behind.

Storm and Gus would have been bored by the service had it not been for organist Dorothy Dipwood, speeding up and slowing down during the hymns without any regard for the congregation. Only the last line was sung in time with the organ. The Reverend Beeley bounced about the nave, gesticulating wildly and speaking with emphasis as if she were talking to children. David thought it amusing while Miranda, who had never liked church since being made to go so often as a child, was more entertained watching her children. Her eyes wandered about the pretty church, at the ancient stone walls and vaulted
ceilings and wondered how on earth they had managed to build it all those centuries ago without the help of modern technology—anything to keep her mind off Jean-Paul. The vicar’s sermon was about taking the time to enjoy the small things in an increasingly frenetic world, but neither Miranda nor David was paying attention.

On the green outside, Colonel Pike invited David to his home to show off the medals he had won in the war. Miranda found Troy and Henrietta, while the children discovered the gravestones, which they jumped on and off as if they were large stepping-stones in a river. The sun shone brightly down as the congregation lingered to chat. Miranda felt warmth on her face and the unfamiliar sense of being a part of the community. She found herself enjoying standing there with her children and husband, talking to the locals, knowing that Mrs. Underwood was cooking roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in the kitchen at home. Things were beginning to feel right.