The French Gardener Part 6

"What do you mean, fancy dress?" Henrietta glanced over at Jack Tinton. He looked like any other fifty-year-old in jeans and corduroy jacket.

"They've just taken it upon themselves to dress up as Elizabethan characters and walk about the place for tourists. They charge a pound to have their photograph taken. Can you imagine paying a pound to be photographed with those two clots! The castle pays them five pounds an hour. They rake it in. If you want a laugh, go up there on a weekend and watch them prance around in long skirts and breeches. It's better than pantomime."

"Better than the castle, too," said Cate drily. "Why anyone wants to pay good money to wander around a pile of old stones is beyond me. Go to Hampton Court or the Tower of London, now that's proper history. Not an old ruin that claims to have had Elizabeth the First as a visitor."

"Bah!" exclaimed the colonel from the corner. He folded his paper and stood up crossly. "Nothing good about the world these days." The vicar and her two companions stopped talking and looked up at him in surprise. "Dirty hospitals, congestion, underpaid, overworked, ill-educated, foulmouthed, thugs, graffiti, gang warfare, exposed midriffs, skinny models, obesity, poverty, terrorism, war, murder, abduction, rape." He snorted in fury. "I tell you, nothing good about the world. b.l.o.o.d.y lucky my number's nearly up. Can't be doing with it all." He moved stiffly across the room. Only the two old ladies continued chatting as if he wasn't in the room. He threw some change on the counter and shuffled out, replaced by a gust of damp wind.

"Ah, so that's why he hangs around after church," said the Reverend Beeley, chuckling good-naturedly. "At his age, it's hardly worth going home."

Cate put the change in the till and returned to her chair, smoothing down her white ap.r.o.n.

"I wonder if he'll come back," sighed Henrietta. There were precious few attractive single men in Hartington.

"He's in every morning. Takes the same table and grumbles about the same things. Negative people are so trying!" Cate complained, clamping her small mouth in displeasure.

"No, I mean the Frenchman. Do you think he'll be back?" said Henrietta.

"Who can say? Just pa.s.sing through, I should imagine. He was delicious, though. His eyes were the softest brown I've ever seen. He gave me quite a look when he left." Cate always had to bring the conversation around to herself. "You know that lazy, bedroom look."

"How old was he?"

"Early fifties," said Cate. "He might come back." She nodded knowingly. "A man like that appreciates good coffee."

They all turned as the door opened, letting in another gust of cold air. "Told you," said Cate triumphantly. "They always come back." She stood up and greeted Miranda as if she were an old friend. "What can I get you?"

"A coffee with hot milk on the side, please," said Miranda. She turned to the notice board and ripped off the piece of paper advertising the two job vacancies.

"Found someone, have you?" said Cate.

"Yes," replied Miranda cagily. "As a matter of fact, I have."

"A cook and a gardener? That's quick," said Troy.

"Not in this town. Everyone pa.s.ses through my cake shop."

Miranda didn't have the heart to tell her that neither Mrs. Underwood nor Jean-Paul had seen her notice board.

She greeted Troy and Henrietta with a polite smile-she didn't want to encourage them-and went to sit by the window beside the Reverend Beeley's table. No sooner had her bottom touched the wood than the vicar leaned over, heaving her large bosom across the gap between their chairs. A pair of spectacles on a beaded chain swung over the ledge like a helpless mountaineer. "h.e.l.lo," she said in a fruity voice. "I'm Rev. Beeley, your vicar. I gather you're new in town."

"Yes." Miranda realized that she had been stupid to think there was such a thing as a quiet coffee in Cate's Cake Shop.

"As the vicar of Hartington I'd like to welcome you. I'd be delighted to welcome you to church, too, if you feel the desire to attend our services. You should have received the parish magazine. It lists all our services and special events. I do hope you'll come."

"Thank you," Miranda replied, pulling a tight smile and wondering if she could claim to be Jewish. Admitting she was agnostic wouldn't be good enough for the zealous Rev. Beeley.

"It is a pleasure. The Lightlys were very devout. They attended every Sunday. The church really came to life when Mrs. Lightly arranged the flowers. She had a magic touch. Her gardens were the most beautiful..."

"So I've been told," Miranda interjected briskly. She was fed up hearing about the Lightlys' beautiful gardens. If it weren't for the miraculous arrival of Jean-Paul she would shout at them all to shut up. In fact, she felt quite smug, as if she were guarding a delicious secret. "If they had the most beautiful gardens in England, why did they move?"

"I suppose they didn't want to rattle about in a big house. The children had grown up and moved away, except the youngest who inherited her mother's green thumb. Then, what with Phillip's illness..." The vicar broke off with a sigh and shook her head mournfully.

"Phillip?"

"Mr. Lightly. He's much older than his wife. He suffered a stroke." She hissed the phrase as if it were a heavily guarded secret. "She looks after him herself. She's a good woman."

"Where did they move to?"

"I don't know. They left quietly. They didn't want a fuss." The vicar inhaled, lowering her lids over bulging brown eyes. "A most respectable couple. An example to us all."

Cate brought Miranda her coffee. "I met your husband on Sat.u.r.day," she said, watching Miranda pour hot milk into the cup.

"He enjoyed your coffee."

"Of course. He was very friendly, talking to everyone in here, making lots of new friends. He's very charming." Miranda half-expected her to finish with the words: not like you. Cate hovered a moment, waiting for Miranda to continue the conversation, then moved away with a little sniff. Miranda didn't mind if she was offended: she didn't want everyone knowing her business.

She turned her thoughts to her children, hoping Gus was behaving himself at school. Storm had been in a bright mood that morning, chattering away about the magic in the garden that Jean-Paul was going to show her. Miranda had found her in her playhouse talking to her cus.h.i.+ons, telling them all about a special friend she had found by the river. Miranda was surprised he had made such a big impression. Storm talked of nothing else but Jean-Paul, the magic, some sort of tree and returning to see the cows. "They know me now," she had told her mother. "They'll recognize me when I go back. Jean-Paul said so." Miranda recalled the kind expression in Jean-Paul's eyes, the deep crows'-feet that cut into his brown skin. The way his smile had illuminated his face like a beautiful dawn. He didn't look like a gardener. Mr. Underwood looked like a gardener, but Jean-Paul looked like a film star.

Miranda paid for her coffee and left, striding purposefully into the bright, sunny street. She pulled her Chanel sungla.s.ses out of her handbag and walked up the road towards the car park. The air was crisp, the shadows inky blue from the rainfall in the night. She felt a spring in her step. Was it the coffee or the knowledge that Jean-Paul was returning by the end of the month?

"She didn't even say thank you!" Cate exclaimed when Miranda had gone. Troy looked at Henrietta and frowned.

"For her coffee?" he said.

"No, for finding her a gardener and a cook!"

"You don't know that you did," said Troy.

Henrietta watched him in awe; she would never have dared talk to Cate like that. Cate who was always right. Cate who knew everything.

"Of course I did. Thanks to the notice on my board. How very rude!" She cleared away the cup and milk jug from Miranda's table with an impatient huff. "I told you she was snooty. Can't think what that delightful husband is doing married to her." She walked past Troy and leaned over. "Forget the Frenchman, darling. Miranda's husband is gorgeous and if she continues to walk around with a face like a boot, he'll soon be free." She tossed Henrietta a look. "Lose a stone and you can have him, too!" Troy put a hand on his friend's and waited for Cate to disappear into the small kitchen behind the counter.

"Don't listen to her, Etta. She's in one of her moods. I love you just the way you are. If I were straight, I'd marry you in an instant."

"Thank you," said Henrietta, her eyes glistening with grat.i.tude.

"Imagine the bruises poor Nigel suffers from having to lie on her night after night. You'd be delicious to lie on. Soft and warm. No bruises from protruding bones." Henrietta blushed. "Some man is going to be very lucky indeed to find you."

"I don't think I'll ever find anyone," Henrietta sniffed. "I'm fat and dull."

"Fat and dull!" Troy exclaimed. "Listen to yourself! You're neither fat nor dull. You're lovely and sweet, with no side. You shouldn't let her treat you like that." He patted her hand again. "Come on, let's get out of here before she comes back. She's a poisonous old thing with a hairy face." Henrietta looked confused. "Haven't you noticed? She's got a face as furry as my cat's underbelly. She's chucking up after every meal. You don't think she stays that thin naturally, do you? She's got more problems than you've got insecurities."

"She must have a lot then!"

"Riddled, darling. Positively riddled. Why don't you come in at five and I'll give you a blow dry. Nothing like a hairdo to lift the spirits."

"But I've got nowhere to go."

"Yes, you have. You're having dinner with me."

"Thank you, Troy. Really, you're a good friend," she said, kissing his cheek.

"That's what friends are for. Remember, you're not the only one looking for a man. We're in it together and thank heavens we're not in compet.i.tion. I'd lose out to a treasure like you!"

Miranda walked down the path towards the river. The sun shone enthusiastically upon the wild gra.s.ses and weeds, catching the droplets of rain that had fallen during the night and turning them into diamonds. The wind had blown wildly in the early hours of the morning and yet orange and brown leaves clung to the branches, not yet ready to relinquish the last remains of summer. A couple of squirrels played in the oak tree that dominated that side of the house, its trunk as wide and stout as the vicar's. The way was trodden by deer and her own inquisitive children so that it formed a damp path through the field to the river. She had been there once or twice but it hadn't held the enchantment it did today. Perhaps it was the suns.h.i.+ne, the bright blue sky and the sense of belonging that had so far eluded her.

She stood a moment on the stone bridge, gazing down into the clear water below. She could see weeds and stones and the occasional fish that floated lazily across the sunbeams. She imagined her children playing there, throwing sticks into the water. Then she glanced over to Gus's secret house. She hadn't looked at it properly before. The estate agent had simply mentioned a cottage in need of repair, and, as she had no immediate use for it, she had thought nothing more about it. The cottage stood neglected in a small copse of chestnut trees. There was no driveway. Perhaps there had once been a track from the main house through the field and over the bridge. Now there was just gra.s.s. There was something wonderfully romantic about its isolation. It was a secret hideaway that time had left behind.

Miranda turned the key in the lock. It was a rusty old thing, but it opened with a low squeak, like the irritable yawning of an old man disturbed in sleep. Inside, the hall was tiled with dark stone slabs, the staircase narrow with a little landing where it turned the corner. She went into the sitting room. The room was full of furniture, yet the air smelled damp. No one had lit a fire in a long time. The bookshelves were heavy with books stacked in tidy rows from floor to ceiling. She ran her hand along the top of one. It wasn't as neglected as she had presumed. There was only a light coating of dust. The books were a mixture of old and contemporary, from d.i.c.kens to Sebastian Faulks. To her surprise there was a shelf of French novels.

She took in the whole room. The empty stone fireplace framed by a wooden mantelpiece that was clearly very old and beautifully carved, the pale yellow striped wallpaper tarnished by years of wood smoke. She noticed it was peeling in one corner from a leak. The carpet was worn and stained and clearly needed changing and the rug had been eaten by moths. However, there wasn't a great deal to do. The sofa was intact, the armchairs, too; the gla.s.s coffee table just needed a good wipe. She walked over to the chest of drawers, a pretty antique walnut, and opened the drawers. The house had an inhabited feel about it. If it hadn't been so dirty she would have been happy to curl up on the sofa with one of the books. With a cheery fire and a gla.s.s of wine it would be cozier than her own more formal drawing room.

She explored the kitchen. It would need new appliances but the crockery was complete. She noticed the table laid for two and thought how odd it was that the cups and plates were still there, as if the inhabitants had been spirited away in the middle of tea. She resisted the temptation to clear them away. She'd get her rubber gloves on, hire some help, and do it all at once. The children could help her. It would be fun for them.

The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she climbed the stairs. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was very old-fas.h.i.+oned and needed to be completely gutted. The iron bath was stained, its enamel worn away, and the taps were tarnished. One of the bedrooms was completely empty except for a box that sat in the middle of the floor, as if it had been forgotten. Before she had a moment to look inside, a rattle from the bedroom next door distracted her. Her heart jumped. Surely she was the only person in the cottage.

For a second she thought it might be Gus. Her irritation mounted as she stepped across the landing to the other bedroom. A mischievous squirrel startled her as it shot back out the window, carelessly left ajar by her son, no doubt. She put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath, relieved that it wasn't an intruder or, worse, a ghost. She looked around. There was a large iron bed, made up with sheets and quilted bedspread in a pale green flowered material. Two bedside tables with tall pillar lamps, the shades stained with yellow patches. A faded trunk at the end of the bed, a cherrywood chest of drawers with a Queen Anne mirror on top, a prettily painted pine wardrobe against the wall. Pale linen curtains hung from large wooden poles, their linings torn and discolored. The carpet was dirty but intact. She wondered why the Lightlys hadn't bothered to take all this furniture with them. Perhaps they had downscaled and hadn't the room. She opened the window wider and looked out over the field. She could see down the river to the field of cows-Storm's cows. Her spirits soared, stirred by the strange magic of the room and the glory of the view.

Her mind returned to the box in the spare room. She closed the window to keep the squirrel out, then went to open it. There was only one thing inside: a faded green sc.r.a.pbook. It was thick with flowers and leaves pressed between its pages. On the front the t.i.tle was written in large looped handwriting: Rainbows and Roses. Miranda knelt on the floor and flicked through it. It was a diary of poems, recollections and essays, clearly something that was not meant to have been left behind, nor seen by the eyes of a stranger. The mystery intrigued her. The writing was feminine. The paper smelled sweet, like cut gra.s.s in early spring. She sat back against the wall and turned to the first page where four sentences stood alone, heavy with sorrow.

I thought the days would a.s.suage my longing, but they only fan the fire and make me yearn for you more. With all my body and all my soul. I shall grow old loving you and one day I shall die loving you. For now I live on the memory of you here in our cottage. It is all I have left.

VII.

Every rainbow I see reminds me of you.

Hartington House.

October 1979.

Ava Lightly's voice could be heard from deep within the herbaceous border. Although she was obscured by dead lupins and the large viburnum she was busily cutting back, her enthusiastic singing stirred the crisp morning air and sent the dogs into an excited frolic on the gra.s.s. Ava was dressed in purple dungarees and a short-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt, her streaky blond hair roughly secured on the top of her head with a pencil. Her hands were rough from gardening, her nails short and ragged, yet her cheeks glowed with health and her pale green eyes sparkled like a spring meadow in rain. She was happiest outside, whatever the weather, and rarely felt the cold although she was a slender woman with no fat to insulate her. She was often seen with bare arms in midwinter when everyone else was wrapped up in gloves and hats and heavy coats. At thirty-seven she retained the bloom of youth, borne of an inner contentment which shone through her skin as if her heart were made of suns.h.i.+ne. Her face was handsome rather than pretty, her features irregular: her nose a little too long and very straight, her mouth large and sensual, out of place on such a small face. Yet, if the features weren't beautiful in isolation, they were made so by the sensitive, cheerful expression that held them together. Her eccentric nature made her compelling. No one loved her more than her husband, Phillip Lightly, and their three small children, Archie, Angus and Poppy.

"Hey, Shrub!" called her husband, striding across the lawn. Bernie, the fluffy Saint Bernard and Tarquin, the young Labrador, stopped rolling about on the gra.s.s and galloped up to him, cras.h.i.+ng into his legs, almost knocking him to the ground. He patted them affectionately and shooed them away with a flick of his hand. He was fifteen years older than his wife, six feet four with a straight back and wide shoulders. His face was gentle and handsome, with a long nose, high cheekbones and a strong jawline. He spent most of the time in his study writing the definitive history of wine, or abroad, visiting vineyards. However, he wasn't inclined to solitude as so many writers are. He enjoyed shooting parties and dinners that extended into the small hours of the morning, discussing history and politics over gla.s.ses of port and the odd cigar. He took pleasure from socializing with the people of Hartington after church on Sundays and invited the town to an annual wine and cheese party at the house in the summer. He was affable and well liked for his dry, English sense of humor which more often than not included clever puns whose meaning eluded the very audience he meant to entertain. Ava always laughed, even though she had heard them all before. With round gla.s.ses perched on an aristocratic nose, his fine bones and high forehead, Phillip Lightly cut a distinguished figure as he strode confidently towards the herbaceous border.

He waited awhile, enjoying his wife's tuneful singing, then he called her again by the nickname he had given her in the early days of their courts.h.i.+p. "Shrub, darling!"

"Oh, h.e.l.lo there, you!" she replied, scrambling out. There were leaves caught in her hair and a smear of mud down one cheek. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"You haven't forgotten Jean-Paul, have you?" The surprise on her face confirmed that she had. He smiled indulgently. Ava was famously vague, her mind absorbed by the trees and flowers of her beloved garden. "Well," he sighed, glancing at his watch. "He'll be at the station in half an hour."

"Oh G.o.d! I'd completely forgotten. I've done nothing about the cottage."

"He's young, he'll be happy in a sleeping bag," said Phillip, folding his arms against the cold. Despite his cashmere sweater and scarf, he was s.h.i.+vering. "Look, I'll pick him up, but then it's over to you, Shrub."

"Thank you." She wrapped her arms around his neck. He stepped back, aware that she was covered in mud and dead leaves, but her affection won him over and he wound his arms around her, lifting her off the ground, breathing in the scent of damp gra.s.s that clung to her hair. "You're a darling," she laughed into his neck.

"You're freezing," he replied. "I'd like to wrap you in a blanket and give you a cup of hot chocolate."

"Is that all?"

"For now, yes. Got to go and collect your apprentice."

"Is this really a good idea?" she asked, pulling away. "You know I like to do the gardens on my own and Hector helps with the weeding and mowing when I need him. I don't like to be hovered over. I'm a solitary creature. Hector and I really don't need anyone else."

"We've been through this before. Besides, it's too late to go back on it now. We're doing his father a great favor and besides, that's what old Etonians do: we help one another out. After all he has done for me I'm keen to have the opportunity to pay him back. Thanks to Henri, doors have opened the entire length and breadth of France."

"All right," she conceded with a sigh. "But I don't know what he expects..."

"You're very gifted, Shrub. He'll learn a lot from you. If he's going to inherit the chateau he's got to know about running an estate."

"Can't he just hire people to do it for him?"

"That's not the point. Henri wants him out of the city and in the English countryside for a while. He's been allowed to do as he pleases in Paris."

"So, he's a playboy?"

"Henri doesn't know anyone else he can ask. He's worried Jean-Paul will drift. He wants to inspire him. Wants him to take responsibility. One day he'll inherit the chateau and vineyard. It's a big responsibility."

"I'm surprised he does what his father tells him. He's not a child."

"No, but his father holds the purse strings."

"Is that so important? Why doesn't he run off and do his own thing?"

"Les Lucioles is not an ordinary chateau. It's magnificent. Any boy worth his salt would do all he could not to lose it."

"I see." She felt very unenthusiastic about it all.

"Besides, it'll be good for the boys to have a young man about the place to rag around with. I'm an old father."

"I keep you young," she protested.

"That's true," he chuckled. "But I don't rag around much and I don't speak French. The children could do with a little home tuition." Ava smiled at him sheepishly. She spoke fluent French, having been sent to finis.h.i.+ng school in Switzerland at sixteen.

"You make me feel guilty for not having spoken French to them from birth."

"I'd never expect that of you, Shrub. I expect you to get up in the morning, the rest is a surprise!"

She smacked him playfully. "You beast!"

"You haven't called me that for a while." He kissed her forehead.