The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  She watched her children eat, taking pleasure from her glass of wine. David was coming home tonight. She’d bathe and change into something nice. Cook him calves’ liver with baked potatoes and red wine sauce. She wanted to impress him, encourage him to spend more time at home. She craved his company. It was boring on her own in the country.

  III

  Misty mornings that hold within them the promise of a beautiful day

  David Claybourne arrived at Hartington House at eight. Gus, in blue gingham pajamas, was waiting in the kitchen with his mother. Storm was tucked up in bed with her toy rabbit and favorite pink cushion, dreaming of bringing her new friends home to play.

  When she heard the front door open Miranda told Gus to stay in the kitchen while she went to talk to his father. They lingered in the hall for what seemed like a long time, their voices low. Gus shuffled on the banquette, having drunk his glass of milk, and felt his spirit grow heavy with anticipation. He yawned and began to scratch lines into the pine with a spoon.

  Finally his parents walked into the kitchen, looking serious. His father didn’t greet him, but pulled out a chair and sat down. His mother handed her husband a glass of wine, before pouring one for herself. “Your mother tells me that you bit a child and ran away from school today.” Gus stared at his father without blinking. He was determined not to show weakness. Aragorn never showed weakness. “This has got to stop. Your behavior is unacceptable.” Gus said nothing. “As a punishment you’ll not watch any television for a week.” Gus’s mouth opened in silent protest. He was too stunned to complain. “You’ve driven us both to the end of our tether. And I warn you, Gus, that if you continue to bully other children and disrupt classes we’ll be left no choice but to put you into boarding school early. Do you understand?” Gus fought a rebellious tear as it broke ranks and balanced on his eyelashes. He nodded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I didn’t start it,” Gus whispered. The tear fell onto his cheek, and he brushed it off with his sleeve.

  “I don’t wish to hear the ins-and-outs of your playground antics. I’ve had enough. Now off to bed.”

  Gus slunk down from the bench and walked slowly past his parents. Neither made a move to kiss him good night. Once in his bedroom he closed the door behind him, flung himself onto the bed and howled into the pillow.

  “I should go up and see him,” said Miranda anxiously. “He’s only little.”

  “No, Miranda,” David replied firmly. “This is the problem. You’re too indulgent. You didn’t send him back to school but let him watch DVDs all afternoon. No wonder he doesn’t learn. What kind of message are you sending out? Let him cry himself to sleep. He’s not going to learn if you go pandering to him all the time. Harden your heart. It’s not fair on Gus to let him grow into a monster. It’s our responsibility to teach him how to behave.”

  “But I don’t know how to.” Miranda took a swig of wine and sank into a chair.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not rocket science. Now, have you started looking for help?”

  “Yes,” she replied, brightening. “I’ve posted a notice in the cake shop in town. According to our neighbor, Jeremy Fitzherbert, that’s the nerve center of Hartington. He’s sending someone to see me tomorrow. A gardener called Mr. Underwood.”

  “Appropriate name,” he replied, nodding his approval. David was a man who liked to see things done.

  “He’s rather old.”

  “I never judge a person before meeting him.”

  “I suppose he’ll have loads of experience.”

  “And a cook? Speaking of which, something smells good.”

  “Calves’ liver,” she replied. “Your favorite.”

  “You might become a domestic goddess after all.” He drained his glass and stood up. “Right, I’m going to have a bath.”

  Miranda watched her husband leave the room. He hadn’t even asked her about herself, nor had he noticed the cashmere dress she was wearing. She had gone to such trouble, washed her hair and applied makeup. She began to make the wine sauce. The onions made her eyes water. She suddenly felt exhausted. The last year had been unrelenting. What with Gus being asked to leave school the previous Christmas and having to homeschool him with a tutor while they found a house, redecorated and moved, all in time for the start of the September term. She could still hear him whimpering upstairs. “Damn!” she swore as she cut her finger. “Oh, I can’t stay down here while Gus cries his eyes out in his room,” she hissed, opening one of the drawers and pulling out a Spider-Man Band-Aid. She wrapped it over the wound and set off up the stairs.

  Gus was sobbing noisily. Miranda entered his room, which smelled of old biscuits, and sat down on his bed. He stopped crying when he felt her presence and lifted his head off the pillow. She looked at him in bewilderment and placed her hand on his head where his dark hair had grown sticky around his hairline. “Gus,” she whispered. “It’s over now. Daddy’s not angry anymore.” Gus’s face seemed to implode and he began to sob again. “Darling, it’s all right. We’re not cross anymore.” Then more insistently, “Gus, pull yourself together.” Gus continued to sob. Miranda grabbed him under his arms and pulled him onto her knee so that she could hug him. He buried his face in her neck the way he had done as a small child. “What is it, darling?” she asked, holding him tightly.

  “I don’t know,” he replied at last, his voice hoarse and his breathing ragged. “I don’t want to go to boarding school.”

  There was nothing more she could do. She held him until he calmed down, then put him back into his bed, kissed his forehead and turned off the lights. He went to sleep quickly, his pale face suddenly sweet and innocent in repose. She gazed at him for a while, asking herself why she had such a troubled child. She didn’t imagine for a moment that it had anything to do with her.

  David finished his bath and changed into a pair of chinos and a blue Ralph Lauren shirt. He was handsome, with shiny black hair, tanned skin and navy eyes framed by long eyelashes that would have looked too feminine on a less masculine face. David was strong and muscular from taking the time to work out every morning in the gym beneath his office. He was also vain. He dressed well, wore expensive after-shave, and worried constantly about hair loss. He was a man of self-confidence, having made a lot of money in the City, married a beautiful woman and bought a large country house while investing in a small pied-à-terre in Kensington. David had it all: the perfect family in Dorset and the perfect mistress in London. Two separate lives. Everything was as it should be. He felt he was only doing what every man had a right to do. He loved his wife; he didn’t love his mistress. But his wife could hardly expect him to remain celibate all week. Surely that was the deal. She gets the house in the country, he gets laid in London; no one gets hurt.

  Downstairs, Miranda finished cooking the liver. She laid the table for two and waited for her husband to appear. Lighting a candle now seemed too theatrical, so she blew it out and put it away. It was all very unfair, she thought to herself. She cooked, washed up, kept the house clean, did the laundry, drove to Sainsbury’s once a week to do the shopping, looked after the children, on top of which she had her career. David just had the career. He didn’t have to think of anyone but himself. “Sod it,” she muttered and poured a third glass of wine. “It’s as if he doesn’t see me anymore.”

  David was in a good mood when he appeared in the kitchen. Miranda was light-headed. He helped himself to dinner, then sat down.

  “Darling, you’ve gone to so much trouble tonight.” He looked her over appreciatively. “I have a very beautiful wife.”

  Her spirits leapt like a rekindled flame. “Thank you. Tell me about London, then I can live vicariously through you!”

  “The same as when you left it, only colder,” he replied. She swallowed her disappointment and pressed for more details.

  “Who have you been hanging out with?”

  “Usual crowd, when I have time. I’ve been in the office until ten every night th
is week. I’m shattered.”

  “How’s Blythe?” She had bumped into her old school friend at Gus’s judo class in Chelsea. After years of not seeing one another they had grown close again as Miranda supported her through an acrimonious divorce. “I keep trying to call her but I just get her answering machine. That’s what happens when you move to the country, all your friends forget about you!”

  “She hasn’t forgotten about you. She’s been busy with lawyers and accountants, as you can imagine. In fact, I’ve been giving her a little advice,” he replied pompously, holding his fork in midair. “I told her she needs to manage her divorce like a business. She’s her own biggest client. She’s got to cut the best deal possible. It’s no good expecting the lawyer to sort it all out for her. He doesn’t know what she wants. He’s only thinking in terms of how much money he can get her and, as a percentage, how much he can get for himself. He might be the best in town, but she’s still got to tell him what she wants. I told her to write a list. This is the last-chance saloon. Once she’s closed the door, that’s it. There’ll be no going back to ask for the things she didn’t bother to mention. He’ll get away with everything and she’ll be left regretting her procrastination.”

  “Did she listen to you?”

  “I think so. The trouble is she’s overemotional, can’t see the forest for the trees. At the moment she just wants out. I told her money is important, at least for the sake of her son. She knows what’s good for her. I’m happy to help. I never liked her husband anyway. A real ass!”

  “It’s shocking how many of our friends are divorcing,” Miranda sighed. “Once we get sorted we should invite Blythe and Rafael for the weekend. He’s a dear little boy and might be a good influence on Gus. Typical, isn’t it? We meet again after years, discover we’re neighbors, then I move down here. The boys were just getting to know each other.”

  “So long as Gus doesn’t bite Rafael.”

  “Let’s give it some time. Gus will settle.” Her face darkened a moment. The problem with Gus wasn’t going to go away.

  “Do you think he should see someone?” she asked tentatively.

  “A shrink?” David was appalled.

  “Well, a child psychologist.”

  “Over my dead body am I letting someone interfere with my son. There’s nothing wrong with Gus. Nothing that boarding school won’t put right.”

  “But he doesn’t go for nearly another year—and he doesn’t want to go.”

  “It’s a stage. He’ll grow out of it. You’ve just got to stay on top of it, Miranda. You’re the one around all week. It’s up to you.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me to run my family like a business. That Gus is my biggest client.” She let out a shallow laugh.

  “No darling, he’s the business,” David corrected, quite seriously. “I’m your biggest client.”

  After watching the news they both went to bed. David sat up reading The Economist while Miranda, drunk and exhausted, curled into a ball with a pillow over her eyes to block out the light, used to having the bed to herself. They didn’t make love. David made no advances and Miranda, while affronted that he didn’t desire her after a week apart, was rather relieved.

  The following morning, Storm entertained herself playing in her bedroom, while Gus, banned from television, wandered into the woods to set traps for unsuspecting animals. David read the papers over breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast, which Miranda cooked. She prepared to interview the gardener. “Do you want to see him with me?” she asked David, who, without taking his eyes from the Telegraph, replied that it was her department. “You’re Minister of Domestic Policy,” he said.

  “And who are you?” she asked, irritated by his lack of interest.

  “I’m prime minister,” he replied. “If you want a second opinion I’ll gladly give it. Otherwise, darling, I trust your judgment implicitly.”

  Miranda sent David off to sample Cate’s coffee and waited in her study. She was tired of having to do everything herself. She recalled the army of builders and decorators she had marched down to Hartington to transform the house into her dream home. David had let her decorate it as she wished—her good taste was one of the reasons he had married her—and dutifully paid the bills without resistance. As minister of domestic policy, she was expected to build a home for him and their children. It didn’t occur to him to step down from his high office and help. It struck her that there was nothing they shared anymore. Even the children fell under her jurisdiction while he was the prime minister puppeteer, holding all the strings.

  As she pondered the state of her marriage the doorbell rang and she hurried across the hall. She took a deep breath and prayed that Mr. Underwood would be the perfect gardener and added, while she was on the line to the Lord, that a cook and a housekeeper might follow. She opened the door to find a gnomelike man dressed in a brown jacket and trousers with a tweed cap set on an abundant crown of curly gray hair. When he saw her he hastily took off the cap and held it against his waistcoat.

  “I’m Mr. Underwood, come about the gardening job,” he said in a broad Dorset accent. Miranda didn’t extend her hand; he looked as though he wouldn’t know what to do with it.

  “Do come inside, Mr. Underwood,” she replied, stepping aside to let him pass into the hall. A gust of damp wind blew in with him. “Gosh, it is wet today,” she exclaimed, closing the door behind him. “I hate drizzle.”

  “Global warming,” he said dolefully. “One day it’s as hot as summer, the next it’s as cold as Siberia! These days you don’t know what to expect.”

  “Please come into my study, Mr. Underwood.” He followed her, casting his eyes over the flagstone floor and freshly painted cream walls. There was a large, empty fireplace where logs should have been burning and a pretty rug where one would expect a couple of sleeping dogs. When the Lightlys had owned Hartington there was always a fire in the grate and a cheery flower arrangement on the wide refectory table in the hall. The round table that now took its place looked lonely with only a lifeless sculpture positioned on top.

  “Just moved in then?” he asked. Miranda noticed he spoke deliberately and slowly, clearly a man in no hurry.

  “Yes. Do you know the house?”

  “Aye. This was once the most beautiful garden in Dorset.”

  “Really,” she said, showing him to an armchair. He noticed she hadn’t lit the fire in her study either, but it smelled of smoke, which was encouraging.

  “Mrs. Lightly was a gifted lady.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You should light the fires in this house. I could bring logs in for you if you like.”

  “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. Underwoo
d.”

  “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?”