Miranda paid for her coffee and left, striding purposefully into the bright, sunny street. She pulled her Chanel sunglasses 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 gratitude.
“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 competition. I’d lose out to a treasure like you!”
Miranda walked down the path towards the river. The sun shone enthusiastically upon the wild grasses 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 sunshine, 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 grass. 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 Dickens 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 glass 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 glass 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-fashioned 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 scrapbook. It was thick with flowers and leaves pressed between its pages. On the front the title 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 grass 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 assuage 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 grass. Ava was dressed in purple dungarees and a short-sleeved T-shirt, 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 sunshine. 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 grass and galloped up to him, crashing 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 glasses 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 glasses 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 courtship. “Shrub, darling!”
“Oh, hello 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 God! 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 shivering. “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 grass 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 château 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 château 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 château. 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 finishing 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.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She kissed him back, leaving him with a wide, loving smile.
She watched him stride back across the lawn towards the house, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his gait charmingly gangly. Then her eyes fell upon a pair of pigeons perched on the gutter just beneath the sloping roof. They were fat and contented. She felt the same. How lucky she was to have everything
she could possibly want: a husband who loved her, three happy children, the most beautiful house in England, and her beloved gardens. The birds sat on the roof like icing on a delicious cake.
She cast her eyes about the garden. It was only just beginning to turn. She liked it like that. The expanse of green gave her a sense of serenity. The trees were still frothy, but their leaves were curling at the corners and some were a pretty shade of yellow. Birdsong still rang out across the lawns, punctuated by the odd cough of a pheasant and the husky coo of a pigeon. She liked the sparrows that nested under the gutters in springtime and had planted evergreen shrubs near the house to encourage other birds to make their homes there, too. In midwinter she let the ivy grow up the ash and sycamore trees so that the birds that remained could find shelter from the cold and predators. She had taught the children to nurture them. Poppy used the birdbath as a paddling pool in midsummer, but in winter she put food out, slowly taming the little creatures so that some of them ate out of her hand when Bernie and Tarquin weren’t around to frighten them away.
She was still working in the border when Phillip returned an hour later with Jean-Paul. Bernie and Tarquin shot around to the front of the house, barking loudly. She climbed out and wiped the sweat from her forehead as the scrunching of wheels on gravel came to an abrupt stop. She heard the opening and closing of doors, then her husband’s voice greeting the dogs as if they were people. She hastened through the gate nestled in the yew hedge that hid the gardens from the front of the house. Phillip was opening the boot of his old Mercedes. No sooner had he opened it than the two dogs jumped in. Jean-Paul looked on in amazement as the dogs planted muddy paws all over his leather case. Phillip made no move to extract them. He just chuckled at the familiar sight, paying no heed to Jean-Paul’s discomfort. Ava watched him from the gate. He was the handsomest young man she had ever seen.
The French Gardener Page 8