The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  That night she lay in bed with Phillip, enjoying their usual postmortem of the day. “Toddy asked me if we still ‘rolled about a bit,’” said Ava. Her husband looked suitably horrified.

  “What did you say?”

  “That it’s something I never discuss.”

  “I’m happy to hear it.”

  “But I did say that we have a very healthy marriage.”

  “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.

  XVI

  The intrepid robin on my windowsill. Morning trips to break the water on the birdbath.

  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.

  I admit that I was flattered by his confession and more than a little excited. A man as handsome as M. F. finding me attractive, it was something that had never crossed my mind. I had never entertained even the smallest idea of love. He was like a beautiful animal to be admired from afar, to befriend, but not to covet for oneself. As alarming as I found our conversation in the woods, I kept it to myself. I didn’t share it with Phillip. Perhaps, somewhere in the darkest corners of my heart I was falling for him, too, I just didn’t know it. I should have sent him back to France and avoided the pain that was to follow. But how could I have known? I didn’t anticipate the danger I was sailing into, like a merry vessel in calm water coasting towards an unseen waterfall that would threaten to destroy everything I loved. For now I enjoyed the attention from the safety of my marital bed.

  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.

  XVII

  The sound of roaring fires and the taste of roasted chestnuts

  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 ple
asure 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.