The kitchen was empty, used cups in the sink and a pan of hot milk keeping warm on the Aga. He sighed resentfully. There was a time when Miranda had made him breakfast every morning, fussing over him like a geisha. Now she didn’t even bother to stick around. He poured himself a cup of coffee, made a couple of pieces of toast and marmalade, and sat down at the head of the table to read the papers.
After breakfast he went into the garden. The sound of birds was loud and cheery, a background to the excited squeals of his children behind the wall of the vegetable garden. Curious to see what they were doing, he walked up the path and opened the gate to find Storm and Gus chasing each other up and down the gravel pathways that separated the vegetable patches, holding long worms between their fingers. Jean-Paul was on his hands and knees planting. More surprisingly, Miranda was on her knees, too, her face flushed, while her fat friend Henrietta looked on, hands on hips as wide as a small continent, laughing with them. David felt excluded. They looked like any happy family on a Saturday morning, enjoying the sunshine. He felt resentment claw at his stomach.
He had to admit it was beautiful, though. The white apple blossom, the neat borders of box that enclosed each vegetable patch, the arched frames that Jean-Paul had constructed for the sweet peas and beans. The old wall was covered in white wisteria tangling through blue ceanothus. Doves settled on the top of the wall, gently cooing, and a couple of squirrels played tag, jumping from tree to tree.
Miranda beckoned him over. “Come and join us!” He raised his cup and forced a smile. But he didn’t feel like helping; he felt jealous, an outcast in his own home. The usurper was there with his knees in the mud, slipping into his place while he was in London. He was turning to leave, his heart heavy, when a high-pitched voice shouted after him. “Daddy!” Storm ran up to him. “Daddy, come and see what we’ve done in the garden.” He looked down at her enthusiastic face and was left no option but to follow her. Gus stood watching warily from under his dark fringe. He looked at his son, suddenly so tall and handsome, and wondered how he had grown so much without him noticing.
“What have you been doing, Gus?” he asked.
Gus proudly held out the jar of creepy crawlies. “Say hello to our friends,” he said, and Jean-Paul paused in his planting to watch.
Jeremy hesitated outside the entrance to Henrietta’s gift shop. He shuffled his feet in the sunshine, carrying a bottle of warm cow’s milk, straight from the dairy. He shook off his nerves, took a deep breath and opened the door. The little bell indicated his arrival but it wasn’t Henrietta who emerged from the back room, but her sister, Clare. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “How are you today, Mr. Fitzherbert?” Clare was slim and pretty with mousy brown hair and glasses. She wore a beaded necklace her six-year-old daughter had made at school and a bright red sweater emblazoned with the words Naff Off.
“Very well thank you,” he replied nervously. The shop smelled of incense and soap. “Is Henrietta in?”
“No, she’s at Miranda’s,” she replied. “Anything I can help you with?” She was used to seeing him in the shop. Today, he looked gaunt and pale. “Are you all right?” she asked sympathetically. “There’s a horrid bug going around, two of my children have had it.”
“Quite well, thank you,” he replied. She settled her eyes on the bottle of milk he was carrying.
“What’s that?”
“This? Milk.”
“Milk?”
“Yes, I was going to…I was thirsty,” he replied, changing his mind. He thought of Henrietta up at Miranda’s with Jean-Paul and suddenly felt very foolish for having imagined he might have a chance.
Clare looked at him suspiciously. “Shall I tell her you came by?”
“No. I’ll come back another time.” He left the shop feeling like an inadequate teenager. God, he thought bleakly, I’m forty-five years old. Too old for this sort of thing! He returned home to his dogs and his farm and the prospect of another day trying not to think about Henrietta Moon.
XXVIII
Purple shadows on the grass cast by the clipped yews in the evening light
Blythe arrived with her son, Rafael, on Friday afternoon. She stepped out of the taxi and swept her eyes over David and Miranda’s beautiful house with an uncomfortable mixture of admiration and envy. It was a warm afternoon, the sky a rich blue across which fluffy white clouds drifted like sheep. The birds twittered noisily in the trees and a pair of fat doves sat on the roof of the house lazily watching the hours pass. The sun turned the wildflower meadow golden while a gentle breeze raked through the long grasses and flowers like fingers through hair. In the middle of it all stood an old oak tree where a group of giggling children played, their cries ringing out in joyful abandon. It was an idyllic scene, not at all what Blythe had envisaged. When she thought of the country she imagined rain, mud, gumboots, cold houses and boredom.