The French Gardener(16)

After a while he came to the river. It was about twenty feet wide, straddled by a gray stone bridge. A path had once run down the field, over the bridge and on to the little cottage that nestled among a cluster of chestnut trees. Gus could tell no one lived there. The windows were dark and dusty. Distracted by a noise in the water, he turned his attention to the river. His spirits rose when he saw Ranger climbing up the bank and shaking his black and white coat until it stuck up in pointy tufts. “Ranger!” he shouted. The dog bounded up, his tail whirring like the propeller of a helicopter. He let him sniff the stick then threw it as far as he could. Ranger was used to the game and galloped after it. Gus patted him when he returned with the stick in his mouth, dropping it at the boy’s feet. He threw it again and again.

What finally brought the game to an end was Gus’s curiosity about the little abandoned cottage. There was something compelling about those blind windows and neglected walls where ivy was slowly creeping over the bricks like a patient octopus. He left the stick on the ground and approached it. The door was locked, the pale blue paint chipped and peeling. He rubbed a window with his sleeve and peered inside. To his surprise the room was full of furniture. There were a sofa and two armchairs in front of a fireplace that gaped like the mouth of a corpse. Pictures hung on walls decorated with stripy yellow paper. If it hadn’t been for the damp patch that darkened one corner it would have almost looked inhabited. He wandered around trying all the windows until he came to one that was broken and swinging on its hinges. He seized the opportunity and climbed inside.

His heart pounding with excitement at this new discovery, he forgot the injustice of being punished for a fight he didn’t start and began to explore. The rooms were small and gloomy. He wished he’d brought a torch. There were papers on the desk in the sitting room, a wastepaper bin full of rubbish, books on the shelves against the wall, logs in the basket beside the fire. Everything was as if the occupier had gone out one day and never returned.

Gus explored every room. There was a modest kitchen with a rough table on which two teacups were placed alongside a teapot, milk jug and an empty plate. The little cottage was like a shrine and although Gus was only a boy, he sensed he was walking over someone else’s sadness. It was as if the air was damp with tears.

After a while his rumbling stomach reminded him of Mrs. Underwood’s roast lamb. He climbed back out the way he had come and called Ranger. The dog was waiting outside, lying against the wall of the cottage, strangely subdued. “Come on, you silly mutt, it’s lunchtime.” The dog made no move to follow. Gus tried to tempt him with the stick, but still he did not come. “Well, I’m not missing out for you. Stay if you want to, but I’m going home.” He set off over the bridge and through the field. It wasn’t until he was back at the house that the dog appeared, galloping over the long grass towards him.

“Where have you been?” Miranda asked when she saw her son’s sweaty red face and sparkling eyes.

“Nowhere,” he replied secretively. He wasn’t going to share the cottage with anyone. “Just mucking around outside.”

“Good. It’s lunchtime. Go and call your sister. We’ll eat in the dining room.” Storm was watching Fifi and the Flowertots on television. Gus would have been furious had he not made such an exciting discovery down by the river. Storm waited for him to complain and was surprised when he didn’t. Reluctantly she turned off the television and followed him through the house to the dining room.

David had spent the morning reading the papers and watching golf on television. It hadn’t occurred to him that his wife might welcome his company. They were growing used to being apart. Besides, after a busy working week he needed time on his own to unwind. The smell of roast lamb wafted through the house mingling with the wood smoke from the fire Mrs. Underwood had insisted on lighting in the hall. Mr. Underwood had filled the basket with logs the day before from the barn that stood beside the walled vegetable garden. The Lightlys had clearly enjoyed fires, for the barn was full of neatly chopped wood. As David walked across the hall to the dining room he felt rather smug: He was the proud owner of a proper country house.

“Something smells good,” he exclaimed, finding his family already at the dining room table. He peered over the sideboard where the roast leg of lamb was placed, ready to be carved.

“I think we’ve found our cook,” said Miranda.

“I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve tasted it,” said David, pulling out his chair and sitting down. “I think we should use this room more often,” he added, casting his eyes over his wife’s tasteful decoration. Mrs. Underwood entered carrying a tray of vegetable dishes. David made a move to help her.