The French Gardener(19)

“Put out your hand,” came a voice beside her. She was surprised to see a stranger lean on the fence and extend his hand towards the cows. He smiled at her and his weathered brown face creased about the eyes where the crows’-feet were already long and deep. He had the kind of smile that warmed a person from the inside and Storm immediately felt better, as if the lonely hole in her heart had been temporarily plugged. She remembered her mother telling her not to talk to strangers. But this man was nice, not at all like the horrid men she had been warned about.

Storm copied the man and stuck out her hand. At first the cows didn’t move any closer, just observed the extended hands, snorting their hot steamy breath into the damp October air. Storm waited, excited now that she was no longer alone. She noticed the man’s hand was rough and dry, the skin on his palm etched with hundreds of lines like a road map. At last the cows began to edge their way towards them, slowly at first and then with growing confidence. Storm began to tremble as one of the cows stretched its neck and brought its wet nose closer. “Don’t be afraid,” said the man. He had a funny accent. “They’re Aberdeen Angus cows, very gentle creatures. They are afraid of you.” He put his hand closer to hers and the cow blew onto their skin. “You see. She likes you.” With the back of his fingers he stroked the cow’s nose. The cow put out her tongue and licked Storm’s hand.

“Her tongue is all rough,” she said, giggling with pleasure.

“That’s because it’s got to grab hold of the grass. If it were smooth the grass would slip through.” The rest of the herd now saw that the two humans were friendly and surged forward, wanting their own turn. “We have some new friends,” he said and laughed. He was surprised that the child had suddenly made him happy. A while ago he had been sitting on the riverbank, head in his hands, the unhappiest he had been in twenty-six years.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Storm.”

“Storm is an unusual name. My name is Jean-Paul.” He studied her flushed face, grubby where her tears had fallen, and felt a wave of compassion. A child her age shouldn’t be wandering the fields on her own. “Do you live near here?”

“Hartington House,” she replied, repeating the name her mother had taught her. Jean-Paul blanched and for a moment he was lost for words. “It’s the other side of the river,” Storm continued. But Jean-Paul knew that. He raised his eyes as if he could see over the trees to where the house nestled in the neglected gardens.

“I think I should take you home,” he suggested quietly. Storm nodded, disappointed. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to stay with the cows. Jean-Paul sensed her disappointment. “You can come back another time. The cows will always be pleased to see you. They know you now.”

“My brother doesn’t want to play with me,” she said. “He’s mean.”

“Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

Storm shook her head sadly. “Just Gus.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Not long,” she replied. “We used to live in London.”

“I bet you did not have such a big garden in London.”

“We didn’t have a garden at all, but we had the park.”

Jean-Paul shrugged. “But a garden is more magical than a park. Gardens are full of secret places.”

“Gus’s house is secret.”

“You need to ask your father to build you a playhouse of your own.”

“He’s busy,” she said, lowering her eyes so that her eyelashes almost brushed her cheek.

“Then you should make a house in the hollow tree.”

“The hollow tree?”

“The hollow tree in the wild garden.” The child had clearly never heard of the wild garden either. “Come, I’ll show you.”

They approached the little stone bridge. Jean-Paul cast his eyes at the cottage and his face turned gray. “That’s Gus’s secret house,” said Storm, pointing at it. Jean-Paul said nothing. His heart had broken all over again. She had gone. Why had he bothered coming back? What had he expected to find? He should have let ivy grow over his memories as it was growing over their cottage. He should have moved on. But he loved with all his heart. If he suffocated his love he would surely die with it.

“Come, Storm. I’ll show you the hollow tree.” He walked over the bridge without glancing back at the cottage. The wild gardens, once full of purply-blue camassias and buttercups, cowslips and fluffy dandelions, had been neglected. Instead of being cut down for winter, the grasses were long and out of control. How he had loved to walk through them on those balmy spring evenings on his way to the cottage. Now it had been starved of love.