The French Gardener(3)

“You’re going to have to give him a good talking to tonight,” she said. “He’ll listen to you.”

“A good hiding is what he deserves.”

“It’s against the law. You can tell that kind of law was made by people with no children.”

“Did you speak to Mr. Marlow?”

“Yes. He’s not very happy. God forbid Gus gets kicked out of this school, too!” She began to toy with a pencil.

“He won’t. They’re more tolerant in the country. Besides, he’ll grow out of it. He’s just adjusting to his new surroundings.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You sound down, darling.”

“I’m just really up against it. I’ve got to finish my column and I can’t get to my desk I’ve got so many domestic chores to see to. Now Gus has run off, I won’t have time to write. I’m tearing my hair out!”

“And such pretty hair!” he quipped. “Look, if you took the trouble to hire help you’d have time for the important things.” He was baffled by his wife’s uncharacteristic ineptitude. She had commanded the builders for eight months like a formidable colonel, but recently she had lost momentum. “You should have listened to me and hired a nanny. Jayne might have come with us had we made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Your dreams of being the domestic goddess haven’t quite materialized, have they? We were fools to let her go. She was the only one Gus responded to. You’re the mistress of an estate now, Miranda. Get organized down there, for God’s sake, before you drive us both mad.” David clearly believed their son’s problems were his wife’s responsibility.

“He’ll come back when he’s hungry,” she retorted casually, hurt that he was blaming her once again. “Then I’ll send him back to school.” She put down the telephone and returned to her desk, glancing bleakly at the ironic title of her column: “My Bucolic Dream.”



Gus sat under a tree and felt his stomach rumble. He wanted to go home and sit by the fire in the playroom and watch Lord of the Rings on DVD. He longed for Jayne’s cottage pie and apple crumble with custard. Slowly his anger ebbed away, cooled by the damp wind that now penetrated his bones. He rubbed his hands together and blew hot air into them. Even if he had had the vocabulary he wouldn’t have been able to explain his actions, even to himself. He didn’t know why he was poisoned with frustration and anger. He felt rejected. Lashing out made him feel better. Suddenly a large bubble expanded in his belly, rose up his windpipe and escaped his throat in a large, uncontrollable sob. His tears shocked and appalled him but he was unable to stop.

“You all right, lad?” Gus swiveled around, swallowing his weeping with a gulp. He hadn’t heard the man approach. Beside him panted two black sheepdogs. “You’re David Claybourne’s boy, aren’t you?” said Jeremy Fitzherbert. Gus nodded. Jeremy introduced himself and his thin, weathered face creased into a smile. One of the dogs leaned against his brown corduroy trousers which were tucked into green Wellington boots. A tweed cap covered thinning brown hair. His eyes were small and bright and very blue. He patted the dog’s head with one gloved hand, a long stick in the other. The very stick Gus had used to torment the donkey. “Shouldn’t you be at school? Come on, let me take you home.”

Gus reluctantly got to his feet. One of the dogs made a rush for him. Gus recoiled. “Oh, it’s a wanting-to-jump-up dog!” said Jeremy with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. The thin one’s Mr. Ben, the fat one’s Wolfgang.” Jeremy patted Mr. Ben fondly. Gus wiped his face with his sleeve and followed Jeremy down the path.

The sheep were gathered into a tight formation, ready to be shepherded. Charlie the donkey remained in the far corner of the field, watching them warily. “Charlie!” Jeremy called, delving into his pocket for a carrot. “Come on, old boy!” Charlie didn’t move. “What’s up with him?” Jeremy muttered to himself. Gus dropped his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Donkeys.” Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll go and take a look at him later. He’s an old codger. You know he’s over ninety?”

“Really,” Gus replied, looking up from beneath his dark fringe. Jeremy noticed something hard in those pale blue eyes and frowned. He didn’t know how to talk to someone Gus’s age, so he strode on across the field and up the thyme walk without uttering another word. Gus trudged silently behind him, wondering how he was going to get that stick back.