Then Jean-Paul suggested they play a game. “If this is my initiation into your club, then you have to be initiated into mine,” he said seriously.
Ava watched in astonishment as he began to dance around the fire making whooping noises with his hand over his mouth. His unbuttoned shirt blew about his body illuminating his skin in the firelight. He lifted his feet and jumped about, pretending to be a Red Indian. The children joined in, following Jean-Paul closely, copying his erratic movements, their small figures casting eerie shadows on the garden wall. Ava roared with laughter, and even Hector smiled, revealing small yellow teeth and gaping black holes where there were none. Inspired by the exhibition, Ava clapped her hands, wishing she had a drum so she could join in.
That evening, Ava was sorry Jean-Paul did not come for dinner. She had seen an unexpected side of him. They had parted in the vegetable garden. She with the children, he alone. She thought of him in the cottage, beside the fire, eating in front of the television then going to bed, and wondered whether he would be lonely. She resolved to lend him her car any time he wanted so he could go into town, and she’d remind Toddy to introduce him to her cousins. He’d appreciate the company of girls his age.
“How did it go today with Jean-Paul?” Phillip asked over dinner. Ava had made a special effort to cook partridges with breadcrumbs, bread sauce and gravy. She had steamed red cabbage to which she had added a little ginger, and had boiled carrots with honey. She had lit a candle on the table and dimmed the lights. Phillip opened a bottle of Bordeaux and poured two glasses. “Was he helpful?”
Ava smiled contentedly. “He was. In fact, he was a pleasure to have around. We roasted marshmallows in the bonfire and they all danced around it like Red Indians.”
“Not Hector, I hope. Wouldn’t do his heart any good at all.”
“Certainly not! Jean-Paul led the children. It was very funny. Poppy following as best she could, the boys thinking they were incredibly clever, kicking their legs out and spinning around. No wonder they’re quiet upstairs, I should imagine they’re exhausted!”
“Was he any good in the garden?”
“He helped Hector. I didn’t see much of him all day. I think he was pretty pissed off he had to rake leaves, but it’s not all about planting roses.”
“He’ll get used to it. He’ll reap the rewards of his labor in spring.”
“If he’s still here.”
The next few days she saw little of Jean-Paul. He worked with Hector while she busied herself in the borders. She asked him for dinner, but he refused, claiming he was having dinner at the pub. She dared not ask who with. It was none of her business. She wandered around the garden, trying to work out how she was going to plant her cottage garden, trying to imagine it, but nothing came. Perhaps the project was simply too ambitious. She should concentrate on the wild garden around the hollow tree instead. On Wednesday, when he had declined her third invitation for dinner, she realized she was being unfair. He had come to help her, she couldn’t send him off to work with Hector all day. That wasn’t keeping her side of the bargain. He had proved he was willing to work hard.
It was late. The sun had set, the sky was a deep navy studded with stars and there was a misty moon. She walked across the field towards the river. She wasn’t going to apologize, but she was going to ask his advice on the cottage garden. Perhaps he did have ideas. She hadn’t given him a chance.
The bridge looked silver in the moonlight, straddling the river that trickled gently in the silence. She loved the night. It was like being wrapped in velvet. Her spirits rose as she approached the cottage and she walked with a bounce in her step. The lights were on, the smell of smoke scenting the damp air with nostalgia. She stood a moment gazing at the little house, lit up as if by spotlight, enjoying the romance of it. Then she knocked on the door.
Jean-Paul’s face blanched with surprise when he saw her. She wore a T-shirt under her purple dungarees and seemed not to feel the cold. He shivered as the wind swept into the hall. “Come in,” he said, standing aside. She took off her boots and walked into the sitting room. There was a fire in the grate, a box of paints and glass of murky water on the coffee table. Jean-Michel Jarre resounded from the tape recorder. She hadn’t imagined he could paint.
He didn’t offer her a drink, but stood in the doorway waiting for her to speak. She walked over to the fire. “I’ve come to ask your advice,” she said, suddenly losing confidence. He had bathed, his hair was still wet. His blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up, hung over his Levis.