The French Gardener(47)

He stepped inside. There was a smell of fresh paint and polish—and the unexpected scent of orange blossom? He was aware that Miranda was expecting a reaction but he wanted to be alone to retrace their every moment together. The afternoons they had made love on the sofa in front of the fire, the mornings they had crept beneath the sheets to hold each other for a few stolen moments, the terrible day they had sat staring at each other across the kitchen table knowing it had to come to an end, as inevitably as a tree losing its leaves in autumn.

He took off his coat and almost stumbled into the kitchen where Miranda put the kettle on to make tea. Storm opened a packet of digestive biscuits. Gus crept in out of the dusk. Jean-Paul looked around the room and saw that everything had changed. There were new units, a smart black Aga, gray floor tiles where there had been wood. Miranda looked at him anxiously. “Do you like it?” Storm brought him a biscuit and he was once again wrenched away from the past. The little girl’s bashful smile soothed the cracks in his heart.

“I like it,” he replied.

Miranda’s shoulders dropped with relief. “I’m so pleased,” she said, taking cups down from the cupboard. “I did a big shop for you. I didn’t know what you’d want so I bought a bit of everything. You can borrow my car if you like and check out the town. Sainsbury’s is a few miles out the other side, past the castle. I must take the children to the castle. I haven’t had time yet.” Jean-Paul remembered her using that excuse before. Time. He glanced at Gus standing shiftily in the corner and felt his loneliness; it leaked out of every pore.

“Will you show me where I will sleep?” he asked Gus. The little boy shrugged and left the room.

“I’ll show you!” Storm squeaked, hurrying out after her brother.

“But you gave him a biscuit,” retorted Gus angrily, grabbing her shirt.

“Let me tell you a secret,” Jean-Paul said calmly. Both children turned to stare at him with wide, curious eyes. “Come upstairs,” he added, striding past them. Once in the bedroom he opened the window. “I think you will find there is a family of squirrels who think that this is their house.”

“I know,” said Gus, sitting on the bed. “I’ve seen them.”

“You have?”

“This was my secret camp,” he said grumpily.

“I think you can do better than this,” said Jean-Paul. “How about a camp in a tree?”

“A tree house?” said Gus, unconvinced.

“A tree house built in the branches so that in summer no one knows you are there. A tree house that has an upstairs and a downstairs.”

“There isn’t one of those here,” Gus scoffed.

“Not yet, but we will build it.”

“Can you do that?”

“Not on my own. But you and Storm will help me.”

“Mummy says you’re the gardener,” said Gus.

“Isn’t a tree part of the garden, too?”

“The hollow tree!” Storm cried. “But that’s going to be my secret camp.”

Jean-Paul shook his head and sat on the bed beside Gus. “Come here, Storm,” he said, beckoning her over. She stood before him, her bottom lip sticking out sulkily. “Do you remember I told you about the magic in the garden?”

“Yes.”

“The magic only works when we all act together. Do you understand?” Storm frowned, Gus looked skeptical. “What is the point of being at different ends of the garden? There is only so much that we can do on our own. Imagine what incredible things we can create together?”

“Can we build the tree house tomorrow?” Storm asked.

“I don’t see why not,” said Jean-Paul. We will breathe life back into the garden and the sound of children’s laughter will once again ring out from the old oak tree. I cannot bring the love back but I can create new love. That is how I will remember her.

Downstairs, Miranda had made the tea. She took it into the sitting room on a tray and lit the fire. She was pleased with the cottage. It was cozy and clean. The carpet had been replaced, the walls repapered and new curtains hung, breaking on the floor in generous folds. She had kept all the books and ornaments. He wouldn’t know that they had belonged to Phillip Lightly. She hoped the children weren’t bothering him. For a man who had no children of his own he was very sweet and patient with them. She wondered why such a handsome man had never married. Perhaps he had suffered a terrible loss or tragedy that had prevented him from sharing his life with someone. He had the air of a man used to being on his own.

After a while all three came downstairs. Jean-Paul sat beside the fire, in the armchair that Miranda had had recovered in green ticking. She gave him a cup of tea and sat opposite him. She had a tendency to chatter when nervous and made a deliberate effort not to overdo it. After all, she kept telling herself, he was just the gardener.