He returned to the sitting room and began to move slowly about picking up ornaments, turning them over in his hands. To the uninitiated those objects meant nothing at all; to Jean-Paul they were small tokens of love that Ava had given to him over the year he had lived there. A little enamel box in the shape of a bouquet of flowers, a china frog, a heart box containing a dried rosebud, a set of eight wooden apples, a crystal tree. He had left them there hoping she would change her mind; she never did and so they remained. He was surprised and heartened to find them there, along with all his books neatly arranged in the bookshelves. He hoped she might have kept them to remember him by, but with a sinking heart, he realized that she had left them behind with her memories, to die like the flowers in her gardens.
XIII
The morning light through the leaves of the chestnut trees
When Jean-Paul awoke it took him a moment to orientate himself. He opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the bedroom ceiling and heard the twittering birds in the chestnut trees outside, heralding the dawn. He could see the sky through the gap in the curtains, slowly turning a pale shade of gray. He lay there with nothing but a memory. A memory so strong he could smell the scent of damp grass in her hair, feel the softness of her skin, run his fingers down the smoothness of her face, hold her slim body against his and kiss her lips. Then the memory faded, turning cold beside him. Their cottage remained but her love no longer warmed it.
Why had he come? What did he hope to achieve? Surely it would be better to return to his château? He sat up and rubbed his eyes. How could he return now, without her? His whole life had been gradually moving towards this point. He had dreamed it, planned it, fantasized about it. He hadn’t considered what came after. He got up and walked into the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him unhappily, his eyes raw, the shadows dark beneath them. He looked old. Oh God, if nothing comes after, I can’t go on. I can’t live in nothing.
He dressed, made himself a cup of strong coffee and left the cottage. He was eager to get outside, to look around the garden, to find her there beneath the rotting foliage and make her flower again. It was a crisp morning. His breath rose on the air like smoke. The scent of damp earth was sweet on the breeze and those squirrels, intrepid and mischievous, watched him walk over the bridge then made a dash for his bedroom window, only to find he had outwitted them and closed it.
He stood a moment in the middle of the field that had once been Ava’s wildflower garden. The oak tree dominated it like a small fortress. He would build the children their house and they would play in it as Archie, Angus and Poppy had done. He crouched down and ran his hands through the wet weeds that grew in abundance. He’d have to start again. Mow it all down and replant it so that in March it would dazzle with crocuses, cowslips, daffodils and buttercups. Ava had loved to see the summer flowers when she opened her bedroom curtains in the morning. He looked towards the house. It was bewildering to witness it belonging to another family, strangers using the rooms that had once been Ava’s and Phillip’s. Miranda had redecorated. She had even ripped out the kitchen and replaced it. The house was far more splendid than when it had belonged to Ava and yet it had no soul. It was a beautiful show house; but it didn’t live.
He strode across the gravel to the archway in the hedge. There was now a smart black gate, its hinges oiled to perfection. The walled vegetable garden was, as he expected, neglected and overrun with weeds. The old brick wall was intact, but the borders were heaped high with dead flowers and bushes, the climbing roses falling away from the wall and drooping sadly. The box that lined the vegetable patches was in need of a dramatic haircut. It wouldn’t take long to tidy it all up and replant. They’d have vegetables in spring. He was heartened to see the apple trees, the ground beneath them scattered with decaying fruit. He bent down and searched for one that was edible, then took a bite. The taste made him smile with gratitude that some things never change.
He wandered along the stone pathways that led through the vegetable patches. He was uplifted to see the arched frame that straddled the path still in one piece though no sweet peas had flourished there that summer. He’d grow runner beans there with Ava’s favorite pink and white sweet peas and the children would help pick them as Poppy had loved to do. He found Hector’s old toolbox in one of the greenhouses, Ava’s gardening gloves and instruments beneath a table strewn with empty pots and seed packets. It would be a challenge to sort the place out, but he knew he could do it. He’d do it for her.
The herbaceous border was as overgrown and ignored as the rest of the grounds but he found a wheelbarrow full of dead branches at the far end, indicating that someone had already started weeding. He didn’t imagine that was Miranda. She had the hands of a woman who had never done a day’s digging—as clean and manicured as his had once been. He looked down at his fingernails, short and ragged, his palms rough and lined like the bark of a tree. No one would ever imagine the smooth, insouciant man he had once been. He had shed that skin in this very garden. Finally, he came to the dovecote. How often he had used it in his paintings. In the pink light of dusk, the pale liquid light of morning and in the silvery light of a full moon.