The French Gardener Read Online Free PDF Page B

to write with pink pencils, and a Win Green gingerbread playhouse made from embroidered pink cotton full of the pink cushions she collected in every shade and size. It was there that she hid now with her reading book from school. She felt sad and alone. She pulled her favorite pink cushion to her chest andhugged it close, drying her tears on the corner. What was the point of a beautiful room if she had no friends to show it off to?
    Miranda finished her column and e-mailed it off with a sigh of relief. She had forgotten about her daughter’s homework. She wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine, picking a carrot out of the fridge to quell the urge to smoke. It was time for the children’s tea. All she could think of was eggy bread. Gus had already had fish cakes for lunch. As she stared blankly into the fridge the telephone rang. Sticking the handset between her cheek and shoulder she pulled out a couple of eggs. “Yes?” she said, expecting it to be her husband.
    “Hi, it’s Jeremy here.”
    “Oh, hi.”
    “You know you were looking for a gardener?”
    “Yes,” she replied, brightening.
    “I’ve found someone who might do. He’s called Mr. Underwood. He’s quite old and rather eccentric, but he loves gardening.”
    “How did you find him?”
    “He used to work on the farm.”
    “And now?”
    “He’s semiretired. He could do a few days a week for you.”
    “How old is he?”
    Jeremy hesitated. “Midsixties.”
    “Will he be up to it? There’s a lot to be done over here.”
    “Just give him a go. He’s a good man.”
    Storm padded in, dressed in a pink fairy outfit complete with glittering crown, wings and wand. “Mummy, I’m hungry,” she whined, her large eyes red rimmed from crying. Miranda frowned, hesitating a moment.
    “Okay, I’ll see him,” she agreed hastily. “Can he come tomorrow morning? I know it’s Saturday but…”
    “I’ll send him over.”
    “Good. Thanks, Jeremy.” She hung up and turned to her daughter. “I’m making you eggy bread, darling. Are you all right?”
    “Eggy bread?” exclaimed Gus, hovering in the doorway. “I hate eggy bread.”
    “Gus, you’re in no position to complain about anything today. It’s either that or spaghetti.”
    “Spaghetti,” said Gus.
    Storm screwed up her nose. “I like eggy bread.”
    “I’m not a restaurant. It’s spaghetti for both of you.” She couldn’t face a tantrum from Gus, and Storm wouldn’t complain. Storm scowled. “You can have as much ketchup as you like,” Miranda added to appease her. “I really don’t have the energy to fight with you today.”
    She watched her children eat, taking pleasure from her glass of wine. David was coming home tonight. She’d bathe and change into something nice. Cook him calves’ liver with baked potatoes and red wine sauce. She wanted to impress him, encourage him to spend more time at home. She craved his company. It was boring on her own in the country.

III
Misty mornings that hold within them the promise of a beautiful day
    David Claybourne arrived at Hartington House at eight. Gus, in blue gingham pajamas, was waiting in the kitchen with his mother. Storm was tucked up in bed with her toy rabbit and favorite pink cushion, dreaming of bringing her new friends home to play.
    When she heard the front door open Miranda told Gus to stay in the kitchen while she went to talk to his father. They lingered in the hall for what seemed like a long time, their voices low. Gus shuffled on the banquette, having drunk his glass of milk, and felt his spirit grow heavy with anticipation. He yawned and began to scratch lines into the pine with a spoon.
    Finally his parents walked into the kitchen, looking serious. His father didn’t greet him, but pulled out a chair and sat down. His mother handed her husband a glass of wine, before pouring one for herself. “Your mother tells me that you bit a child and ran away from school today.” Gus stared at his father