Part 11 (1/2)

”Oh? Which one?”

”The Secret Garden. Mrs. Lightly gave it to me. It took me weeks to finish. I'm ever such a slow reader. I prefer to sew. If I'm not cooking and growing my own vegetables, I'm doing my needlepoint. I sit by the fire with my feet up doing my needlepoint while Mr. Underwood watches the telly. That's the way I like it, Mr. Underwood in his armchair, me in mine, feet up, watching the telly. Oh the things they have on these days, it's a wonder people leave the house!”

They drank their tea, agreed to the hours and wages of Mrs. Underwood's employment and Miranda handed her a key. ”That'll suit me perfectly,” said Mrs. Underwood, putting her cup down on the sideboard. ”If you're still looking for a housekeeper, I know a lady who could do it. Fatima, she's Muslim. Mother of Jemal who owns the convenience shop in town. She's looking to do something now her granddaughter's gone to university. She's a good woman and hard-working, I should imagine. Jemal will open on a Sunday if you ask him.”

”How do I get in touch with her?”

”I'll be seeing her this afternoon. I've got to go and buy some ketchup. My grandchildren are coming on Sunday and little Kevin won't eat anything unless it's covered in ketchup. Such a pity! I'll give Fatima your number and tell her to call you.”

”Thank you. She sounds ideal. By the way, who's the local builder? I need to get that cottage ready and it's in a right state!”

”That'll be Derek Heath and his boys Nick and Steve. You'd better give him a call right away if you want to get them before Christmas. They're very booked up. Hard to pin down.”

”Are they reliable?”

”Reliable? Gold dust, that's what they are, gold dust! You can bring your fancy builders down from London but nothing compares to the local boys. Half the price, too. They're honest, hard-working lads and they get the job done.” She smiled wickedly and winked. ”Easy on the eye, too. I'd have thrown my cap at Derek if I hadn't been married to Mr. Underwood. I'll be happy to take them cups of tea.” She jotted the number down for Miranda. ”Tell them it's urgent, they'll sort something out. They know the house well. Used to do the odd thing for Mrs. Lightly.”

Once Mrs. Underwood had gone, Miranda telephoned Derek Heath on his mobile. To her surprise he said he could start in a week-the job he had booked had been canceled. ”You're lucky,” he said in his country drawl. ”Or perhaps it's fate. I'm not a believer myself, but my wife is and she'd say it was definitely meant to be.” Miranda put down the receiver and thought of Jean-Paul. Was he fate, too?

At five o'clock, Henrietta left Clare in charge of the shop to nip across the street to Troy's for her cut and blow-dry. She had felt low all day. Little by little, Cate's b.i.t.c.hiness had worn her down. Humor wasn't much of a s.h.i.+eld against Cate's carefully aimed arrows. ”It makes her feel better to pull you down,” said Troy, settling her into the chair. ”I'm going to give you long layers, darling. It'll lift you. You need a lift in more ways than one. That Cate's a miserable old cow. You know what they say? Happy people are nice people, unhappy people are nasty people. Cate is clearly unhappy. She might make the best coffee in Dorset but she's as bitter as a bar of Green & Black's.”

”I'm not happy in my skin, Troy. I'd feel better if I had less of it!” She gave a weak laugh.

”There's too much pressure on women these days to be thin. Thin doesn't mean happy.”

”But it means married.”

”Not necessarily. There are plenty of men out there who like fulsome women. You're not fat. Fat is Rev. Beeley.”

”She also happens to be five foot tall.”

”A gnome, darling. Which is why she's unmarried. No one wants to marry a gnome.”

”A Womble?”

”Seen any lately?”

”Haven't been to Wimbledon Common for years.”

”You're a proper height and a gorgeous, voluptuous shape. You should celebrate your size, not hide under clothes made for women four sizes larger than you. I'm going to give you a killer hairdo.”

”What's the point? There aren't any single men in Hartington.”

”I bet there's somebody here, right under your nose.”

”You?” She gazed at him longingly.

”If only,” he sighed. ”But I'd make you even more miserable. You need a man to make love to you, not to put you on a pedestal and wors.h.i.+p you while he makes eyes at the postman.”

”Not our Tony?”

”Not specifically, no. There has to be someone in Hartington. Isn't that what happens in romantic novels? The heroine always ends up with the local man she'd never noticed before.”

”I've looked at every man who walks down the street. Perhaps I'm not destined for marriage. I'm destined to envy other women with prams and pushchairs, fridges scattered with school drawings and timetables. I'd make a good wife. I'd cook him delicious dinners, run him hot baths, ma.s.sage his feet after a busy day, organize his life like a secretary. I'd give him roly-poly children and a bit of roly-poly myself. I'd make him happy. But all the good I have to give is turning sour in my belly. If I don't find someone soon I'll ferment into vinegar and won't be of any worth to anyone.”

”You talk a lot of nonsense, Etta. You've got plenty of time.”

”But I don't want to be an old mother.” She clutched her belly. ”I want to have children while I'm young enough to run in the mothers' race.”

”You'll always be young enough to make the picnic.”

”But what's the fun in making a picnic on a Zimmer frame?” She watched pieces of her hair drop to the floor like feathers.

”It'll happen and when it does I'll be more than a little jealous.” He watched her smile. ”G.o.d made me gay to torment me.”

”He made you handsome to torment me,” she giggled.

”At least we can laugh about it. That makes it bearable.”

”Just. There comes a point, though, when laughing isn't enough.” They gazed at each other in the mirror, across the insurmountable s.p.a.ce that separated them, suddenly serious. He bent down and planted a kiss on her exposed neck.

”I do love you, though,” he said, frowning.

”I know. And I love you. You're my friend. h.e.l.l would be a place without you.”

Derek Heath began on the cottage the following week with the help of his two sons. Their radio, an old machine splattered with layers of paint, was positioned on the windowsill as they ripped out the kitchen units and retiled the floor to the sound of Queen's We Will Rock You. Derek's older brother, Arthur, came out of retirement to help. Dressed in immaculate white coveralls, he mended the leak in the sitting room and repapered the walls. Mrs. Underwood brought them trays of tea and biscuits, lingering to chat longer than was necessary. Mr. Underwood joined her, finding jobs to do by the river to justify his presence. The moment Storm and Gus finished school they left their bikes on the gravel and hurried to the cottage to watch. Derek patted them affectionately, remembering his own boys as children, musing at the rapid pa.s.sing of time. He gave Gus small tasks while Storm helped pour the tea and hand round biscuits. Miranda watched them tear out Mrs. Lightly's memories and felt a moment's regret. This was ”their” cottage. It was where she had left the sc.r.a.pbook. She couldn't help but feel ashamed of her callous disregard for the woman's past.

Fatima came for an interview. She was a big-featured woman with brown skin and small brown eyes, her head covered in a scarf. Her lips were full and when she smiled the gaps between her teeth were large and black. She was short and round in the middle, like a honeypot, her feet clad in sandals and white socks. Before Miranda could explain what she wanted Fatima silenced her with an extravagant sweep of her hand. ”I know how rich people like their houses cleaned,” she declared in a thick Moroccan accent. ”You won't be disappointed. Fatima clean your house until it s.h.i.+ne.” She flashed Miranda a wide smile, a gold filling catching the light. ”Fatima know.” She was decisive. Miranda was left no option but to hire her. ”You have made the right decision,” she exclaimed portentously. ”You will not regret it.” Miranda returned to her desk to write an article for Eve magazine on the joys of self-employment, and wondered how all those other self-employed mothers managed to get anything done!

David arrived on Friday night exhausted and in an ill temper. However, the fish pie Mrs. Underwood had left for dinner transformed his mood so that when he tucked into the apple and blackberry crumble he was almost jolly. ”Darling,” he said, taking her hand. ”Things are looking up!”

”I think so,” she agreed. ”It feels like home.”

”The fires are lit, dinner is delicious. Gus hasn't played truant all week.” He sat back in his chair. ”This is the life.” He patted his stomach. ”Now I'm going to have a bath and turn on the telly. See if there's anything worth watching.” He left Miranda feeling a mixture of pride and resentment. The house was perfect but he hadn't asked about her, or about the children. He simply a.s.sumed that Gus had behaved himself because she hadn't told him otherwise. She drained her winegla.s.s and looked at the dishes David had left on the table. Before she indulged in self-pity she remembered the sc.r.a.pbook smoldering in her study. The mere thought of it caused a frisson of excitement to career up her spine. She wouldn't tell David. It would be her secret. The thought of holding something back gave her a sense of superiority over her husband. A sliver of control. She'd load the dishwasher and wash up, watch television with him and share his bed but, on Sunday night, when he left, she would have the sc.r.a.pbook to curl up with and someone else's love to feast upon.

XII.

The pink light of sunset setting the sky aflame.

At the end of October the cottage was finished and Jean-Paul returned to Hartington. Miranda had woken in a good mood, deliberated over what to wear, finally deciding on a pair of Rock & Republic skinny jeans tucked into boots, an Anne Fontaine white s.h.i.+rt and an extravagant spray of Jo Malone Lime, Basil & Mandarin scent. She had taken time to wash and blow-dry her hair, leaving it long and s.h.i.+ny down her back. Not that she wanted to look as though she'd taken trouble; after all, he was only the gardener.

He arrived in late afternoon. Gus and Storm were on half term, hanging around the bridge, waiting for the enigmatic Frenchman to appear. Gus pretended he wasn't interested, throwing sticks into the water, but in fact was curious and putout that Storm had already met him.

When Miranda opened the door her heart stalled a moment; he was even more handsome than she remembered, in a felt hat, sheepskin coat and faded Levis. He stepped into the hall and took off his hat. His graying hair was tousled and he ran a hand through it, casting his eyes about the place, searching for ghosts in the shadows.

”The children are waiting for you at the cottage,” she said. ”I've filled your fridge so I can offer you a cup of tea down there.”