He shoots me a baffled glance. “MICHELIN Green Star?”
How hasn’t he heard of it? It’s been one of the biggest trends in recent years. I remember that news article about his retirement from tennis. Have he and his wife been ‘concentrating on their relationship’ and ignoring everything else?
While I wonder about this, my TV presenter autopilot steps in and takes charge of the conversation. “MICHELIN Green Stars are given to restaurants that promote sustainable farms. Is this your idea? To cater for those restaurants?”
“It hadn’t crossed my mind.” He takes out his phone again and starts checking something, but it’s not Google. It’s as if he’s using the phone to fill the awkward silence.
This reticence is unlike the competitive sportsman he used to be. Sure, he was always modest and never got into one-upmanship. But he’s hardly going to one-up my pleasure garden project with vegetables; they’re very different ideas.
It doesn’t fit.
“What else?” I try to keep the question light so he doesn’t feel interrogated.
“I’m not about to open a restaurant, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says to his phone.
I sip my coffee and let my eyes drop to the dead garden below. If he doesn’t want to tell me, he doesn’t have to.
After a while, he puts his phone away and folds his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh.”
“If I haven’t laughed at the carrots and cabbages, I think you’re safe.”
“The carrots and cabbages, as you call them – I mean – you see… My real objective is mental health.”
Thank God I’ve just swallowed the mouthful of coffee or I’d have spluttered and spat it out.
“I didn’t even know carrots and cabbages have mental health issues.”
He doesn’t laugh. Or even smile. But the gleam of recognition in his eyes tells me he caught the joke.
“It’s easiest if I show you. Do you want to?”
Do I want to?
“Does the King wear a crown?”
“Excellent.”
He holds his hand out to me. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Six
He leads me down the stairs, not the side ones but the main curving staircase that takes us into the heart of the house to the big ballroom with the murals. From there, we cut into the east wing, past the kitchen and a few other rooms, down the corridor to a door that opens out on to another garden.
This roughly triangular one fills the space between two wings, the east and the south, and is a quarter the size of my North Park. Otherwise it’s the same tangle of overgrown hedges and weeds. Except this one has more trees. Lots of trees. I can just see the tops of them above everything.
None of it has been cleared.
“When did you start here?” I ask as we both walk the footpath that runs along the walls of the house.
“Eight weeks ago. I moved in just before Christmas.” A moment later he looks over his shoulder at me. “You’re wondering what I’ve been doing all this time if I haven’t even made a start.”
“No, just… I mean…” Hoping not to sound rude, I start again. “It’s just that winter would have been the perfect time to get the land ready for planting.”
“It would have been perfect if I had the time. I’ve been very busy.”
With what?
We slow down then stop to look at the neglected grounds. “There.” He points. “Those are good fruit trees, but you can hardly see them for all the privet.” He pulls at a frond of green leaves that must be ten feet tall. “I’m surprised at the sheer variety of what was planted here.” He pushes between the overgrown privet to create a gap so we can see. “Victoria plum and Marjorie plums, damsons, three types of apples, peaches, cherries, walnuts and pears.” He lists fruit like an enthusiastic shopper. “And over by the wall”—he points to the south wing—“berries – so many kinds. It’s as if someone wanted to make this an idyllic Arcadian orchard.”
