own; served to you.’
The notion was too much for them: hands fluttered to mouths, renewed giggling.
Thomas was going to pick strawberries? Dressed like that? I doubted I’d ever seen a deeper green – how could so much colour have been worked into that silk? – and gold thread ran like fire across it. Those leaves around his ankles could have been made from paper, by comparison. Why was Thomas going to pick strawberries? Pick better, could he, than those bob-kneed, flutter-handed, well-practised girls?
‘So, go .’ He swooped, snatched their baskets. ‘Go!’
And they did, delighted, their honey-coloured dresses twirling around their legs.
Now, me: my turn. ‘Cathy.’ He was at a disadvantage, though, turned in my direction, his eyes screwed up against the sun.
‘Thomas.’
He put the baskets down. ‘Men’s work, you know, strawberry-picking. No, don’t laugh.’ He did, openly, unafraid of showing those good teeth of his. ‘Back-breaking work. But the boys and I’ – mock-conspiratorial glance at the two boys – ‘are here to do our best.’ My son, on cue, grinned. At least he was still in the clothes he’d worn for travelling, not his best.
‘Good for the soul,’Thomas declared,‘strawberry-picking. Don’t you think? Couple of weeks a year: you need to act quick. I like that. Blink and you’d miss it, strawberry season. As if it’s a secret.’A lazier smile this time. ‘Reminds me, too, of being a boy: stealing them. I like that, too.’
I nodded at the plants at his feet. ‘Except they’re yours.’ Iaddressed Charlie: ‘I came to see where you were.’ Charlie gave me a self-conscious shrug, And here I am . ‘And there you are.’ I turned to go, leaving him be. Clearly, he didn’t want saving. Then again, I doubted he’d last long; I’d be seeing him indoors before half an hour was up.
Thomas said, ‘Not for much longer he isn’t,’ and told Charlie and his friend, ‘Cabbage leaves.’
The boys – unsurprisingly – looked blank.
I interceded: ‘Cabbage leaves?’
‘As many as you can get hold of – fistfuls; no mercy – before one of our gardener-girls chases you off Thomas indicated a far corner of the kitchen garden, then knelt to begin examining the plants. ‘You’ve never tasted strawberries,’ he said to neither of us in particular, ‘if you haven’t tasted strawberries that have been wrapped in cabbage leaves.’
Charlie dithered, unsure if this was a joke at his expense.
‘Wrap them in cabbage leaves as soon as they’re picked.’ Thomas glanced up at me. ‘Ever heard that?’
‘Never.’
‘French. It’s what the French do. Or so I was told. By a Frenchwoman of my acquaintance.’
I did nothing or perhaps I did something – folded my arms, raised an eyebrow – but said nothing, because he, again, was the one who spoke: ‘I’ve always wanted to try it.’
‘Well, then,’ I said to Charlie, who immediately loped off, friend following, delighted to be in on something.
Standing there, I realised how hot it was. There was no shade anywhere near. Sunlight slammed down. ‘You have cabbages here,’ I remarked. Not having the room in our kitchen garden, we have to have ours imported.
‘We have pretty much everything here.’ He didn’t lookup, and he’d spoken faintly, his tone, it seemed to me, flat. So, I left him to it.
Incidentally, he was right about the strawberries. Or his Frenchwoman was.
Eleven
After those two or three strawberry-season days at Kate’s, I didn’t see Thomas again for the best part of a year. I saw as much of Kate as before, though, or perhaps even more. Thomas was often away at Sudeley, supervising the renovations, and Kate would write: come and stay; or, could she come to me? I was at my London house most of the time: near to my Harry. Whenever Kate and I met up that summer or autumn, she appeared unchanged, or certainly less changed than she’d been in those first months of her marriage. It seemed to
The notion was too much for them: hands fluttered to mouths, renewed giggling.
Thomas was going to pick strawberries? Dressed like that? I doubted I’d ever seen a deeper green – how could so much colour have been worked into that silk? – and gold thread ran like fire across it. Those leaves around his ankles could have been made from paper, by comparison. Why was Thomas going to pick strawberries? Pick better, could he, than those bob-kneed, flutter-handed, well-practised girls?
‘So, go .’ He swooped, snatched their baskets. ‘Go!’
And they did, delighted, their honey-coloured dresses twirling around their legs.
Now, me: my turn. ‘Cathy.’ He was at a disadvantage, though, turned in my direction, his eyes screwed up against the sun.
‘Thomas.’
He put the baskets down. ‘Men’s work, you know, strawberry-picking. No, don’t laugh.’ He did, openly, unafraid of showing those good teeth of his. ‘Back-breaking work. But the boys and I’ – mock-conspiratorial glance at the two boys – ‘are here to do our best.’ My son, on cue, grinned. At least he was still in the clothes he’d worn for travelling, not his best.
‘Good for the soul,’Thomas declared,‘strawberry-picking. Don’t you think? Couple of weeks a year: you need to act quick. I like that. Blink and you’d miss it, strawberry season. As if it’s a secret.’A lazier smile this time. ‘Reminds me, too, of being a boy: stealing them. I like that, too.’
I nodded at the plants at his feet. ‘Except they’re yours.’ Iaddressed Charlie: ‘I came to see where you were.’ Charlie gave me a self-conscious shrug, And here I am . ‘And there you are.’ I turned to go, leaving him be. Clearly, he didn’t want saving. Then again, I doubted he’d last long; I’d be seeing him indoors before half an hour was up.
Thomas said, ‘Not for much longer he isn’t,’ and told Charlie and his friend, ‘Cabbage leaves.’
The boys – unsurprisingly – looked blank.
I interceded: ‘Cabbage leaves?’
‘As many as you can get hold of – fistfuls; no mercy – before one of our gardener-girls chases you off Thomas indicated a far corner of the kitchen garden, then knelt to begin examining the plants. ‘You’ve never tasted strawberries,’ he said to neither of us in particular, ‘if you haven’t tasted strawberries that have been wrapped in cabbage leaves.’
Charlie dithered, unsure if this was a joke at his expense.
‘Wrap them in cabbage leaves as soon as they’re picked.’ Thomas glanced up at me. ‘Ever heard that?’
‘Never.’
‘French. It’s what the French do. Or so I was told. By a Frenchwoman of my acquaintance.’
I did nothing or perhaps I did something – folded my arms, raised an eyebrow – but said nothing, because he, again, was the one who spoke: ‘I’ve always wanted to try it.’
‘Well, then,’ I said to Charlie, who immediately loped off, friend following, delighted to be in on something.
Standing there, I realised how hot it was. There was no shade anywhere near. Sunlight slammed down. ‘You have cabbages here,’ I remarked. Not having the room in our kitchen garden, we have to have ours imported.
‘We have pretty much everything here.’ He didn’t lookup, and he’d spoken faintly, his tone, it seemed to me, flat. So, I left him to it.
Incidentally, he was right about the strawberries. Or his Frenchwoman was.
Eleven
After those two or three strawberry-season days at Kate’s, I didn’t see Thomas again for the best part of a year. I saw as much of Kate as before, though, or perhaps even more. Thomas was often away at Sudeley, supervising the renovations, and Kate would write: come and stay; or, could she come to me? I was at my London house most of the time: near to my Harry. Whenever Kate and I met up that summer or autumn, she appeared unchanged, or certainly less changed than she’d been in those first months of her marriage. It seemed to
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