Santa Montefiore
Santa Montefiore’s childhood home and its idyllic garden inspired her latest book. Kate Crockett takes an armchair journey with her from Kensington to Hampshire
Above: Santa pictured in one of her favourite places - Kensington Palace Gardens
The chandeliers, velvet sofas and stylish, urban surroundings of the Brunello Lounge at the Baglioni Hotel on Hyde Park Gate disappear into the background as I listen to local author Santa Montefiore talk. Just as the prose of her latest novel, The French Gardener, has done while I’ve been tucked up in bed this week, Santa’s rich, descriptive language transports me from London to the enchanting gardens of her childhood home in Hampshire, where she and her older brother, James, and sister, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, spent idyllic days.
‘My parents have the most beautiful garden,’ Santa enthuses. ‘A huge herbaceous border, a lovely walled garden, secret gardens, bluebell woods and fields of corn, wheat and barley that go on forever – it’s very pretty. We had an amazing vegetable garden with huge rhubarb, beans, sweet peas, raspberries – you name it.’
‘My father used to make rafts out of these great big cans from the farm and we played Swallows and Amazons on the pond,’ she continues. ‘And he made us a hay-bale house next to the pond; we’d make a fire and roast marshmallows and then go to the pond to fish.’
A picture forms in my mind; a composite of what Santa now describes and what I have imagined while reading about the fictional Hartington Hall, the country home that is the setting of The French Gardener. It’s no surprise. For Santa, this latest novel – her eighth – is her most personal yet. The story was inspired by the arrival of the current gardener to her family’s farm, in the grounds of which Santa and her author/historian husband, Simon Sebag-Montifiore, and her brother James and sister-in-law, Sarah, both have second homes.
‘Two years ago, this man called Simon came to rent a cottage on the farm, and he’s a gardener,’ she explains. He started working for her mother and before long, the gardener was doing a few hours’ work for Santa and her brother, too, and inspiring their children to make the most of their weekends in the country.
‘I’ve got two children [daughter Lily, seven, and son Sasha, five] and my brother’s got four – – all under 10 – so suddenly it was like the Pied Piper of Hamelin had whisked our children off,’ she gushes. ‘He was mowing the lawn on the tractor with all six children on top of him! Now they plant vegetables with him – rhubarb, lettuces, cabbages, whatever; and he has six sunflowers – each with their name on it… the joy of watching them grow things all together…’ Her mind wanders off to Hampshire.
The French Gardener describes a similar scenario in which a young, urban family is transported to the countryside, with life-changing results – thanks to the mysterious, eponymous French gardener, Jean-Paul. ‘The idea came from Simon but then I weaved the story, made Jean-Paul my own character and took it away,’ Santa explains.
‘The book contains a lot of me, a lot of my children and a lot of what I feel about giving your child time and attention,’ she continues. ‘It occurs to me, living in London, that children don’t get out to nature.’
But, enviably, Santa and her family enjoy the best of both worlds. Her Hampshire home may have provided the inspiration, but it is in her Kensington home of three years – close to another beloved garden, Kensington Palace – that Santa crafted her novel. She and her husband both work from home. ‘My husband is very much in his element here now, as am I. When you are writing, you want to get out and meet people for lunch or look around the bookshops, you want a bit of life.’
I get a real sense that Santa, 38, – glowing, glamorous and finding time for our interview between supporting her daughter in a swimming gala, meeting her editor and dashing off to another appointment – really does make the most of life in Kensington. Her favourite haunts include dining at Maroush on Kensington Church Street, lunching at Whole Foods and enjoying walks in Kensington Gardens.
But how does she manage it all? ‘Being a London mum is a lot more full-on than being a country mum, but so I find you do have to juggle a bit, but I am not writing Tolstoy!’
The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore is published this month by Hodder & Stoughton, £16.99 (hardback). www.santamontefiore.co.uk
Santa loves...
• Anya Hindmarch, Melissa Odabash et al, Ledbury Road, W11
‘A very dangerous corner!’
• TenPilates, Pall Mall Deposit, W10 124–128 Barlby Road W10 6BL
‘Second to none’
Santa loathes...
• The Congestion Charge
‘They are charging me for the privilege of driving up and down my own street’
• The Mayor
‘If a monkey with a hat on said “Vote for Me” I would vote for him rather than Ken Livingstone’
READ AN EXTRACT FROM THE FRENCH GARDENER:
Prologue
Hartington House, summer 2004
It was nearly dusk when she reached the cottage, a cardboard box held tightly against her chest. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the clouds pink like tufts of candyfloss.Long shadows fell across grass already damp with dew.The air smelled sweet, of fertile soil and thriving flowers. Tiny dragon flies hovered in the still, humid air, their wings glinting in the light. The cottage was quaint, symmetrical, with a tall roof that dwarfed the walls below it. It might once have been a barn, or grain shed, positioned as it wasin the middle of a field. The roof tiles were brown and covered in moss, the chimney leaning a little to the left. The top of the roof sagged slightly, as if it had grown tired with age. Roses tumbled over the door where the paint had already started to peel. It looked sadly neglected, forgotten at the bottom of the garden by the river, hidden in a small copse. A fat pigeon settled down for the night, cooing lazily in the gutter, and a couple of squirrels scurried up a chestnut tree and crouched in the crook of a branch to watch her with suspicious black eyes.
She stood a while, contemplating the gentle flow of the river Hart as it ran down the valley to the sea. She remembered fishing with nets and throwing sticks into the water from the little stone bridge. Nothing had changed. Cows still mooed in the field down river and the distant sound of a tractor rattled up the track behind the hedge. She blinked through the mist of nostalgia and put the key in the lock.
The door opened with a whine, as if in protest. She entered the hall, noticing at once the lingering scent of orange blossom. When she saw the sitting-room, cluttered with photographs, trinkets and books, she assumed someone was living there. As far as she knew, the agent hadn’t yet sold the estate, which included the cottage. It had been on the market now for over ten months. ‘Hello,’ she called out. ‘Is anyone there?’ No reply. She frowned a little nervously and closed the front door behind her. She put the box down on the floor of the hall. The air was warm and musty, smelling of old memories and tears. Her eyes stung with tears of her own.
She went into the kitchen where the table was laid with china cups and a teapot, the chairs pulled out. The remains of a tea for two. She put her hand on the back of one of the chairs to steady herself. In all the years she had lived in the big house, she had never entered the cottage. It had always been locked and she had never been curious. Judging by the layer of dust that covered the kitchen table, no one else had been there either.
She heard a noise upstairs, like a footstep. ‘Hello,’ she called again, suddenly afraid. ‘Is anyone here?’
Still no reply. She returned to the hall and picked up the box. Her attention was once more drawn upstairs. She turned to face the light that flooded the landing. It seemed not of this world. Her fear dissolved in its magnificence and a silent call came from deep inside her heart.
Tentatively, she began to climb the stairs. At the top of the landing, on the left, was an empty room. She put the box down in there, then stood back a moment not wanting to leave it. Inside the box was something of enormous value.She found it almost impossible to part with, but knew it was the right thing to do. Even if it was never found, she could rest in the certainty that she had done her very best. She didn’t like to keep secrets from her own family, but this was one that she would take to her grave, even though these secrets no longer had the power to hurt, but were as ash from a fire that had once burned with ferocity.
A bedroom across the landing drew her away from the box. It smelled familiar, of cut grass and the same sweet scent of orange blossom she had noticed in the hall. She sat on the bed, in the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the thick covering of mildew that had stained the window green. It was warm upon her face, amber – the colour of wistfulness. She closed her eyes, sensing the presence of someone close, and listened. Once again her eyes stung with tears. She knew if she opened them the moment would be lost.
‘Don’t go,’ she said in the silence of her mind. ‘Please don’t leave me.’ Then she leaned back and waited for a response.