The Poppy Field. Deborah Carr

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      Gemma contemplated what she should do next. She needed to make sure the roof was weatherproof as soon as possible. It was late February, and although she hoped they didn’t have much snow in the Picardy area, she didn’t fancy rain coming through while she was living here. If she stayed.

      She tried to come up with a useful sentence. If they weren’t going to do the work, then she needed someone who would.

      “D›autres, er,” she mimed hammering a nail into the front door, much to the amusement of her visitors. “Dans le village?”

      The boy’s face contorted in concentration. His eyes widened in understanding and then he turned to the old man. “Grand-père?” He waited patiently while his grandfather chattered away.

      Gemma tried unsuccessfully to fathom what was being said. Forcing a smile on her face, she willed them to hurry up and answer her question. It was freezing standing on the doorstep, despite the watery sunshine. She waited, but they didn’t seem to be making any headway.

      The boy gave her a pensive look. “Non, pas du tout.”

      “What? No one?” She glared at them. They had come here to let her down without any suggestion of who else might do the work? She closed her eyes briefly, determined not to cry with frustration.

      “Non.”

      “Merci,” she said eventually. “Thanks for telling me.”

      “Au revoir.” The boy looked relieved as he followed his grandfather down the path to the road. She watched them leave, trying not to panic, as they both got into an ancient blue car and drove away.

      Unsure what to do next, Gemma took a moment to gather her wits. Well, she decided, she still needed to know the extent of the renovation work. She retrieved her puffy jacket from her suitcase and pulled it on over her hoodie that was now creased from being slept in.

      The air outside was so cold it took her breath away. Zipping up her jacket, Gemma walked carefully along the uneven pathway and out to the yard. At the back of the house to her right, she found a small u-shaped courtyard. It was made up of the house, attached to which were two small outbuildings at a right-angle and what looked like a three-sided barn, or car port. She wasn’t certain what any of them could have been used for but assumed she would find out soon enough. To her left was a sloping muddy pathway between two rows of hedging leading to a wooden five-barred gate. She stepped over several smashed tiles, groaning inwardly when it dawned on her they had come from the roof.

      “At least it’s sunny,” she said, trying to be positive.

      Having worked in a trauma unit for two and a half years, Gemma knew that there were times when all seemed impossible, only for near miracles to happen. She didn’t expect any to happen here, but it helped to attempt a semblance of cheerfulness.

      She didn’t need experience at renovations to know she wouldn’t be able to do this alone. This place was a wreck, but despite her earlier panic, she was going to give it a go. Gemma knew her mother expected her to fail, but she wasn’t ready to quit and give her the satisfaction of being right. Not yet, anyway.

      Checking her watch, she saw that it was almost eight o’clock. Time to venture into the village and see if she could find someone to do the work for her. And maybe, she thought, buy a few things to make her stay here a little more comfortable.

      She was relieved to discover that the centre of the village was only a five-minute walk away. The birdsong cheered her up, as she made her way along the peaceful road, as did the bunches of mistletoe she spotted growing in a poplar tree. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it growing anywhere, she thought, pushing her gloved hands deep into her jacket pockets.

      Gemma wished she had a friend she could invite over to come and help with the work on the house. She didn’t mind being alone most of the time, but the mammoth task ahead of her was a little daunting. Her mood lifted slightly as she arrived at the main street and saw the belfry standing high over the town. It was exactly as she had pictured a typical French town to look, with the imposing Town Hall and the architecture so different from home. She would have time for sight-seeing another day. What she needed now was to find a builder. She spotted what looked to be a hardware store and decided it was the best place to start.

      She entered the dark shop and a bell jangled announcing her arrival as she stepped inside. It looked to her as if it hadn’t been updated for decades. She wasn’t sure how much of her shopping list she would find in here, but it was a useful exercise to look through the stock to see what was here for future reference.

      Two men turned to look at her, and by the expressions on their faces, they were surprised to see her. Maybe it was because she was new to the area? The younger man, who Gemma assumed to be in his early thirties, gave her a brief smile before turning and continuing his conversation with the shopkeeper.

      Gemma took her time studying the shelves along the short aisles, wishing she wasn’t the only customer there. The wooden floorboards creaked with each step - the shopkeeper didn’t need alarms to tell him when someone was walking in his shop, Gemma thought amused. Spotting a few of the items she needed, she picked up a wire basket and placed cleaning products, sponges and a scourer into it.

      She took her items to the counter and placed the basket onto the worn wooden surface.

      “Bonjour,” she said, forcing a smile first at the shopkeeper and then at the other customer who stood back to let her in front of him.

      “Anglais?” the shopkeeper asked.

      Gemma nodded. What was it with her accent that showed her roots so obviously? “You speak English?”

      He shook his head, scowling.

      She didn’t blame him. It must be irritating when people came to live in another country and expected the locals to speak English to accommodate them. “Pardon,” she said apologising. “Je, um, je achete un…” She cleared her throat and mimed lifting a kettle, pouring water and drinking a cup of tea. “Kettle?”

      “The word you’re looking for is, bouilloire.”

      Gemma spun round, her mouth opened in surprise. “You’re English?” she asked the man who only moments earlier had spoken fluent French to the shopkeeper. At least she thought it was fluent, it certainly sounded impressive.

      He had broad shoulders and was handsome, in a scruffy sort of way. His muddy brown hair needed a brush, but his navy-blue eyes twinkled with amusement. Gemma tried to look more confident than she felt. This would soon be over and then she could return to the farmhouse.

      “Marcel should have one somewhere.” He spoke quickly to Marcel, who cheered up instantly. Gemma assumed it must be the thought of selling more than the items she had already chosen.

      “I’m Tom, by the way,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the first aisle. “Tom Holloway.”

      She watched him as he rummaged around through the contents of an already untidy shelf at the far end of the shop. He was gorgeous, and even in his faded jeans and thick sweater, she could see that he was muscular.

      “Here you go,” he said eventually, giving her a triumphant smile. “I knew Marcel would have one of these somewhere.”

      “That’s wonderful, thank you,” СКАЧАТЬ