The Poppy Field Read online

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  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Copyright © Deborah Carr

  Cover [photograph/illustration] © To come

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Deborah Carr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008301019

  Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008301002

  Version: 2018-10-03

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  To Rob, James and Saskia, with love

  Chapter 1

  Gemma

  2018 February – Northern France

  “Merci, Monsieur,” Gemma said, as the taxi driver placed her two suitcases at her feet. She rummaged in her shoulder bag handing him several notes, waving away the change in lieu of a tip. He gave her a gap-toothed smile, looking cheerful for the first time since collecting her from the station.

  It was already dark and beginning to rain, and Gemma’s body ached after the rough and longer-than-expected crossing on the ferry from Jersey. She picked up her bags and hurried up the front path of the house where she would be staying. She’d have to wait until daylight to see what she had let herself in for by coming here. It was probably a good thing, she thought, aware that even in the dark the place looked almost derelict and she was too tired and emotional to deal with it yet.

  Spots of rain dampened her face and Gemma grabbed the handles on her cases and pulled them to the door. Pulling out a large, iron key, she pushed away a strand of ivy, hoping her hand didn’t meet any hidden spiders. She inserted the key into the rusty lock and attempted to turn it.

  It wouldn’t budge. Gemma groaned. “Come on,” she pleaded through clenched teeth as she tried once more. Nothing. “Balls.” She didn’t fancy spending the night outside in this weather. She took a deep breath. “Right,” she said, determined. “You can do this, Gemma.”

  Wiping her clammy palms on her jeans, she gave it another shot, relieved when the key finally turned. Bolstered by her success, Gemma turned the door handle and when the door wouldn’t budge, kicked it as hard as she could in frustration. The wooden door creaked in defiance before flying open, launching her forward onto the dusty flagstone floor where she landed heavily.

  Furious with her clumsiness and miserable situation, she stood up and brushed most of the dust from her jeans. She blew on her hands, rubbing them gently to ease the stinging sensation. For the first time, she noticed how quiet it was here. Raindrops tapped on the roof and several trees and branches creaked noisily outside, but unlike her flat in Brighton, there was no traffic sound and no people talking nearby.

  She peered through the open door back out onto the road outside. Was this entire place deserted? She hadn’t seen many homes on the way here from the station, which had surprised her. She thought back to when she’d looked the area up on the Internet and she’d realised that she really was on the very outskirts of Doullens. Distracted by the sound of the rain coming down heavily outside, she remembered her luggage and ran out to rescue her things.

  “Okay,” she said, bumping the door closed with her bottom. “Let’s see where I’m going to be living for the foreseeable future.” She immediately loved the impressive inglenook fireplace with two arm chairs set on either side, although one was considerably more worn than the other. She assumed the chair with stained arm rests must have been where her father’s cousin had preferred to sit when he still lived here. She doubted there was any other form of heating, so it was a relief to note there was at least some way of keeping warm. A roaring fire would also cheer the place up, she decided.

  Next, she went to check the kitchen, which was basic, and she worried that if this was the standard of the kitchen, maybe she would have to use an outside bathroom, too. The idea didn’t appeal to her and Gemma shivered. This place was eerie, and she didn’t fancy investigating going upstairs until daylight. Deciding that the cleaner of the two chairs would have to do as her bed for the night, she unpacked a fleece blanket out of her smaller case.

  Sitting down, she pulled the blanket over her legs and chest and tried to get comfy. This was a little too far out of her comfort zone, but she was here now and determined to make the most of it. This was her first experience of being spontaneous, and she worried that she had failed already. Perhaps she should have ignored her father and returned to Brighton. Recovering from her failed relationship in comfort there would surely have been easier than coming here to do it.

  After a cold, uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night, Gemma’s resolve had completely vanished. Her regret at coming to this foul place was almost overpowering and she was contemplating booking an immediate return ticket on the ferry. So what if her mother would sneer at her lack of mettle? She’d never expected Gemma to succeed at anything anyway. Just then, a loud banging on the front door, interrupted her troubled thoughts.

  Gemma recalled her father mentioning that he had booked a contractor to come and help with the renovations during her stay. Hoping work would begin immediately, Gemma pushed her fingers through her curly blonde hair and hurried to the door.

  She pulled it open with a bit of effort. “Good, um, I mean, bonjour,” she said, her breath making clouds in front of her mouth as she spoke. She smiled at the elderly man standing next to a young teenage boy, whom she assumed had been the one to knock. The old man pointed at the roof and to the back of the building before firing a barrage of words at her.

  Frowning, Gemma shook her head. “Sorry, um, pardon. Je ne parlé pas le francais,” she said, embarrassed at her basic schoolgirl french.

  The man jabbed the boy in the shoulder with a gnar
led finger, shouting something she could not understand. The boy nodded, staring at Gemma.

  “’e say, ‘e do not the work for you.”

  “What? Why not?” If this was the builder, then she wasn’t sure if him letting her down was such a terrible thing. He seemed far too frail to work on the roof. Gemma doubted that the boy was out of school yet, so couldn’t imagine him being able to work here either.

  “Tres, difficile,” the boy added, giving her an elaborate shrug of his skinny shoulders.

  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,” she said, trying not to let her attraction to him show. “At least I can make endless cups of tea now.”

  He held up a battered box as he passed her. Placing it on the counter, Tom opened the box and lifted out a cream kettle that looked as if it came from the seventies. “It’s not the latest model, by any means,” he smiled. “But if it doesn’t work, let me know and I’ll find a replacement for you.”


  “You work here?” Gemma was surprised.

  “No, I’m a contractor.” He packed the kettle back into its box and said something to Marcel, indicating Gemma by nodding his head.

  Excitement made Gemma’s heart pound rapidly. “Could you, um repair a roof?”

  “Yes.” He frowned slightly. “Why?”

  “How about renovating a farmhouse and outbuildings?” She asked, willing him to agree.

  Tom stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes. “That depends. I’ve got quite a bit of work on. I’d have to come and see what needs doing before I could give you a definite date for carrying out any work.”

  It didn’t sound quite so positive. Gemma’s smile slipped.

  “How bad is it?” Tom asked.

  “There are tiles in the yard. They looked to me as if they’ve been there a while.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying not to sound too desperate. “I’m renovating the place for my dad,” she explained, not wishing Tom to think she was completely disorganised. “He arranged for a builder to come and do the work, but he came this morning to tell me he couldn’t do it, after all. Then he left.”

  Tom frowned thoughtfully. “Was he an older man, with a young lad?”

  “Yes. Look, I don’t want to be annoying,” she said, not wishing to begin her stay in the area by getting on the wrong side of him. “If you can’t do it, maybe you could recommend someone else who can.”

  Tom gave it some thought. “There really isn’t anyone else in the area.” He looked at the clock on the wall above Marcel’s head. “Is it far from here?”

  “Only five minutes by foot.”

  “Tell you what, I’ve got to be somewhere in just under an hour, but I can give you a lift back to your place. That way you won’t have to carry these things back and I can have a quick look to see what can be done,” he shrugged. “If I can’t do all the work, I’ll figure out when I can make temporary repairs to keep it watertight for you.”