The Poppy Field. Deborah Carr

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 cleanest 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 gnarled 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