The Poppy Field. Deborah Carr
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.”
Gemma didn’t care that her relief showed on her face. “That’s very kind. Thank you,” she said, grabbing his right hand and shaking it.
Marcel cleared his throat and pointed to the ancient till.