Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  Poppy Jenkins

  by

  Clare Ashton

  Poppy Jenkins

  Copyright © 2016 Clare Ashton.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Jayne Fereday

  Cover: Fereday Design

  Published by:

  For everyone who said an encouraging word.

  It made all the difference.

  Table of Contents

  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.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 34.

  Chapter 35.

  Chapter 36.

  Chapter 37.

  Chapter 38.

  Chapter 39.

  Chapter 40.

  Chapter 41.

  Chapter 42.

  Chapter 43.

  Chapter 44.

  For the curious…

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1.

  Poppy Jenkins had been thinking just that morning how well life was turning out. Not perfect by most people’s standards, but Poppy wasn’t most people. A riverside walk on a sunny morning, glittering with promise for the year ahead, was perfection to her mind.

  She smiled, squinting in the sun, and gazed along the sparkling waters. The River Rhiw wound its course through a fecund green landscape, curving around shingle beaches and cascading over boulders into still pools that would tempt even the most staid to strip and bathe.

  Spring flowers burst from the hedgerow, florets of cow parsley and splashes of yellow buttercups attracting a buzz of bees, and Poppy breathed in as if to appreciate the scent of her paradise.

  It was balmy enough for Poppy’s summer dress – a light cotton garment vibrant with a pattern of green leaves and yellow lemons. The soft fabric glided around her body, giving her the freedom and pleasure almost of nudity. She faced the warmth and stretched up her hands to indulge the sunshine on every part of her body.

  She was even having a good hair day. Her dark locks that, within a whiff of the ocean, would coil into a frizz the envy of any poodle, today hung in chestnut waves shining in the morning light.

  Up ahead, her much younger sister Pip gambolled along the path in that energetic way eleven-year-olds do, before they collapse into a sulky heap and claim not another muscle could so much as twitch. Pip’s blue gingham dress and long white socks flashed through the hedgerow as she followed the curving path, and a school rucksack jigged on her back with every ungainly leap.

  “Don’t go further than the bridge,” Poppy shouted, then she lost sight of the girl around the corner.

  Beyond, the village of Wells came into view, with its timber-framed and Georgian brick core surrounded by the odd Victorian terrace and odder 1930s development. The thirties must have been the end of the village’s heyday, because it was rare to find a building more recent and twenty-first century houses were non-existent.

  It was typical of the area – that bit of Wales that wasn’t the valleys of the South or the mountains of Snowdonia in the North – the bit in the middle that nobody could say what was there. And truth be told, there wasn’t a great deal. So little in fact it was called that-bit-in-the-middle or Mid-Wales for short. But that’s what Poppy liked about it – a rural idyll time and people had passed by, where Wales rubbed shoulders with England and easily pronounceable names such as Clun nestled with the likes of Llansantffraed-Cwmdeuddwr.

  Pip was dutifully waiting on the metal footbridge across the river, throwing flowers and watching them disappear under the bridge. She spied Poppy approaching and launched into another gallop. Poppy was about to shout again when Pip raised her hand. “I know, wait in the village.” Poppy smiled and her little sister raced ahead.

  Within a hundred yards the first timber-framed cottages came into view. Mrs Morgan Morgan’s garden surrounded by white-washed stone walls backed onto the path. At this time of year blooms of pink hollyhocks and blue delphiniums erupted over the wall, and among all the vibrant colour was a patch of grey that bobbed diligently.

  “Good morning, Mrs Morgan,” Poppy shouted.

  The grey mop shot up and revealed a surprised ruddy face.

  “Ah, cariad.” Mrs Morgan’s face creased into a smile. “It is a good morning. Almost as beautiful as your dress.” She pointed with a gloved hand and pair of secateurs. “I was going to say ‘as beautiful as your smile,’ but there really isn’t anything as good as that.”

  Poppy giggled and her cheeks glowed with the praise.

  Mrs Morgan, wife of Morgan, was one of the villagers whom Poppy had always viewed as older folk. Since Poppy was a child, Mrs Morgan’s hair had been permanently rollered and set, and it was difficult to tell whether it had grown over the past thirty years. But it had changed. Mrs Morgan had given up the rinses, and the natural grey silvered every strand now. It had caught Poppy by surprise when she realised Mrs Morgan would have been in her forties when Poppy was young, an alarming epiphany given that forty was now less than a decade away.

  “So where are you off to looking so gorgeous?” Mrs Morgan continued.

  “Taking Pip to school, then off to the café as usual. Just thought I’d give the summer dress an outing.”

  “Well, if there are any eligible young ladies in the village this morning you’ll catch their eye, no doubt about that.”

  Poppy beamed and felt warm at the compliment, but she was well aware she’d be the only single woman of her persuasion out that day.

  “And young Pip. How are you, bach?” Mrs Morgan aimed the question up the path to where Pip twirled and scuffed the ground.

  “Very well thank you.” Pip said it with a frown. “But I’m not small anymore.”

  Mrs Morgan snorted. “Oh I’ll be calling you bach when you’re taller than me, and even when you’re grown up and married if I’m around that long. And how’s school? What’s your favourite lesson?”

  “Writing stories,” Pip said, with a slight ease in her chagrin, “and art.”

  “Ah, creative like your mam.”

  Pip looked up at Poppy from beneath furrowed eyebrows. “Can I get some sweets now?”

  Poppy’s mouth opened wide in chastisement. “Pip!”

  “It’s all right, cariad. You get on now.” And Mrs Morgan Morgan turned towards her thatched cottage, waving farewell with her secateurs.

  Poppy skipped ahead to match her sister’s pace. “That was very rude.”

  Pip rolled her eyes. “She always talks about the same things. I bet she said that word for word last spring.”

  “She’s being sociable. It’s what people do.”

  Pip looked up unconvinced.

  “It’s pleasant.” Poppy laughed. “It makes people happy.”

  “You’re
too nice to people.” Pip tutted.

  “Thank goodness, with pre-teens sulking around.”

  “But you let everyone go on and on. All they talk about is what they had for dinner, or what colour curtains they made ten years ago.”

  Poppy leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll let you into a secret. Curtains are fascinating, in fact I have a fetish for them. I love a bit of haberdashery.”

  Pip elbowed her, hard, in the arm. “You should do what Mum does and pretend you’re composing a painting in your head and wander off halfway through in a trance.”

  “Yes, well,” Poppy said. “Unfortunately I don’t think she’s pretending. She really isn’t with us most of the time.” And she meant it kindly.

  They diverted away from the river, along the back of the square, up to the main road entrance to the village. Pip slid her arm into Poppy’s and skipped beside her with the exhilaration of a child who knows she’s about to get confectionery.

  Poppy smiled at the view of the town. Being a Welsh village, it had a castle. The grey ruin watched over the square from a grassy hill and rocky outcrop. People joked that the medieval Welsh must have been a belligerent lot, but it’s likely they were miffed about the small matter of the English invading. If it had been the once, you could forgive the English for thinking the Welsh a little testy, but even the most jovial of people become peeved after a few hundred years of invasion.

  The castle lay to the north of the village with the town square beneath was an appealing mix of Georgian brick buildings and timber-framed houses each at least three storeys high. It was disorientating setting foot within its perimeter, with jutting balconies and leaning walls, some created by design, some by centuries of wear and tear. It gave the impression of movement and it was not unknown for visitors admiring the architecture to stumble about as if at sea. At the south end of the square was a stone bridge across the river, built to accommodate one cart, with snug passing spots for pedestrians in triangular indents above the arches.

  And beyond the river, naturally, was Llanfair – a church of St Mary. In fact the village had so many features that contributed to its original name, even the most entrenched Welshman was in danger of pulling a hernia when attempting to pronounce it. So someone at some point took pity on the sign makers and the tourists and the tongue-twisted locals and shortened it to Wells. Ironically, the location of the historic wells had long been forgotten and they were the only feature of the original name that no longer existed.

  The village shop was tucked into a corner beneath the castle. It was accommodated in two old houses of a contorted timber-framed terrace, knocked together to make a long thin grocer, newsagent, chemist and every other small retail amenity.

  Parked outside today was a sleek black Jaguar. It would have turned heads anywhere, but in the middle of nowhere where a mud-splattered Land Rover was the most common mode of transport, it definitely grabbed attention.

  But it was the figure leaning through the driver’s door that turned Poppy’s head – long slender legs in slim-fitting jeans, smooth heart-shaped buttocks and a loose T shirt that rode high over a smooth, tanned back. The woman’s face was hidden by blonde bobbed hair that cascaded smooth as flowing water around her cheeks. The haircut was expensive. Even Poppy who went to the economical Super Snips knew that. The woman dipped into the footwell so that the T shirt hung low and Poppy was afforded a brief glimpse of bra. And what a fine thing it was, or rather, what a fine shape it made curving around ample breasts. Soft, voluptuous breasts.

  Poppy cast a nervous glance at Pip. Her sister hadn’t noticed the woman or Poppy’s admiration and was skipping eager to buy her allowance of treats. When Poppy looked up again, the woman was standing on the pavement beside the car. Her face was in full view now. It was a face worthy of that elegant body, one of the most beautiful Poppy had ever seen, and one she recognised without a doubt.

  “Rosie,” she whispered. The recognition punched her in the stomach.

  Even with a shocked expression disturbing her features, the woman was stunning. Crystal blue eyes sparkled beneath arched eyebrows, the elegant curves of which Poppy knew could express every emotion from delight to a withering dismissal. Those full lips could conjure a divine smile, but they didn’t look so cheerful today. It was a more mature face than Poppy remembered. Teen puppy fat had hidden what a beautiful bone structure she had, and the slimmer face of thirty-two-year-old Rosalyn Thorn was breath-taking. And indeed, it took Poppy’s breath away.

  Chapter 2.

  Rosalyn Thorn of Rhiw Hall. Sharer of secrets and confidences and the best friend a girl could have. Better than sisters from the age of six until sweet sixteen, when everything wasn’t so sweet anymore.

  Poppy would have been lying if she’d claimed not to think of Rosalyn. Although weeks, even months, would pass between musings, she always wondered what became of her former friend. And now here she was a few paces away.

  “Poppy.” She saw Rosalyn say her name more than heard it. Rosalyn’s mouth lingered open, her face pale.

  Poppy’s insides chilled and even though she feared her friend she couldn’t move.

  A quiet laugh of irony escaped Rosalyn and she clasped a hand to her brow. When she dropped her arm and wandered a few paces closer an embarrassed smile tempered her face.

  “I did wonder if I’d bump into you, but I didn’t really…” She threw up her hands in disbelief. “Poppy Jenkins.” Rosalyn’s keen eyes travelled all over Poppy’s body, taking in her hair, bare arms and the open chest of her dress.

  “You look well. Really well.” Her sad smile spoke of a regret Poppy couldn’t fathom.

  Rosalyn put out a hand but Poppy was too numb to respond.

  “I suppose you’re visiting your parents? Your family?” Rosalyn asked it kindly.

  “No,” Poppy attempted, but she mangled even that with her frozen cheeks. She blinked and tried to gather herself. “No. I live here. I actually live here.”

  It was an admission Poppy wasn’t used to apologising for, but she found herself regretting her home in front of Rosalyn. Was it the voice that made Poppy on edge? Had Rosalyn always spoken with that clear as glass BBC accent, which enunciated every syllable to perfection? Was it her obvious elegance and the way she carried herself, all the way to the graceful line of the hand she offered to Poppy. Perhaps it was the car, so beyond Poppy’s means it may as well have been made of gold.

  “Here?” Rosalyn made no attempt to hide her shock. “You live here? Really?” She paused to think. “Didn’t you go to university? York I thought.”

  “Yes I did. But I moved. Back home. Here again. With my parents. Yes. I live here.” The sentence came out as an odd, posh staccato.

  Unease rippled across Rosalyn’s face but she didn’t question further. Instead her gaze flicked towards Poppy’s arm. And then again. She was distracted by something to Poppy’s side. It was only then Poppy realised she held Pip in a vice-like grip.

  “Sorry darling. I’m so sorry.” She released Pip from her white-knuckled grasp in a flurry of apologies and rubbings to rejuvenate Pip’s circulation, and Poppy blushed at her apparent forgetfulness of her sister’s existence.

  “Stop fussing,” Pip grumbled as she batted her away.

  Poppy couldn’t resist another dozen guilty apologies and constant observation of her sister’s hand until it returned to its usual hue.

  Poppy’s ministrations fell still, and Pip’s protest quietened. Then it was silent. Awfully silent.

  “Um…?” Rosalyn looked from Poppy to her sister.

  “Yes?”

  Rosalyn nodded towards Pip. “This is…?”

  “Oh yes. This is Pip,” Poppy blurted, realising she’d still neglected an introduction. Poppy hugged her sister around the shoulders, and forced a laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “We’re on our way to school. Just getting some sweeties, aren’t we darling.” Poppy swallowed, aware her throat was getting tighter every second.

  Pip and Rosalyn nodded
and exchanged a look of shared concern, and not a little wariness.

  Rosalyn exaggerated friendly engagement and said “I’m Rosalyn by the way,” and looked at Pip with a grin of camaraderie.

  “Thanks,” said Pip, and she rolled her eyes at her sister’s neglect. They both continued to observe Poppy with shared incredulity.

  It was quiet again. Very quiet.

  “Um….” Rosalyn said. “Ok. I suppose I’d better let you go. Don’t want to make you late. I imagine you get fined for late arrivals these days?”

  “Yes we do. An awful pain.”

  An awful pain? Where had that come from? That’s not how Poppy spoke. She and Pip had their mother’s accent, a soft neutral English with a hint of lilting Welsh and the laziness of the Borders. But right now, it had risen an octave and Poppy had the oddest sensation of stretching her neck like an ostrich. Very fetching she imagined, but she couldn’t for the life of her relax.

  Rosalyn nodded and opened her mouth as if to issue a farewell, but then hesitated. “What about after that?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What are your plans later? Are you free?”

  “Oh. No. Café.” And for the first time in her life, Poppy pronounced the word like the Queen. She made a determined effort to lower her voice. “Caff. Yeah, I work in a café.” That was great. Now she sounded like a bloke off EastEnders.

  “Oh,” said Rosalyn. And Poppy couldn’t blame her for the extent of her response.

  “How about yourself?” There it was. The Queen intervening again. Poppy’s eyebrows had taken on a life of their own, rising to her hairline, and her mouth felt as tight as a clam.

  Pip broke from Poppy’s hold and stood beside Rosalyn. She crossed her arms and observed her older sister with open-mouthed bemusement.

  “I’m in London by the way,” Rosalyn said to Poppy. “Clerkenwell. Do you know it?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Poppy realised her bottom was clenched as tight as her mouth, but she daren’t relax that.

  “I have a loft space: part of an old watchmaker’s factory. I moved there after going to university at King’s.”