Christmas at the French Repair Shop

by Sophie Claire

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Readers can't get enough of this cosy festive love story...

'This book is so moreish - I kept reading and reading and the book only got better as I read on!' ❄️🎄
'I was desperate to read this and it did not disappoint. I loved it!' ❄️🎄
'The premise of this book had me chuckling even from the start. its a fresh take on being stuck together for Christmas!' ❄️🎄

❄️ Can they patch up their broken hearts this Christmas?❄️

Christmas in the picturesque village of Willowbrook should be dreamy - twinkling fairylights, snow in the air, and a busy time for Amélie in the repair workshop she owns, restoring furniture and mending treasured objects for locals to give as Christmas gifts. But in the tiny community, Amélie keeps bumping into her ex, Jack - and it's killing her festive feeling.

Jack and Amélie were perfect for each other... until one day they weren't. And when Jack's attempt at reconciliation goes wrong, he finds himself locked in Amélie's van.

Driving to her aunt's house in the South of France, Amélie thinks she's finally going to get some peace over the festive period, but like it or not, she'll now be spending Christmas trapped on holiday with Jack. Could it help unwrap the secret to why they split up? Or will it be a gift they'd rather exchange?

Curl up with your perfect Christmas read from Sophie Claire. A wonderfully cosy, second-chance enemies-to-lovers festive romance, perfect for fans of Phillipa Ashley, Jo Thomas and Sarah Morgan.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Readers adore Sophie Claire's cosy, heartwarming romances...
'A beautifully heartwarming festive romance that was perfect to cosy up with' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Amazing' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'What a wonderful, wonderful book!' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'I really didn't want it to end' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Wonderful, uplifting, feel-good read . . . I couldn't put it down' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 432

Sample

1

Amélie felt an unexpected chill in the air, like a draught sweeping through from the workshop behind her, and the hairs lifted on the back of her neck. She paused for the merest fraction of a second – then shook her head and dismissed the sensation.

She’d probably imagined it and, besides, her shop, the Repair Barn, was crazily busy, even for a Saturday so she didn’t have time to go and investigate. She hadn’t even had time to pause for a sandwich at lunchtime or go to the bathroom. There was a long queue of people waiting to be served, so she kept her head down, blew the fringe out of her eyes and carried on frantically wrapping wooden ­picture frames, boxes and gifts, then taking payments with a polite smile for every customer.

‘Excuse me.’ A man in a smart tweed coat approached her at the cash desk, ignoring the queue. He had a dark beard and was pushing a wheelchair that contained a ­gentleman who was almost certainly his father: they had the same long chin and pale blue eyes.

‘I won’t be long, sir. I’m just serving these customers.’ She slid a framed mirror into a gift bag, typed the price into the till and asked the customer to tap their payment card.

’Do you think the man in the back room could help instead?’ he asked. ‘It’s about a repair, you see, but I’m a little strapped for time.’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s just me. I do the repairs and run the shop, though it’s not usually this busy.’ She gave him an apologetic smile. Working alone was mostly fine, but on days like today she had to consider whether it might be time to hire an assistant. ‘That’s all gone through for you. Thank you,’ she told her customer, and handed over the receipt.

‘There’s definitely someone in there,’ the bearded man said, pointing to the workshop behind her.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said kindly, but turned and opened the door wider to check. There shouldn’t be anyone in there. Then again, hadn’t she felt a draught just seconds ago?

Her eyes narrowed when she saw who it was. ‘Jack,’ she said coldly.

Her ex-boyfriend sauntered into the shop, hands in his pockets.

‘What are you doing here?’ She tried to keep her tone cool, but her heart jumped at the sight of him. The deep blue eyes that creased when he smiled, the strand of dark wavy hair that always fell forward. She cursed: her body was still programmed to react to him as it used to two months ago. Before they’d broken up. It hadn’t caught up with her mind, which knew what a rat he was.

‘Oh, I’ve just come in to do some shopping,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Sorry. He doesn’t work here,’ she said to the bearded man. ‘I won’t be a minute, and then I’ll take a look at your repair. You could wait by the fire if you like. It’s nice and warm in that corner.’ The barn, with its high rafters and centuries-old stone walls, could get chilly when the big doors were open, but she kept a pile of blankets and quilts beside the wood-burner and invited those who weren’t shopping to make themselves comfortable.

The elderly gentleman in the wheelchair winked at her and patted the big cardboard box on his lap before his son wheeled him away.

Once she’d finished serving, she glanced around the shop, but everyone seemed happy browsing – including Jack, which made her suspicious, but she didn’t have time for him now – so she stepped around the till. ‘Sorry you had to wait, sir. How can I help?’

The bearded man, in his early sixties she guessed, took the box from his father and lifted out what looked like a chunky wooden box with rounded corners. He placed it on the coffee-table. It was badly damaged, splintered in one corner as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer.

‘This is Dad’s record player,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately he had a burst pipe and the ceiling of his living room fell in. This was damaged under the rubble. It’s very precious to him, so we wondered if you could repair it. Music is his passion, you see, and now he’s going into a care home he’d like to take this with him. The wooden casing is damaged, and the turntable doesn’t work any more.’ He lifted the lid to show her.

Amélie crouched to take a closer look at the turntable with its vintage levers and switches, but her heart sank. She glanced at the old man who was gazing at her hopefully. He looked small in his wheelchair with a tartan blanket tucked around his legs and her heart went out to him. People became attached to objects, especially those that represented something important in their lives. However, this was problematic.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘I’m a carpenter, so I could repair the case for you, but not the turntable. I don’t have the skills.’ She thought of her aunt Josie’s repair shop in France. She would know what to do with a job like this – she had a whole list of tradesmen to call on with a variety of skills. But here in England Amélie didn’t have those contacts.

The bearded man’s shoulders slumped. ‘The thing is,’ he glanced around, clearly weighing up whether or not to share more, ‘Dad’s got dementia, and music is one of the few things he can still enjoy. We rescued some of his vinyls so I bought him a new record player, thinking it was the tunes that were important, but Dad knew straight away that it wasn’t his. He’s very attached to this one.’

The elderly gentleman smiled and began to hum a Louis Armstrong song.

‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could help, but this is beyond my capabilities. Perhaps if you took it to an electronics shop—’

‘I could look at it for you.’ Jack had appeared at her side. He bent down and peered at the record player, poking the turntable to make it spin.

Amélie glared at him. What was he doing?

The bearded man glanced from Jack to her, clearly confused. ‘I thought you said he doesn’t work here?’

‘He doesn’t. This is . . .’ She hesitated. My scoundrel of an ex-boyfriend?

‘Jack Stretton,’ he cut in brightly, and reached to shake the men’s hands. ‘I’m a presenter for SwitchUp Radio and I have an interest in music equipment. This is a real ­beauty! A Garrard, is it?’

‘It is,’ the old man piped up. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the fairy lights strung all around the shop. ‘Cost an arm and a leg, but it’s good quality. Never let me down.’

‘Until now,’ his son said. ‘It’s Dad’s pride and joy.’

‘Let me guess,’ Jack said. ‘This model is from the nineteen sixties?’ His smile was wide. He could be so enthusiastic, so charming when he wanted, and Amélie knew the men would be taken in by it. How could ­anyone not be?

‘Nineteen fifty-nine,’ the elderly gentleman corrected, and wagged his finger, smiling. ‘It cost three months’ ­wages, and I was the envy of all my friends. They used to come round every weekend to listen to it. Our music nights, we called them.’

Amélie felt her heart turn over. It was clear from how animated he’d become how much it meant to him.

‘Dad was a fine musician himself,’ his son said. ‘He played the saxophone, didn’t you, Dad?’

‘Still do.’

His son’s expression suggested that perhaps this wasn’t true.

‘Do you know what’s wrong with the turntable?’ Jack asked.

‘Afraid not. But I’ll pay for parts and labour.’

‘I’m happy to take a look at it for you. I’ve had a few vintage record players over the years and done some ­basic repairs. And Amélie will do a great job of repairing the case. It’s what she’s known for.’ Jack smiled and, as he glanced at her, his teeth all but gleamed in the light – like a cartoon character up to no good.

That was Jack all over. Charming, friendly. His dark brown hair flopping endearingly over his brow.

She could have throttled him. ‘That’s very kind of you, Jack, but—’

‘Fantastic!’ the man said, and clapped him on the back. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you both. And don’t worry about the cost. I’ll pay whatever it takes. Here’s my number.’ He gave Amélie a business card.

‘We’ll do our best but we can’t make any promises,’ she said.

‘I have every faith in you. You’ll let me know how you get on.’

Amélie bit her lip as he left the shop. Conscious of the other customers, she spoke in a hushed tone to Jack. ‘That was very good of you,’ she said stiffly.

‘No problem. Always happy to help.’

She studied him hard. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Christmas shopping.’

‘In October?’

‘Starting early. Mum loves your stuff. My sis might too.’

‘Why were you in my workshop?’

‘Ah. That.’ His blue eyes glinted and she could tell he was scrabbling to come up with an excuse. ‘The car park was busy so I parked at the back.’

She peered through the barn door, which had been left ajar. The Repair Barn was one of a handful of converted farm buildings, and although the cobbler’s next door was open, the tractor-repair outfit on the other side was closed today so she’d be surprised if what he’d said was true. However, she couldn’t see enough of the car park to be sure. The only thing she was certain of was that his behaviour today was seriously shifty. He was too … cheerful. ‘What are you up to, Jack?’ she asked, beneath her breath.

‘Me? Nothing.’ He grinned again.

She picked up the record player and carried it through to the back. When she’d set it down on the bench, she glanced around, checking her workshop for foul play. He’d definitely been up to something in here, even if she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

Jack followed her. ‘So how do you want to do this – shall I look at the turntable first or do you want to fix the box?’

She couldn’t see anything out of place. The delivery of oak pieces was still by the back door waiting to be ­unpacked, the chest of drawers she’d started sanding yesterday was untouched, her coat was hanging on the hook where she’d left it that morning.

‘I’ll fix the box first.’ She turned to face him. ‘I don’t know why you stepped in like that, by the way. Working together is not a good idea.’

‘It’s hardly working together. I’ll just pick it up, then drop it back when it’s done.’

‘And what if you can’t fix it?’

‘I’ll have tried. You saw how much it meant to that guy. I couldn’t let you turn him away.’

‘Oh, so now I’m the bad guy, am I?’

‘Well, you were going to turn him away, weren’t—’

Someone cleared their throat and she whipped round. A customer was waiting by the till. ‘Coming!’ she called, then turned back to Jack. ‘I think you should go now,’ she said, through gritted teeth.

She hurried back into the shop, apologising to the lady for keeping her waiting. She rang up the wooden chopping board and wrapped it with paper, but out of the corner of her eye she watched Jack leave. She didn’t believe his story about Christmas shopping. And he’d left by the front door, which cast doubt on his claim that he’d parked at the back.

So why had he been there?

Jack’s mum was waiting by the window with her coat on when he arrived. He parked the car and hurried over. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, as she locked her front door.

‘Where were you?’ She slipped her arm into his and let him escort her to the car. The long waiting list for a hip replacement meant she had mobility issues. She winced as she got into the car.

‘I just popped into the Repair Barn and the traffic on that road was terrible.’ As soon as he said it he regretted the words. He darted round to the driver’s side.

Her eyes were bright with hope as he got in. ‘The ­Repair Barn? Have you and Amélie made up?’

‘No. And we’re not going to,’ he said firmly, and started the engine. ‘I was just … helping her with something.’

His mum studied him closely. ‘Were you playing ­another of your pranks, Jack Stretton?’

How did she know? ‘Maybe.’

He grinned as he thought of how quietly he’d crept around Amélie’s workshop, relishing his task while she’d been busy serving customers. He’d taken his time, lulled by the soothing atmosphere of the barn. Despite everything that had happened between them, he still loved it in there: the smell of sawdust, the cosiness of the shop with its real wood fire and low lighting. Her cottage was just as homely because Amélie had an eye for style and could make anywhere feel like the calmest, most inviting haven.

He flicked the radio to his mum’s favourite station and set off for the supermarket.

‘Poor Amélie. I don’t like to think of you playing tricks on her. She’s such a lovely girl.’

‘Poor Amélie? She put red food colouring in my iron last week. I needed my best shirt for a charity gig, but after I’d ironed it, it looked like I’d been at the scene of a horrific crime.’ His mum chuckled. ‘Anyway, I haven’t done anything mean. It’s just a bit of fun.’ He was laughing inside. It felt good to have pranked her. Like revenge in a way. The satisfaction of retaliating definitely helped take the edge off his anger. Because he was still angry with her. He couldn’t forgive her for expelling him from her life as she had.

‘But what I don’t understand is why you keep playing tricks on each other if you’re not interested in getting back together? Shouldn’t you just leave each other alone?’ his mum asked.

He considered this as they stopped for a red traffic light. ‘The pranks were just something we always did, and now, well, it’s become competitive, I suppose. Neither of us wants to be the one who “loses” by being outdone. Or by giving up first.’

‘So you’ll keep going indefinitely? That’s a bit childish, isn’t it?’

‘No. Course not.’ Although he hadn’t thought about how it might end. He supposed he hoped Amélie would concede one day. The light turned green and he set off again, irritated by his mother’s questions.

‘Or are you doing it to keep in touch with her? Maybe you can’t let go.’

‘Mum, no! We’re over. I’ve completely moved on.’

‘Really?’ She adjusted her handbag on her lap. ‘If you ask me, you should be meeting other young ladies instead of playing pranks on your ex.’

He brightened. ‘I am, actually. I have a date tonight with someone called Phoebe.’

‘Good.’ This clearly satisfied her, and she finally moved the conversation on. ‘Well, talking of Amélie, your ­brother’s throwing out that awful wardrobe. Do you think she might want it?’

Jack shook his head. He’d only offered to help with the record player because he’d felt sorry for the guy in the wheelchair clutching the box. Hearing his son talk about how precious it was had tugged at his heartstrings. He shared the old guy’s love of music, had seen something of himself in him, so when Amélie had turned away the repair, he’d felt compelled to step in and help. (It had been worth it to see her confused, angry expression.) But apart from that he didn’t want to get involved in Amélie’s life or open another work connection between them. ‘That wardrobe was an old horror,’ he told his mum instead. ‘I’m sure even she can’t do anything with it.’

They arrived at the supermarket and he parked the car. His phone pinged loudly, and he picked it up. ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘She found my prank.’

Her message read simply: You moved my tools.

He grinned and pictured her reaction as she’d discovered her neat rack had been rearranged. He hoped she’d been working when she’d reached for a tool, only to find it wasn’t where she expected it to be. She’d find it really irritating. And funny, he hoped.

He replied: Gotcha!

And attached a string of emojis – hammers, spanners, saws, a screwdriver – along with a link to the song by Jessie J, ‘Who’s Laughing Now?’.

However, deep down, he knew his mum was right. The pranks with Amélie would have to end some day. But for now at least he was winning.

2

Amélie hurried down the street, glancing up at the windows to make sure no one was watching. The curtains were all drawn and, with any luck, the residents asleep – including Jack, whose shift at the radio station had finished at two a.m. Amélie had waited until five to be sure he’d be in bed, and she’d parked around the corner so her van wouldn’t be heard.

She put her hood up and clutched her bag tightly, glad of the streetlights that cast golden puddles across the pavement and terraced cottages on her right. Beyond the hedge on the other side of the street there were open fields, which, on this October morning, were pitch black. The darkness was like a crouching animal, and she shivered, her gaze darting around her. The picturesque village of Willowbrook was generally safe, but she felt on edge.

When she reached Jack’s front garden she pulled a bottle out of her bag and tiptoed across the lawn, careful not to tread near the neighbouring property. A retired policeman lived there and he had a security camera above his front door angled at his garden path. She tipped the mixture out quickly and carefully. One bottle wasn’t enough, but she’d come prepared. She glanced over her shoulder. The house was still in darkness. Despite the chill, her hands were clammy as she put the empty container back into her bag and opened another. She was glad she’d thought to bring a hessian bag because the rustle of plastic would have seemed loud at this hour. Even the birds wouldn’t stir for a while.

Her heart thudded, and she worked as fast as she could. The mixture smelt sour, and she felt a shot of guilt. In daylight this lawn was a beautiful lush green. All summer Jack mowed and fed it. It was his pride and joy.

She emptied the last of the mixture and took a brief second to stand back and check her work. Satisfied, she looked up at the bedroom window and pictured him asleep. He was a sound sleeper, and her lips curved a ­little as she anticipated his reaction to this. He’d know this was her doing, even if he couldn’t prove it. Good. She hoped it would make him think again before playing any more of his tricks on her. Hopefully, he’d admit ­defeat and back off.

Careful to avoid the patch of lawn she’d worked on, she followed the edge of the border back to the road. She tried not to tread on the plants, and had to smile at the irony of that, given what she’d just done. Still, it didn’t seem right to wreak any more damage than necessary—

Something grabbed her ankle and she tumbled to the ground with a heavy thump. She gasped and had to bite her lip to stop herself crying out. Pain shot through her ankle. She’d caught it in a metal plant support. The light came on next door and she froze. She lay very still and prayed that the camellia bush under which she’d landed would shield her from view. See what level you’ve brought me down to, Jack? It’d be worth it, though. She smiled to herself, despite the pain.

After a moment, the neighbour’s light went off again. She waited another minute or so, just to be sure, then gingerly got to her feet and pushed the plant support back into the soil. Then she took off as fast as she could.

At seven thirty, having washed the soil out of her hair, Amélie arrived at the Repair Barn. The tractor-repair guys in the next barn were already arriving for work and she waved as she got out of her van. She flicked on the lights in her workshop, then went through to the shop at the front. Her heart gave a little jump of excitement, as it did every morning, to see the display of coffee-­tables, chests of drawers, the bits and pieces she’d made or ­restored. The barn wasn’t just a business: it was her passion. She loved this place: the smell of freshly cut wood, the beauty of it. And then there was the joy of being in her workshop at the back. The deep sense of calm when she was lost in her work, bent over a piece of furniture, stripping paint or sanding and waxing until the grain shone through and was baby-soft to touch. It was fulfilling to transform tired old furniture, breathe new life into it, create something beautiful that her customers would delight in.

She wasn’t expecting any customers at this time on a Tuesday, but since she was there she might as well open the wide doors and switch on the illuminated Repair Barn sign outside. She limped as she tidied the shop, straightening picture frames and closing drawers that customers had left open. Her ankle was swollen from that morning, but the pain wasn’t so bad now. She pushed a small side table back into place, remembering how it had been coated in thick yellow varnish when she’d found it at a car-boot sale. Now, the wooden legs were painted matt white and she’d made a new tabletop from oak with an inlay of colourful mosaic tiles. She piled logs into the wood-burning stove and lit it, then swept her gaze around the barn. It looked welcoming and cosy, and fairy-lights glowed like fireflies across the ceiling and shelves.

She ran her hand over one of the big clay pots and checked her watch. Almost eight o’clock, nearly nine in France. Not too early to call her aunt Josie. For once she hadn’t forgotten to charge her phone and she held it in front of her as she watched the sky lighten with the first rays of sun.

‘Mimi!’ Her aunt’s smiling face appeared on the screen.

‘Bonjour,’ Amélie replied, grinning. A rush of love rolled through her as she looked into the familiar chestnut eyes. Her aunt’s hair was tied back with a colourful headband and she was wearing her usual clay-spattered overalls.

‘This is a lovely surprise,’ Josie said in French.

Amélie spoke French fluently too. ‘I just wanted to catch up with you before the shop opens and it gets too busy.’

‘Are you at work? Let me see the shop.’ Amélie flipped the camera so her aunt could have a quick look. ‘Oh, it’s gorgeous. How are my pots selling?’

‘They’ve flown off the shelves. I have only a handful left.’

‘Business is good, then? The build-up to Christmas is starting already?’

‘Yes. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about – the Christmas holidays.’

She heard the creak of doors and the picture trembled as her aunt moved out of her studio into the open air. She sat on the step outside her pottery studio and behind her the sky was the cobalt blue that was unique to the South of France. The sight made Amélie’s heart leap.

‘Are you coming to visit?’ Josie asked, eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Is that okay? You don’t have any other plans?’

‘Even if I did it wouldn’t matter. Of course it’s okay, Mimi. I can’t wait to see you. And I can always use your help in the repair shop.’ Her atelier de réparation had been Amélie’s inspiration for the Repair Barn, but it wasn’t quite the same. Josie took in any repair – ceramics, metalwork, wood and textiles – and if she couldn’t restore the item herself she would find a local specialist who could. Amélie, on the other hand, preferred to focus solely on carpentry and she worked alone. Well, apart from when Jack interfered, she thought, remembering the record player.

The ring of a metal bell came through on the phone. ‘Oh, someone’s here. Mimi, I’d better go,’ her aunt said. ‘Send me the dates so I know when you’re coming.’

After hanging up, Amélie went through to her workshop, made a cup of tea and connected her phone to the speaker. Last night’s radio show began to play and the upbeat sounds of a Bee Gees classic played. When she and Jack had met in spring she’d got into the habit of playing his late-night show on catch-up each morning. It was just a habit. It didn’t mean anything.

She put her apron on and set to work sanding down the chest of drawers. The thick yellow varnish was coming away slowly with the help of the electric sander, and beneath it was beautiful blond wood. Probably maple, though it might be ash or perhaps oak. Whatever it was, when it was finished with pretty new handles it would look gorgeous. Pieces like it were usually snapped up within twenty-­four hours of being posted on her website. She’d found it in a house-clearance sale and it had been cheap, but not as cheap as the pieces she could get across the Channel. When she travelled to France at Christmas she’d take her van and visit all the local brocantes and flea ­markets to restock. She was already looking forward to the days she’d spend hunting for old, damaged pieces of ­furniture that she’d bring home and transform in her workshop, giving them a new lease of life.

She paused from sanding to check her work, and a rap at the back door made her start. Casper from the tractor repair place was standing there.

‘Hi, Amélie. We’re having clients round this morning to do some training on their new machinery and the boss bought bacon sandwiches. Want one?’ He held up a paper bag.

Her mouth watered. ‘How can I refuse?’

His brown hair glowed in the morning sun. His overalls were stained with oil, yet he gave the impression of someone well-groomed, and he was always friendly when they crossed paths in the courtyard outside.

‘Are you limping?’ he asked, as she hobbled over.

‘I – ah – twisted my ankle a bit. It’ll be all right.’

‘How did you do that?’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘Oh – um – I just tripped in the dark.’

‘You should put the light on next time.’

Or stay in bed where she was warm and cosy and not at risk of getting into trouble. She smiled but said nothing.

‘You’re in early today,’ he went on.

‘I was awake so I thought I might as well crack on. Things are getting busy already. Everyone’s coming in with repair jobs they need doing by Christmas, and the shop’s frenetic so I’m spending too much time in here and not enough in the back. Saturday was hectic.’

‘You need to hire someone to mind the shop for you while you get on in the workshop,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, I was going to but, well, I’ve been too busy.’ And, thanks to Jack, too much of her precious spare time had been spent dreaming up pranks, she thought ruefully. ‘It’s probably too late now.’

‘Maybe next year, then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’d better get back. We’ve got a busy morning. If you see twelve farmers trotting about the place don’t be surprised.’

‘As long as they don’t all arrive on separate tractors and fill the car park.’ She laughed. ‘Thanks for the sandwich. Can I give you some money for it?’

‘Nah, the boss paid. See you later!’

‘Bye,’ she called after him, and closed her eyes as the delicious smell of warm bread and bacon hit her.

It seemed like her day had got a lot better already.

* * *

On Thursday morning Jack yanked open the curtains and shivered. There was definitely an autumnal chill in the air now. The leaves on the trees had turned orange and bronze, and were curling and dropping like wood shavings across the lawn. He went out every couple of days to rake it clear because he liked his garden to look well kept. He stilled, then narrowed his eyes.

What was wrong with the grass? It looked … yellow.

He grabbed his dressing-gown and ran downstairs. Barefoot on the path, he stared. Had there been a night frost? He didn’t think so. His gaze darted left and right. Maybe this was damage from a fox or a cat. Yet, as he inspected it more closely, he saw the yellow areas were not random. In fact . . . He moved to stand side on – and then he saw it.

BOO. His eyes narrowed sharply. Someone had put something – likely weedkiller – on his grass to spell the word.

‘Morning!’ Mick the postman called cheerily, and strode towards him. He stopped to see what Jack was looking at and sucked in a breath. ‘Bit early for Halloween tricks, isn’t it? Who did this, then?’

Jack shook his head. ‘I’m not sure, but I have an idea. I think it’s someone’s idea of joke.’

‘A joke?’ Mick handed him his post, and the two of them crouched to examine the grass. It was yellowed and withered. He thought back to Tuesday when his neighbour, Bob, had told him he’d heard a noise in the night, adding that his flowerbeds had been disturbed. Jack hadn’t paid too much attention: badgers often dug up the soil. But maybe his neighbour had heard an intruder.

‘What are you going to do?’ Mick asked.

He shrugged. ‘Get my revenge.’

Mick seemed slightly confused, and mildly alarmed at this response. But Mick didn’t know what Jack knew: that there was only one. . .