The Cherry Tree Summer

by Kate Glanville

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Kate Glanville returns with a warm and escapist read of love and old secrets, set in a beautiful French farmhouse in Dordogne. Perfect for fans of Rosanna Ley.

'Poignant, warm, and unpredictable' Julie Cohen on Stargazing

When tragedy struck twenty-five years ago, Martha Morgan lost everything. Once a member of one of the UK's most prestigious bands, she now lives in solitude in the beautiful small village of Dordogne.

In an attempt to piece her life back together Martha decides to rent her idyllic French farmhouse to holidaymakers for the summer, hiring the mysterious Ben to work as a caretaker to help reconstruct the dishevelled B&B.

But when a vicious storm makes its way across the small village, tensions begin to rise. Martha, Ben and her guests are forced to pull together and they're about to find out that they have more in common than they realise - but it might mean jeopardising the old secret of Martha's past.

Readers love Kate Glanville's captivating novels:

'This is a wonderful, entertaining and gripping read that I cannot recommend enough *****' Amazon reviewer on Stargazing

'A lovely heart-warming story, could not put down *****' Amazon reviewer on The Perfect Home

'The best book I've read all year *****' Amazon reviewer on Heartstones

'An enchanting and captivating novel *****' Amazon reviewer on Stargazing

(P)2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: May 27, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

The Dordogne, 2019Saturday

It was hot, even in the shade of the terrace. Sweat prickled under Martha’s bra and trickled down her spine. She stopped sweeping the fallen vine leaves and pushed her sunglasses back to watch the young man.

He worked with ease; not even the midday heat seemed to slacken his pace as he hammered the broken shutter back onto the wall. He’d already re-erected the vine-covered trellis and repaired the torn gazebo. Martha wondered how old he was. He took off his shirt to reveal multiple tattoos on his narrow chest and wiry arms; doves and flowers, a stag’s head and a Celtic symbol. His jeans hung low on snake-slim hips, revealing the wording on his boxer shorts. Barely a man, more like a boy. Martha wondered if he might be the same age as Owen.

Martha began to sweep again; the bristles of the brush against the slabs sounded like the introduction to a song she and her mother used to sing when they walked along the beach at Abertrulli. Martha remembered pushing Owen in his pushchair along the sand and singing it to him. In her mind the song went round and round.

Under the boardwalk . . .

In the poplar trees the cicadas provided backing.

Martha could still see Owen laughing up at her, his cheeks ruddy from the wind whipping in from Cardigan Bay, huge brown eyes full of mischief as he pulled his mittens off for the hundredth time.

She stopped sweeping, and stood staring into the distance, remembering the days when she had been able to look after Owen like a proper mother; retrieving his mittens, putting them back on with a giggle and a kiss. She’d loved those long weekends spent on the beach with her son. Sometimes she’d fantasised about buying a little cottage in the village for the two of them; escaping from London for good, escaping from Andrew. If only she had.

The sound of banging brought her back to the present. The man was still hammering the shutter into place. In a film the man might have been Owen; the son who’d come to seek out his lost mother after so many years. But Martha could tell by the tattoos and the piercings in his ears and the cheap cut of his jeans that this was obviously not Owen; it was not someone who’d been brought up by Andrew Frazer in his rigid world of privilege and tight convention.

She glanced at the man again. He had his back to her; an inky reptile snaked its way across his shoulders. He turned and Martha saw it was a dragon, blue scales like bruises on his skin. She wondered what he might think of the tiny butterfly she had at the top of her left thigh – would he be surprised? He probably thought she was ancient, older than she really was with a face already lined and her hair a short grey cap. Martha hacked at her hair with the kitchen scissors every few weeks, barely looking in the mirror as she did it. It had been many years since she had visited a hairdresser. In the past, she had loved the fuss of Anton at John Frieda trying different shades of red before a photo shoot, or Cat smothering her big flicked fringe with hairspray just before the band stepped on stage. In those days, Martha had spent many happy hours in front of mirrors while other people attended to her make-up and stylists decided what she should wear. Now she barely thought about clothes, shrouding her body beneath long, black layers. No one could see the butterfly disappearing into the dimples on her thigh, or the jagged, purple scar along one leg.

In the village, Martha always wore dark glasses. The old men on the boules court would watch her walk past, her limp drawing their attention, or the women shopping in the market would look her up and down, but they didn’t engage her in conversation.

Martha had heard the local children call her La Sorcière – The Witch.

‘I’m going to make a start on the pool,’ the young man called out.

‘Don’t turn on the pump until you’ve got all the leaves out of the filter,’ Martha called back. She hoped he’d be able to make it look more like the pristine turquoise rectangle depicted on the Dordogne Dreams website before the guests arrived.

The previous evening a storm had raged, keeping Martha awake as the wind rattled the stained-glass windows of the old chapel and rain poured down the terracotta roof tiles. Lightning had lit up Martha’s bedroom and she’d worried that Pippa would be frightened by the thunder, even though Martha had brought the rabbit into the chapel as soon as the storm had started. Her leg had throbbed with pain and the longing for the small white tablets seemed to fill her restless dreams.

I am in control. I will not give in.

She’d tried very hard to focus on the mantra they had taught her at the rehab clinic, to focus on the thought of Owen, the possibility of seeing him again.

I am in control. I will not give in.

In the early morning, Martha had limped up the path that led from the chapel to the old converted convent. She could smell the cloying stench of raw sewage wafting from the septic tank in the meadow; no doubt it had flooded with the vast amount of rainwater that had gushed down the drive all night.

Climbing the steps, Martha picked her way through the broken trellis and fallen vine on the terrace and surveyed the battered shutters and sagging terracotta roof. The swing she’d had made for Owen was now broken. It had never been used. She was sure there were new cracks along the ancient walls and half the roses that had clambered up the yellow lime-wash lay in a tangled heap on the muddy ground.

Faced with the devastation around her, the craving for the tablets was almost unbearable. She thought about getting into her car to find Jean-Paul with his slippery smile and inflated prices; he’d charge even more if he saw any desperation in her eyes.

She lit her first cigarette of the day and tried not to think about the broken shutters or the tattered roses or the awful smell or how to tell the guests, who would be arriving that afternoon, that they would have to find somewhere else to stay.

I am in control. I will not give in.

She’d spent weeks cleaning and polishing and dusting and touching up the peeling paintwork. It had been exhausting; many times, she had nearly given up, but she had been spurred on by the thought that when she was back on her feet financially, she could at last reply to Owen’s postcard.

She’d turned from the scene around her trying not to think of all the wasted hard work or the letters from the bank, or Owen.

I am in control. I will not give in.

Martha focused on the view. A thick pink mist lay across the valley. The ancient cherry orchard that formed the boundary to her steeply sloping garden was visible, but she couldn’t see the patchwork of sunflower fields and vineyards that led down to the valley with the oak wood – known for the truffles that could be found there in the winter months. Only the tower of the medieval church clearly protruded through the haze.

A noise made Martha turn. A motorbike was coming very slowly down the steep, pot-holed drive. She watched, hardly having the energy to be worried or even curious about the rider or what they wanted so early in the morning. Unexpected visitors would once have had Martha’s heart racing with anxiety. When she’d first moved to the house a steady stream of fans and nosey tourists, who had found out who owned the old convent, would peer down the drive, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. In those days she’d always kept the big gates locked. Latterly the fans were few and far between; it had been so long since Martha had even shut the gates that their hinges were permanently rusted open.

The bike stopped at the bottom of the drive and a young man in a T-shirt and jeans took off his helmet.

‘C’est privé,’ Martha called. ‘Sortie. Allez-vous.’

‘Is this Le Couvent des Cerises?’ the young man called back.

‘I said, it’s private. Go away!’

‘I wondered, do you still need a man?’

‘What?’

‘I was in the bar. I saw the card.’ Martha could tell from his accent that he was from Scotland.

‘Get off my property before I call the police.’

The young man looked around the bedraggled garden and sniffed. ‘You have a problem with your septic tank.’

‘I said go!’

The man shrugged then put his helmet back on. He started up the engine and began to turn the bike around. Behind her Martha heard a creak and then a crash. What was left of the trellis collapsed onto the patio table. A glass lantern that had been hanging from the overhead joists smashed on the paving slabs. The man’s words echoed around Martha’s head. The card. It had been weeks since she had pinned it to the noticeboard in the bar. Handy Man needed. Odd jobs and general maintenance. Good English essential. She’d given up on finding anyone and had done what jobs she could herself.

‘Wait!’ Martha struggled down the terrace steps. ‘Just hang on.’ She had eight hours; with help she might be able to get the mess at least partially cleared up. Her leg prevented her from going very fast.

The engine revs grew louder. She waved her arms. ‘Stop!’

The bike pulled away, quickly gaining speed; Martha reached the bottom of the steps, breathless after her exertion. She shouted, ‘Don’t go!’

She started to hobble down the path, but it was too late; her words were drowned by the engine noise and with a cloud of dust the bike disappeared through the gateposts at the end of the drive.

‘Bloody hell!’ She put her hand out to steady herself on the wooden fence that ran between the path and the pool. With a splintering noise the fence gave way and fell into the flower bed, snapping the first hollyhock that had come into flower.

‘BLOODY HELL!!’

Suddenly the air was full of noise again. Martha saw the bike coming back, faster this time. It skidded to a halt not far from where she stood. The engine died and the man took off his helmet again. He smiled, a small lopsided grin. Martha took in his dishevelled blond hair, tattoos, studded nose and eyebrows.

‘I just wanted to let you know that a tree has brought your phone line down.’ He pointed to the top of the drive. ‘It’s knocked the pole over too.’

Martha folded her arms, trying not to look too desperate for his help.

‘Well, it looks like I can’t phone the police to get rid of you now.’

The man produced a phone from the back pocket of his jeans and his grin widened.

‘I could lend you my mobile.’

‘No need,’ Martha shook her head. ‘There’s no signal.’

The man slid the phone back into his pocket. ‘I’m a good worker.’

Martha peered at him doubtfully. He didn’t look very strong. More skinny than muscly. He looked in need of a meal.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ben,’ he said, kicking down the bike stand and dismounting.

‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘Just doing a bit of travelling.’ He nodded towards a large rucksack strapped to the back of the bike.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Scotland.’

‘I can tell that. I mean where in Scotland?’

‘I’ve lived all over.’

‘A bit of a nomad then?’

‘I suppose,’ the crooked grin appeared again. He picked up a broken piece of wood. ‘I’ll get this fence back up for you if you have a hammer.’

When Martha had written the advert on the card, her idea of a handyman had been of someone older, maybe one of the expat English builders who gathered in Sally and Pierre’s small bar to drink red wine, compare house prices in the area and wind up Pierre by criticising the French. This thin young man, with his multiple tattoos and piercings, was not quite what she’d had in mind.

Martha thought about the letters from the bank and the phone calls from the mortgage department. She had promised to pay some of the arrears as soon as she had the first payment from the holiday company. If only that snooty woman from Dordogne Dreams hadn’t insisted on withholding her fee until the first guests had given a good review.

‘It’s not our usual sort of property,’ the woman – Tamara – had sniffed, as she took in Martha’s collection of assorted antiques and bric-a-brac. ‘I suppose we could market it as shabby-chic.’ She’d run a long coral painted fingernail along the dresser leaving a line through the dust. ‘You’ll need to do a lot of housework.’

A couple and their young son would be arriving later in the afternoon; they were Martha’s only hope.

‘Can you help me clear up this mess?’ Martha waved an arm at the storm damage strewn around the garden.

Ben nodded.

‘And sort out the septic tank?’

Ben nodded again.

‘I have a lot to do inside,’ Martha pointed towards the house. ‘Making up beds, clearing the kitchen and a hundred other things I can’t even remember. Everything has to be ready by three o’clock so there’ll be no time for slacking.’

‘If you don’t like the way I work you can just tell me to get lost.’ The man’s innocent smile seemed at odds with his illustrated arms and piercings.

Martha pursed her lips.

‘OK, it’s a deal. Your first job is to clear the vine from the table on the terrace . . . and find my bloody cigarettes!’

They sat in the dappled shade of the vine looking out across the cherry orchard to the valley beyond. Sheets and pillowcases hung from the washing line strung across the garden and several bulging bin liners – and a quantity of empty wine bottles – were lined up along the steps up to the terrace.

A bucket of food scraps stood on the steps, ready to be taken to the compost heap. Martha could smell the discarded vegetable peelings rotting in the heat but at least the smell of sewage had disappeared since Ben had prodded at the blocked-up pipes.

The church bell rang for the Angelus, reverberating around the hillside. Martha peered at her watch.

‘Right, we’ve got three hours left. Hopefully they’ll be late, I’ve still got to make up the beds, take the rubbish out and deal with the compost. But I think we’re in control.’

‘I’ll take the rubbish.’ Ben swigged from the bottle of beer Martha had given him. ‘And the compost.’

‘You’ve done so much already.’ Martha cut two thick slices from the bread. ‘I think you deserve some lunch first.’ She pushed a plate of cheese towards him and passed him a small bowl of salad. ‘I haven’t even asked you where you’re staying. Have you got somewhere in the village?’

Ben was already chewing on a chunk of bread and cheese, pushing it into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for days. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his hand. Martha waited for his answer but instead he nodded towards the open kitchen door.

‘There’s a rabbit in your house.’

‘Hey, there you are, cariad!’ A small brown rabbit with two white socks and a floppy ear hopped across the terrace. Martha scooped her up.

‘This is Pippa. I rescued her from a pack of dogs in the village. If I’d got there seconds later, she would have been ripped to bits.’

‘Poor thing.’ Ben leant forward to offer the rabbit a lettuce leaf from his plate.

‘She was tame, probably a pet who had escaped. I put up notices, but no one ever came forward to say they owned her.’

‘What’s wrong with her ear?’ Ben peered at the little rabbit, nibbling enthusiastically on the leaf.

Martha stroked the drooping ear. ‘The dogs nearly ripped it off.’

‘Bastards!’

Ben tore off another chunk of bread and spread some goats’ cheese on the doughy surface.

‘Would you like some melon?’ Martha asked. ‘I’ve a Cantaloupe that has just reached perfection, I’ve been waiting for it to ripen for days.’

Ben nodded, his mouth full of bread.

‘I’ll get it in a minute,’ Martha said. ‘Then I have to clear all my food from the kitchen, and I mustn’t forget to cut some flowers for the table. It’s the little things like vases of flowers that make all the difference . . .’ Martha made a face, ‘according to Tamara.’

‘Must be odd,’ Ben said. ‘Giving up your house to other people.’

Martha shrugged and gave Pippa another leaf. ‘I just hope they don’t let their child chase Pippa.’

‘Who are they?’ Ben asked.

‘A family from London, that’s all I know.’ Martha put the rabbit down on the flagstones. ‘I told Tamara I didn’t want any children staying here, but she said I’d be narrowing my opportunities when the school holidays kick in. They have a six-year-old son, he must go to a private school because it’s still pretty early in the summer.’

‘Loaded then?’ Ben took a swig of his beer.

‘You’d think so, but they’re getting a bloody big discount in return for writing the first review! And they don’t even have to pay if they’re not happy. Tamara’s idea to get Le Couvent des Cerises on the rental radar – as she put it.’

‘That’s not very fair.’

‘In my experience life has a habit of not being fair.’ Martha smiled thinly and took the packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of her trousers. She offered one to Ben. He shook his head.

‘I gave up.’

Martha lit a cigarette and inhaled.

‘I gave up for a while,’ she said. ‘But then I decided there’s only so much you can do without.’

Ben looked at her from under his mop of pale hair. His eyes were very dark, like two deep chocolate pools. It was unusual in someone with such fair colouring; it reminded her of Owen, golden hair and huge brown eyes, though everyone said his hair would be dark like Andrew’s when he was older. Martha hoped that Andrew wouldn’t have also passed on the darkness of his personality; the cruelty that had lurked beneath the geniality and charm. She prayed her son still had the loving and easy-going nature he’d had as a baby. In her memory he’d spent far more time laughing than crying; his sunny humour, never faltering despite the increasing chaos of his world.

It seemed impossible that her baby would ever have become a young man like the man in front of her; though she doubted that any son of Andrew’s would be bumming around France on a motorbike. She knew that Owen was ensconced behind a desk in the city, being trained in all things financial to follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps. She had googled Owen Frazer a few years previously and found a blurry picture of a young man on LinkedIn; slicked back hair, perfect teeth and a CV that included Wellington College, Exeter University and now a senior job in the family firm. Since then she had looked at the LinkedIn page over and over again but the picture had never been updated.

She was about to ask Ben how old he was when a rumbling noise made them both turn towards the gates. A black Range Rover was slowly lumbering down the drive in a cloud of yellow dust. Martha took in the tinted windows and personalised number plate – RANJ1. The car looked over-sized on the narrow driveway; it was steering carefully around the potholes as overhanging branches scraped alarmingly along the gleaming paintwork.

‘Fucking twiddly twats and bollocks,’ Martha whispered. ‘They’re early!’

Sally and Pierre had thought she was mad to rent out Le Couvent des Cerises; it was far too much work for her to take on alone.

‘How hard can it be?’ Martha had asked four months before as she stopped for her weekly coffee in the tiny bar.

‘Well . . .’ Sally had been tentative; she and Pierre were drying beer glasses, working in unison, swiftly replacing the glasses back on the mirrored shelf behind them. Sally’s breasts jiggled as she moved – they seemed to have a life of their own beneath her blouse. Her curves were a delicious contrast to her older, angular husband’s Roman nose and greying hair. ‘It would be really hard work,’ Sally continued. ‘We used to rent out rooms upstairs and it was . . .’

‘Hard like you do not imagine!’ Pierre butted in, his thick French accent booming around the empty space. ‘And for you it will be more. First, you must make the house clean and not decorated with the cobwebs, and then you must make the pool blue and not green, and then there is the beds and the sheets and the towels and the mending of your leaky roof, and the drippy taps.’

‘It’s the leaky roof and drippy taps I need to pay for,’ Martha said. ‘And the bank is threatening to repossess the house.’

‘Oh no!’ Sally swung her tea towel over her shoulder and came out from behind the bar to top up Martha’s coffee cup. ‘Don’t you make enough money from the royalties, or whatever it is you rock stars get?’

‘I was never a rock star.’ Martha blew on the steaming black coffee. ‘It was just a pop group. And Lucas and Cat claimed the credit for writing all the songs, so they got all the money. I only get royalties from the one hit that had my name on it.’

Sally sat down beside her and folded her softly rounded arms. ‘But I heard “Moondancing” on the radio the other day. Don’t you get money every time it’s played?’

‘A bit, but it’s not much. The royalty cheques get less every year. The only thing I can think to do is rent out the house. I’ve found an English holiday company who’ll put it on their website.’

‘I can’t imagine you sharing your home with strangers,’ Sally said. ‘You always say you like being on your own.’

Martha took a sip of coffee. ‘I know, but needs must when there’s bugger all in the bank, as my mother used to say. She had three jobs when I was growing up. Even though she was a single mother I always had nice clothes, we ate well, and I had ballet classes and piano lessons – God knows how she managed.’

‘But are you sure you’ll be allright with strangers in your house?’ Sally looked concerned. ‘You don’t want to end up back on the drugs,’ she whispered the last word.

‘They weren’t drugs,’ Martha protested. ‘Just painkillers.’

‘I know, but you’ve sorted yourself out and done really well these last few months.’

‘Thanks to you, persuading me to check into the rehab clinic.’ Martha smiled at Sally over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Even though they were—’

‘—just painkillers,’ Sally finished off the sentence with a roll of her eyes. ‘But I can’t help thinking that renting out Le Couvent des Cerises will be more stressful than you think. Have you thought about any other options?’

‘The checkout at the Intermarché . . . grape-picking?’ Martha sighed. ‘I think I’m a little too old to open a brothel.’

Pierre leered forward with a grin.

‘I think you might be having an idea there.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Madame Martha, the name, it has, how you say? A ring. I think I know some potential customers . . .’

‘Pierre!’ Sally scolded. ‘Don’t be so silly.’ She turned to Martha. ‘But you can sing!’

‘I used to sing,’ Martha corrected.

‘Surely you still can. Why don’t you sing here?’ Sally’s cleavage began to jiggle again. ‘You could sit on a stool in the corner. Henri from the boulangerie could accompany you on his guitar. In the summer you could sing outside, get a crowd. I’m sure people would pay. And when the truffle festival is on in January you’d make a fortune from all the visitors we get then.’

Martha shook her head. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Martha does not need to sing in our petite village,’ Pierre frowned at his wife. ‘Mais non, she is needing the big tour. 1980s music is very popular. Everyone is doing concerts; Kajagoogoo, Bananarama, even Rick Astley, he is back. What about if On The Waterfront is getting it together again?’

‘But how could we be a band without Lucas?’ Martha paused and stared into her coffee cup. ‘He was On The Waterfront.’

It had been six months since Martha had received an email inviting her to Lucas Oats’s funeral. She rarely looked at the news and hadn’t seen the reports that the band’s lead singer had been found dead in his Surrey mansion. Martha didn’t go to the funeral; she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Cat sweep in, dripping in her success, whilst the rest of them had faded into obscurity and middle-age. And there would have been the press; they might have brought up all the horrible stories that had been plastered over the newspapers when the band broke up, they might have remembered the incident at the BRIT Awards, they might have remembered the other awful things that happened in the years that followed.

Despite the letter she’d received from Cat, Martha had stayed at home. She didn’t want Cat’s charity; she had winced at the thought of accepting Cat’s offer of a private plane from Bergerac to Heathrow, a suite next door to hers at the Savoy. We can be a support to each other, Cat had said, get through the funeral together, side by side like the old days. Martha had ripped the letter into pieces and thrown it in the bin without sending a reply. In the old days Cat’s idea of support had not been hers.

Sally picked up a sugar lump from a little bowl in the middle of the table; she popped it into her mouth and began to suck, deep in thought. ‘Your paintings!’ She slapped her hand triumphantly on the table. The sugar cubes jumped in the bowl. ‘You could sell them. We could have an exhibition here in the bar.’

Martha made a face. ‘I don’t think I’m that good. Until the clinic suggested using painting as therapy, I hadn’t picked up a brush since I dropped out of school.’

Sally’s jubilant expression fell. Martha reached over the table and squeezed her hand.

‘Thank you for trying to help, but renting out the house really is the only answer.’

‘Huh!’ Pierre twisted his red cloth into the bottom of a glass until it squeaked. ‘I worry for you, Martha. Those British people are all fussy-pots, nothing is ever right.’

‘Hey!’ Sally aimed a swipe at him with her cloth across the bar.

‘Not the people from Rochdale, ma petite.’ Pierre was laughing.

‘And not the Welsh either.’ Sally looked pointedly at Martha, but Martha wasn’t listening. She was gazing out through the narrow doorway of the bar into the brightness of the village square beyond. A small boy was playing in the fountain, splashing in the water, throwing up rainbows in the air.

Smiling, Martha turned back to Sally and Pierre.

‘Don’t worry. I have it all planned. I’ll move out and make the old chapel my home for the summer. I can’t even see the house from there. I’ll hardly even notice the guests.’

Martha stubbed out her cigarette and thought of the unmade beds and the stinking rubbish and empty bottles and the washing still on the line. The Range Rover looked enormous parked beside Ben’s motorbike and Martha’s old Saab. The engine died. Everything was very quiet, apart from the unremitting chirrup of the cicadas. Martha waited.

After a long pause the driver’s door swung open. A tall man in dark glasses and a white linen shirt stepped out. A few seconds later the passenger door opened and a tall woman in a neat shift dress and ballet pumps slipped down from the seat; she had a perfectly cut auburn bob. Her hair swung from side to side as she looked briefly around, then she opened the door behind her to whisk a baby out of a. . .