The Poppy Field

by Deborah Carr

  “Right,” he said, letting his metal tape measure retract. “I’ve fixed the loose floorboards over there and will go and buy more to cover the rotten ones I pulled up this morning. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “Thanks, Tom,” she said to his retreating figure as he walked out into the hallway. Her stomach growled loudly.

  Tom stepped back into the room. “Shall I buy something for you to eat, while I’m out?” he asked, grinning.

  “Please,” she blushed, as he left for a second time. She was getting used to being around Tom. He was hardworking and thoughtful, as well as being extremely good looking. She wondered if he had a girlfriend. Of course, he did. A guy like Tom wouldn’t be single.

  Determined to stop thinking about him, Gemma stepped over one of the gaps in the floor to leave the room, when something shiny caught her eye.

  She crouched carefully over the hole. Reaching down into the space, her hand met an irregular shaped object. She couldn’t make out what it could be and lifting the dusty item out she discovered it was a brooch in the shape of a poppy. Intrigued, she rubbed it against her sleeve to remove the excess dust, blowing the remainder away. Its red enamelling was still bright, she noticed. Who could have owned such a beautiful object?

  She turned it over and peered at the back, surprised to see it was gold. Saddened to think that someone had lost such a thing of beauty, she wondered again who could have owned it. Poppies had long been a representation of remembrance, she knew that much. Maybe someone had come here from one of the casualty clearing stations close by. Or even during the Second World War?

  Tom returned and came up to her bedroom. “I’ve left you a cheese and tomato baguette on the living room table,” he said, entering the room carrying the new floorboards. “What’s that?”

  Gemma showed him what she had found.

  He put the floorboards onto the floor. “It doesn’t look very old,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “Not that I know anything about jewellery.”

  “It was incredibly dusty,” she told him, returning the brooch to the bedside drawer, as soon as he had finished looking at it.

  “Maybe the previous owner lost it, or his wife?”

  “I don’t think he ever married,” Gemma said thoughtfully. “I suppose it could have been a friend, or relative who came to stay here at some point.”

  Tom stared at her thoughtfully.

  Gemma wasn’t sure if he wanted to say something, so waited for him to speak. “Right,” he said handing back the brooch. “I’d better get on.”

  Feeling slightly awkward, Gemma remembered that he was going to help her remove the old mattress from the bedroom. “Shall we take this old thing outside?”

  “Good idea. Then you can get on with your bits, and I’ll replace these bits of flooring.”

  They dragged the old mattresses from both bedrooms up the muddy path to the meadow. Gemma brought him old magazines, and anything else she didn’t want from the farmhouse, while Tom set up the bonfire. They watched everything take light, standing with their hands outstretched towards the flames.

  “Is it feeling a little more like home now?” he asked eventually. He picked up a small branch lying under a tree and prodding the magazines pushing them further into the fire.

  “Slightly,” she pushed her hands into her pockets, glad he’d begun talking again. “It’s much nicer having someone else to chat to, in between jobs.”

  “Good. I’m glad.” He turned and gazed at the farmhouse. “It’s an appealing building. Once all the work has been done, I think it’s going to be somewhere you’ll be very happy.”

  “I’m not staying here,” she said. “Just doing it up, so my father can sell it on.”

  She was taken aback by his surprise. “I didn’t realise you weren’t wanting to keep this for yourself. So, you’re returning to the UK then?”

  Was that disappointment she saw in his face? Don’t be ridiculous, Gemma, she thought. Why would he care whether you lived here, or not? “Yes, I’ve taken a sabbatical from nursing,” she said, not adding that it hadn’t been a planned event.

  “Good for you. Don’t you miss it?”

  Gemma thought back to the last day at work and the meltdown she’d had. “I thought I might, but no, not yet.”

  He stared at her briefly. “Did you always want to be a nurse then?”

  She nodded. “Ever since I can remember. You?”

  He pulled a face. “What be a nurse?”

  Gemma nudged him and giggled. “No, silly, a builder.”

  He gazed into the flames, not answering for a several seconds. “No.”

  Unsure if she was being too nosy, Gemma asked, “What did you want to be when you were younger then?”

  Tom smiled at her, and Gemma’s heart did a somersault as his perfect lips drew back revealing his straight, white teeth. He really did have movie star looks, she thought. She realised he was saying something.

  “Sorry, I missed that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, throwing the stick into the fire. “We should be getting back to work. This lot can take care of itself.”

  Disappointed that she’d missed what he’d said, she was tempted to ask again. When she glanced out of the corner of her eyes at him, he was deep in thought striding along the muddy pathway back to the house.

  “I’ve enjoyed cleaning this place more than I expected I would,” she admitted, catching up with him. “You’ve been a wonderful help, stepping in like you did.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy.” Tom said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I’d better get on.”

  That afternoon, Gemma’s new mattress was delivered. Tom helped her carry it up to her bedroom.

  “Now you’ve finished the floor in here, it’s almost habitable,” she said.

  “It’ll be much better than sleeping in the living room,” he said looking out the window at the bonfire. “I’d better get back and check on the fire.”

  She had already washed down the bed frame, walls, skirting boards and floor, so all she needed to do was make up her bed. Gemma tried to fathom out what she’d said to alter Tom’s mood. But unable to work it out, she focused on rehanging the faded floral curtains she had washed. She stood at the doorway and surveyed the results of their efforts, there was still an enormous amount to do, but she could see a big difference in here at least.

  She wondered if she and Tom would be able to keep in contact after he’d finished working for her. She hoped so, she thought, swallowing a lump in her throat. Maybe instead of trying to be braver and bolder, she should concentrate on just making some friends. She hadn’t realised before spending time with Tom how much more enjoyable her days could be with someone to have a laugh with. She had spent her entire life believing that she was too dull to befriend. Her first boyfriend had tried to persuade her to emigrate with him to Australia to start a new life, but she had been too timid to go with him and now, seeing how she was coping here doing something new, it occurred to her that she had an awful lot to learn about herself.

  Her chest constricted with emotion. She was over-tired and being ridiculous. All she needed, Gemma mused, was a decent night’s sleep in her new bed. She could worry about how things were going in the morning.

  Gemma woke after her first night sleeping on her new mattress and stretched. It had been like sleeping on a cloud. For the first time since arriving at the farmhouse, she hadn’t woken up with a backache. She must have been in a very deep sleep, she thought, feeling a little groggy. She rubbed her eyes to try and wake up properly.

  Slipping her feet into her cold trainers, she winced. It was going to take some time before she got used to not having central heading, she thought shivering. She had always enjoyed watching programmes on television where people bought a rundown property and did them up but was quickly discovering that the reality was not nearly as comfortable as it looked. She rubbed her arms to keep them warm while she decided what to wear. It was too cold to care about appearances, s
o she grabbed her nearest sweater and pulled it on.

  She opened the curtains and let sunshine flood in to the room. The warmth of the sunny spring day on her face cheered her. For the first time she thought that maybe her father had a point suggesting she come here. Looking after the renovation work, instead of rushing back to her job at the trauma unit was definitely helping her come to terms with what had happened. Her mood dipped as the image of her ex, dying from his injuries in a car crash swooped into her mind. How could she hate someone who had died so tragically, she wondered? Then again, if she had discovered he was still married before he’d had his accident, she could have finished with him and not felt so guilty. She pushed all thoughts of him from her mind and went downstairs.

  She was enjoying working with Tom. He seemed a little mysterious, but very nice. She smiled, thinking how she looked forward to the days he was here more and more. Sundays were the only day Tom didn’t come to the house and they seemed to stretch on forever.

  Gemma went downstairs to the kitchen. She heard Tom singing to himself through the open window, as he crossed the courtyard to the three-sided barn. Watching him carrying tools into one of the smaller outhouses, she noticed his t-shirt was filthy from the grime of the disused rooms. For a second she wondered what he looked like without it on.

  Shocked by her reaction to him, she tore herself away from the window and went back to the living room, forcing her attention on the walls, now washed with sugar soap. Finally, they were clean and ready for her to paint. She looked at the wooden floor deciding if it needed a large colourful rug, but it was no good, she couldn’t focus, she had to go outside and see him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, finding him with a crowbar trying to force open a fitted cupboard at the back of the barn that she hadn’t noticed before.

  “I found this door. There was sacking nailed over it, but it was rotten and practically disintegrated when I went to lift it.” Tom put down the crowbar. “I can’t imagine why anyone would cover it up.”

  She was intrigued. “What do you think’s in there?” she asked, wondering why someone would hide a door?

  “I’m concerned there might be old gas canisters, or something else that needs to be removed. It’s been painted over many times. Probably because the previous owner couldn’t be bothered to open it.”

  “I can see why,” Gemma laughed. “If it’s too much bother, just leave it. I doubt something that’s been closed off for years will bother me, or any other potential owners. It’s a bit of a strange feature, but it gives the inside of the barn a little character, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. He turned to look at her. “How was your new mattress? Get a better night’s sleep than on your ancient armchair?”

  “It was bliss,” she said. “I slept soundly all night.”

  “I’m not surprised after sleeping on that chair for so long.”

  She smiled at him. “I certainly feel more refreshed today, than I have been doing.”

  “That figures.” He turned his attention back to the cupboard.

  Not wishing to hover over him while he worked, she decided to go and get out of his way. “I’ll go and make us a bite to eat,” she said. “I bought a fresh baguette last night. It should still be okay this morning. I’ve also got some perfectly ripe Camembert.”

  “Sounds great,” Tom said, his voice straining as he pushed against the end of the crowbar. “Just give me a shout when you want me.”

  Gemma had to resist answering with a joke and left him to it. She was cutting chunks of the bread, placing them on two plates, when Tom bellowed for her. Terrified he had injured himself, she dropped the knife onto the table and ran outside.

  “What’s the matter?” she shouted, hoping he wasn’t too badly hurt.

  “Look in there,” he said, standing back and indicating for her to peek inside the now open cupboard. “Shall I take it out for you to have a proper look?”

  Relieved he was fine, she peered into the cupboard at a large black tin box. “It’s a small trunk,” she said, unsure why anyone would go to such great lengths to hide it. “What do you think is in it?”

  “As long as it’s nothing gruesome, I don’t mind,” he teased.

  She took hold of a handle at one end and tugged. “It’s not too heavy,” she said pulling the box again. It moved forward and was just about to fall off the cupboard shelf when Tom caught it.

  “Going by the layers of paint over the door, it must have been in this cupboard for decades,” he said.

  She tried and failed to undo the clip on the front of the tin. “Shall we take it inside to have a proper look?” she asked, hoping there wasn’t anything too disgusting inside.

  “I think I should try and open it here first, just to be sure.”

  He was right. At least then, if it was something nasty, they could dispose of it outside, rather than in her now clean house. “Go on then.”

  She waited for him to fetch a pair of cutters from his truck. He cut through the lock from the box. “You can open it, if you like?” he said. “It’s your box. You should do the honours.”

  Excitement coursed through her. She forgot her initial concerns about the contents and giggled. “This is fun,” she said, slowly lifting the lid, hoping that whatever was inside didn’t disappoint them.

  “Letters?” she said, unsure what to make of them. They stared at the vast number of letters stacked neatly in the tin. “There are two batches,” she said, unnecessarily. “Both tied with a ribbon.”

  “I wonder who they belonged to?” Tom said, staring at one as Gemma slid it carefully from the front of one of the bundles.

  “It’s addressed to someone called Alice Le Breton,” she said thoughtfully. “I know of some Le Bretons in Jersey. I wonder if they’re related to her?”

  “I think we need to get this box inside,” Tom said. “It’s very damp out here and you don’t want them damaged. I’ll carry them in. We can eat lunch and see who they’re from.”

  Inside the living room, Gemma draped a tea towel on the table before Tom placed the box onto it.

  “Would you like me to make the coffee while you look at the letters?” he suggested.

  Excited now, Gemma nodded. “It’s easy to find everything,” she joked. “There’s only one place where I can store anything in that kitchen.”

  While Tom clattered around, filling the kettle and spooning coffee into two cups, Gemma pulled up a chair and sat down. She lifted out the first bundle of letters. The envelopes were slightly discoloured with age but seemed in excellent condition otherwise. She tugged gently at the ends of the ribbons and untied the bundle. Winding the red velvet ribbon around her hand, Gemma noticed that in the first bundle of letters Alice Le Breton was writing to a Lieutenant Peter Conway. In the second, however, the correspondence was between her and a Captain Edgar Woodhall. She must have had two sweethearts, Gemma mused.

  Taking the letter at the bottom of the bundle, she studied the envelope. She noticed the stamp was on at a strange angle. She saw that other envelopes had stamps stuck on in unusual ways, too. The perfectionist side of her couldn’t help being niggled by the lack of uniformity.

  Curious to see what the first letter said, Gemma slid the folded paper carefully from its envelope. Unfolding the single sheet of paper, she began to read.

  Chapter 3

  Alice

  August 1916

  Casualty Clearing Station No 7, Doullens, Northern France

  “Brace yourselves nurses,” one of the orderlies bellowed from outside the cramped bell tent where volunteer nurses, Alice Le Breton and her colleague, Mary Jones were deep in an exhausted sleep. “There’s a convoy on its way. You’re needed. You’ve got ten minutes, before Matron comes looking for you.”

  “Thank you,” Alice replied, her voice croaky from sleep. It had been a long six weeks since the big push on July and still the battles were raging. “Mary, did you hear?”

  There was no
sound from the occupant in the other camp bed. Alice rubbed her eyes and sat up. Her feet and back ached. She looked over at Mary recalling how they had instantly become friends when sat next to each other on the train from Gare du Nord to Doullens the previous year.

  If she had done as her mother had insisted, she would be waking up to breakfast in her marital home right now, now having to endure another day of drudgery dealing with bloodied bandages and crabby Sisters barking orders at her. This was still preferable though, Alice thought, certain she’d done the right thing. Marriage was not for her. She was going to decide what she did with her life, not her mother, or her ex-fiancé. She pushed away the guilt that seemed to shadow her everywhere.

  “Come on, Mary,” she said, stretching. At least this new convoy of injured men would take her mind off what she’d done.

  “Stop nagging,” Mary moaned, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn. “Give me a minute.”

  Alice smiled at her rosy-cheeked best friend, grateful they had met on the train soon after finishing their training for the Voluntary Aid Detachment.

  “You have seven minutes to get there now,” Alice said, throwing back her covers, grateful for the warmer mornings. “I’ll wash first. Hurry.”

  “Are we ever going to catch up with our sleep, do you think?” Mary’s sleepy voice asked.

  “Probably not until this wretched war ends,” Alice said, stretching. “I can’t recall ever being this exhausted.”

  Her heart ached. They had been here long enough to know what to expect. She stood up from her camp bed and pouring water from a jug into the porcelain washbowl on a stand at the end of her bed, she quickly washed her face, hands and underarms. Then, carefully taking her pale blue uniform from the little canvas chair that was forever falling over, pulled it on over her underclothes.

  Mary followed the same routine as Alice. She took her uniform from the tent pole that they had wound a leather strap around to create a make shift place to hang some of their clothes.