Deborah Carr - The Poppy Field - A gripping and emotional historical romance

She could hear him coming down the stairs again and pretended to be adding another log to the fire.

“I think you’ve probably already got too many on there,” he said entering the room.

They stood in awkward silence.

“Look,” Tom said. “I’m sorry. I’m used to being hands on.”

“It’s fine, forget it. Thanks for coming to see if I was alright. Is the damage going to put the renovation work back much?”

He shrugged. “Not really. It’s only the end of the branch. The window frame is fine, and the panes of glass can soon be replaced.”

“I really do appreciate your help,” she said, wishing to make amends for acting so oddly.

He smiled, his beautiful navy-blue eyes crinkling sexily, causing her stomach to contract. “It’s no problem. I’ve got to help a fellow Brit, haven’t I?”

She smiled, enjoying his casual friendliness. She could get used to having him around in no time. “I’m not from the mainland,” she explained. “I’m from Jersey, in the Channel Islands.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I went there once. In the summer holidays with my mum. Nice place.” A large gust of wind rattled the window upstairs and they both looked up at the ceiling. “I remember being amazed when I spotted the coast of France from the guest house where we were staying,” he said.

Gemma suspected he was trying to distract her from the gale going on outside. “I can see the lights in France from my old bedroom at my parents’ place,” she said, recalling how comforted she had been to be back there for the past few months, even if her mother had tired of her presence quicker than she would have liked.

“Do you still live in Jersey, then?”

“No, I left five years ago,” she explained thinking back to how excited she had been to leave the small island for a fresh start on the English mainland. “I live in Brighton now, or at least I did.”

“Is this your first renovation project, or something you do for a living?”

Gemma laughed. “I’m a nurse,” she said, amused at the thought of how different the next few months were going to be compared to what she was used to. “I work in a trauma centre, near Brighton.”

All amusement vanished from his face. “Oh, I see,” he said.

Confused by his reaction, Gemma thought it best to change the subject. “How come you speak fluent French?” she asked, intrigued.

His shoulders relaxed a little. “My mum’s French,” he explained. “She’s from Amiens, about twenty miles from here.”

Gemma recognised the name from reading books about the First World War at school. “I suppose we’re near the Somme battlefields here, then.”

“We are,” he said. “There’s a lot of history around this place for you to discover.”

“Have you been here long?” she asked nervous not to say the wrong thing again.

“A couple of years full time. I spent most of my summer holidays growing up coming here to stay with my grandparents. My parents ran a small restaurant in Devon before they divorced. It was useful for them to send me here when they were at their busiest.”

They chatted for a while longer. Gemma rarely had company at her flat and usually preferred being alone, but it was a relief to have Tom here. She didn’t mind being in this strange house, but the gale and damage to her room had unsettled her.

It seems to be dying down now,” he said standing up. “I’d better get going, or my mum will be wondering where I am. I don’t want her worrying. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to cover the exposed area on the roof and sort out that window.”

“Thanks for stepping in to help me, Tom,” Gemma said, extending her hand. He smiled and shook it. “I really appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

She showed him to the door and wished she had the same relaxed way about her as Tom did. There was something haunted about him though, she mused. He hid it well, but she couldn’t help wondering what was behind the sadness he tried to keep hidden.

“That’s the window done,” Tom announced the following morning, as he descended the ladder and joined her on the front path. “The tarpaulin should keep the roof watertight, at least until I can replace the missing tiles.”

He withdrew a piece of paper from his jeans back pocket and handed it to her. “I jotted down a list of what needs doing and how much it’ll cost. I’ll get it typed up for you. I thought you might like to have a heads-up before you receive my quote.”

Gemma unfolded the paper and read his list and the total. “Yes, this amount looks similar to the one my dad was sent from the other chap,” she said, noticing it was marginally cheaper. “How soon can you start work?”

He lowered the ladder and carried it to his pick-up. “I’ve postponed another job for a few weeks,” he said as Gemma followed him. She watched him attach it to the roof. “They weren’t in any rush.”

“Are you sure your other client won’t mind?” she asked, wishing she didn’t feel the need to ask.

“It’s fine. It’s their second home,” he said, turning to her. “They won’t be back in the area until April, at the earliest.”

Gemma couldn’t believe her luck. It occurred to her that he might be putting himself out to help her. She wasn’t used to getting favours from anyone and didn’t know how to accept one now. “You’re not doing yourself out of any work, are you? Not on my account, anyway. I’m sure I can wait a few weeks,” she fibbed.

He laughed. “We both know that’s not true. You need the most urgent work doing straight away, especially if you’re determined to stay here. Anyway, I’m happy to do it. I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tom. I’m really grateful,” she said.

A week later, Gemma couldn’t help being excited that Tom had already replaced the roof tiles smashed during the storm, as well as the broken window. He had also replaced a cracked pane of glass in the small living room window near the front door. She had removed ivy from the front of the house that had covered the original window and the difference it made to the light in the room was staggering.

“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?