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

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.

“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, instead of 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.”