The Poppy Field: A gripping and emotional historical romance. Deborah Carr
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After all, she wasn’t having to live in a tent and this work would get easier and more enjoyable as the weather warmed up.
And Tom. What about him? She pictured his navy-blue eyes, always twinkling, having to deal with the unwelcome changes in his life. There was something about him; maybe it was the cheeky look he gave her, or maybe, the way he helped her without her having to ask him first. It was as if he was in tune with her. It wasn’t something she was used to and despite her resolution to stay man free, she had to admit that she quite liked him. She was glad that he had been lucky enough to have modern medicine to help him survive being blown up. Unlike so many men that Alice must have helped look after.
She plumped up her two pillows and tried to make herself more comfortable. She was desperate for sleep and for her mind to stop whirring and tormenting her. She hated it when her mood was low, especially when she acknowledged that she had very little to be miserable about. What was it about Alice’s letters that had upset her, she wondered? Probably the fear that came across in them. The fear of losing loved ones, as well as the uncertainty that the war didn’t seem to be coming to an end.
“When did you come here, Alice?” she whispered, aware that she would have died of fright should anyone reply. Had she just visited and hidden her letters, or had she lived here? She hoped Alice had been happy here at the farm.
Eventually, Gemma contemplated getting out of bed and going down to the living room to read more of Alice’s letters. She tried to fight against getting up but, unable to sleep, threw back the covers and slipped her feet into her trainers. She pulled on her dressing gown, grabbed the blanket from her bed and carried it over her shoulder.
She was going to look like hell in the morning, she thought, tying the fleecy belt as she walked down the stairs. She made a tea, added a few sticks of wood to the fire, with a larger log on top and turned on the light. Opening the black tin box, she gazed at the two batches of letters inside. She was tempted to go to the last one and read it, she never had much in the way of patience, but these letters were too fascinating to read them out of order.
Sitting down, she made herself comfortable and read the next letter.
Alice
1916
“Nurse! Nurse, come quickly.”
Alice heard the frantic tone of the patient lying in the bed next to Captain Woodhall’s. She hurried over to see what was wrong.
“He was havin’ a fit, Nurse,” The young private said, his eyes wide with fear.
Lifting the captain’s wrist, Alice took his pulse, flinching at a loud explosion she estimated to be only a couple of miles away. Taking a calming breath, Alice felt the captain’s forehead. He was running a temperature and she knew it could be the reason for the convulsion, although her instinct told her he wasn’t in immediate danger.
“He’s fine, Private Allen,” she soothed, pushing him gently back against his pillows and straightening his sheet. “Try to relax. I’ll look after Captain Woodhall.”
The private grimaced and waved her closer. “I would, Nurse, but I’ve wet me bed,” he whispered, glancing from side to side to check no one else had overheard. “I’m sorry. Those loud bangs, they frighten me silly they do.”
“Leave it with me,” she soothed. “We’ll sort you out in no time.”
She waved over one of the probationers. “I think it’s near enough time for the men to have some refreshment, don’t you?” She gave a pointed glance in the private’s direction.
“I’ll see to it right now, Nurse Le Breton,” the young girl said.
Alice pulled a screen around the private’s bed and helped him out. “Change out of those things and I’ll bring you some clean pyjamas.”
She was back a couple of minutes later with fresh clothes and bedlinen. Alice hated seeing the poor boy so embarrassed. She understood how terrifying the nearby explosions were to some of the men. Hadn’t she nearly jumped out of her skin many times on hearing them? And she hadn’t spent months sleeping on a fire step in a muddy trench with explosions going off all around her.
She helped him to wash quickly and change. “You do up your jacket and I’ll change this bed. You’ll be back in it in a jiffy.” She smiled at the volunteer nurse. “It’s Nurse Jenkins isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “I arrived last week. Still haven’t quite found my footing here.”
“You’re doing fine.”
The bed changed, Alice left the young private to be settled by Nurse Jenkins and turned her attention to Captain Woodhall. She gave him a thorough check to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. Determining to try and reduce his temperature, she dipped a flannel in a bowl of cool water, rung it out and placed it over his hot forehead. His eyes flickered briefly, then opened. He took a while to focus before gazing up at her.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice croaky from lack of use.
Alice poured a little water into a glass and raising his head gently, held the drink to his lips. He took a few sips. Looking exhausted from the effort, he closed his eyes again.
She lowered his head and sat down on the chair next to his bed, waiting for him to gather the strength to address her again.
“Is this a casualty clearing station? No,” he answered without opening his eyes. “It can’t be, I didn’t think there were VADs at a CCS.”
“We’re welcome in many more places than we were a couple of years ago,” she said, straightening his sheet. “You have a bit of a fever.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days.”
His eyes scanned the room. He went to sit up, wincing in pain, before collapsing back on his bed.
Alice could see the panic on his face. She was used to men reacting in this way when they recovered consciousness. Their first reaction, once discovering that they were in a medical unit, was often wanting to ascertain why they were there and what damage had been done to their bodies.
“Rest, now,” she said calmly.
“What happened to me?” He went to sit up again, then must have thought the better of it and closed his eyes. “Everything hurts. Please, what are my injuries?”
Aware he would fret until he knew, Alice answered with as much reassurance as possible, “You’ve received a shrapnel wound to the side of your head,” she said. “You were lucky, it wasn’t very deep. You’ve also been shot in your side, near your hip. Again, you should be fine.” He visibly relaxed. Alice stood up. “That’s enough for now. You need to get as much rest as possible. You can ask more questions in the morning.”
“Thank you, Nurse,” he said, calmer. He opened his eyes. and Alice saw that they were the colour of dark chocolate. A kindness emanated from them, she liked him immediately. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Nurse Le Breton,” she said, smiling at him.
“You don’t sound French,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” she said, amused that he was so inquisitive, despite being drowsy and in pain. She was intrigued that his focus had gone from worrying about his injuries to her home. “I’m from Jersey.” He opened his mouth to speak again and she shook her head. “No more questions. You need your rest. Now, sleep.”
He closed his eyes again and she saw him relax slightly. But as Alice began walking away a bugle call sounded and her heart plummeted. Another convoy of broken men on their way for treatment. She looked around the tent, crammed with occupied beds. How were they supposed to fit in any more wounded?