The Poppy Field. Deborah Carr
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her friend Mary would have faced. Their food, sleeping quarters and being far away from their families, only increased Gemma’s admiration for them and the other medical staff.
“And I’m lying here feeling sorry for myself,” she said to the moonlight. “I need to focus on this farmhouse.” 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.
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