The Poppy Field. Deborah Carr
drank the rest of his coffee. “Right. I’ve got to get going.”
“Thanks for stepping in like this,” she said, relieved to feel like she was getting somewhere. “I’m very grateful.”
Gemma watched him leave, and the place seemed very empty without someone else in the room. To keep from feeling sorry for herself, she decided the best thing to do would be to get on with the cleaning.
She was half aware of the wind picking up. Stopping half way through wiping down the furniture in the main bedroom, Gemma listened at a loud creaking. She walked over to the window to try and find out what was causing the noise and saw a large branch swing back and forth in the gale. It looked as if it was about to come away from the trunk. Telling herself she was worrying unnecessarily, she continued cleaning a large chest of drawers.
A few moments later, a larger gust of wind howled through the house followed by a loud crack. Gemma rushed over to the window in time to see the branch coming towards her. Crouching instinctively, she covered her head with her hands waiting for the smash of the window pane. The house shuddered on impact and she squeezed her eyes closed. Tiles shattered under the weight of the branch as it fell from the tree, smashing on the ground outside, as the glass from the window pane exploded inwards.
Holding her breath, Gemma waited for everything to become still. Her breath came in short bursts as she opened her eyes. Several sharp-edged twigs were suspended inches from her face. Even in her shock, she could tell she’d been extremely lucky not to have been caught by any debris. She needed to get out of the room though. Gathering her composure, she grabbed hold of one of the larger twigs attached to the branch and climbed carefully over it, pushing her way through the pine needles to the other side.
“Damn,” she groaned, breathing in the scent of pine and sap filling the room. She had thought the room was in a bad way before, but it really needed some work now. The gale didn’t appear to be quietening, so she decided that the safest place to be was downstairs. She reached the bottom step, just as Tom shouted from the front door, banging loudly to be let in.
Shocked to hear him, but relieved that he was at the farm, she ran over to let him in. “What are you doing here?”
“I was on my way here to check if you were okay,” he said, pushing the door closed behind him. “I’ve seen the damage to the side of the house.” He squinted and pulled several pine needles from her hair. “Have you been upstairs inspecting the damage?” he asked. “Because if you have,” he added without waiting for a reply. “It was a bloody dangerous thing to do.”
“I was already up there, if you must know,” she snapped, irritated by his outburst. Who did he think he was talking to?
Tom’s mouth dropped open for a second. “Hell, are you alright?” He narrowed his eyes and leant forward to check her face.
Gemma stepped back frowning. She wasn’t used to such close inspection from anyone.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, turning away from her. “You stay here, I’ll go and check upstairs.”
Relieved to have some time alone, Gemma walked over to the fireplace and added a couple of logs. She was used to being the one to check people for damage, not the other way around. It had taken her by surprise, that’s all, she reasoned, still disconcerted by what had happened. She could hear his footsteps upstairs and some banging. What is he doing up there, she wondered, relieved to have time to untangle her emotions. Maybe if she’d had siblings or demonstrative parents growing up, she might have learnt to be tactile and would not have reacted so embarrassingly.
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.