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HarperImpulse

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Deborah Carr

Cover [photograph/illustration] © To come

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Deborah Carr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008301019

Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008301002

Version: 2018-10-25

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

To Rob, James and Saskia, with love

Chapter 1
Gemma
2018 February – Northern France

“Merci, Monsieur,” Gemma said, as the taxi driver placed her two suitcases at her feet. She rummaged in her shoulder bag handing him several notes, waving away the change in lieu of a tip. He gave her a gap-toothed smile, looking cheerful for the first time since collecting her from the station.

It was already dark and beginning to rain, and Gemma’s body ached after the rough and longer-than-expected crossing on the ferry from Jersey. She picked up her bags and hurried up the front path of the house where she would be staying. She’d have to wait until daylight to see what she had let herself in for by coming here. It was probably a good thing, she thought, aware that even in the dark the place looked almost derelict and she was too tired and emotional to deal with it yet.

Spots of rain dampened her face and Gemma grabbed the handles on her cases and pulled them to the door. Pulling out a large, iron key, she pushed away a strand of ivy, hoping her hand didn’t meet any hidden spiders. She inserted the key into the rusty lock and attempted to turn it.

It wouldn’t budge. Gemma groaned. “Come on,” she pleaded through clenched teeth as she tried once more. Nothing. “Balls.” She didn’t fancy spending the night outside in this weather. She took a deep breath. “Right,” she said, determined. “You can do this, Gemma.”

Wiping her clammy palms on her jeans, she gave it another shot, relieved when the key finally turned. Bolstered by her success, Gemma turned the door handle and when the door wouldn’t budge, kicked it as hard as she could in frustration. The wooden door creaked in defiance before flying open, launching her forward onto the dusty flagstone floor where she landed heavily.

Furious with her clumsiness and miserable situation, she stood up and brushed most of the dust from her jeans. She blew on her hands, rubbing them gently to ease the stinging sensation. For the first time, she noticed how quiet it was here. Raindrops tapped on the roof and several trees and branches creaked noisily outside, but unlike her flat in Brighton, there was no traffic sound and no people talking nearby.

She peered through the open door back out onto the road outside. Was this entire place deserted? She hadn’t seen many homes on the way here from the station, which had surprised her. She thought back to when she’d looked the area up on the Internet and she’d realised that she really was on the very outskirts of Doullens. Distracted by the sound of the rain coming down heavily outside, she remembered her luggage and ran out to rescue her things.

“Okay,” she said, bumping the door closed with her bottom. “Let’s see where I’m going to be living for the foreseeable future.” She immediately loved the impressive inglenook fireplace with two arm chairs set on either side, although one was considerably more worn than the other. She assumed the chair with stained arm rests must have been where her father’s cousin had preferred to sit when he still lived here. She doubted there was any other form of heating, so it was a relief to note there was at least some way of keeping warm. A roaring fire would also cheer the place up, she decided.

Next, she went to check the kitchen, which was basic, and she worried that if this was the standard of the kitchen, maybe she would have to use an outside bathroom, too. The idea didn’t appeal to her and Gemma shivered. This place was eerie, and she didn’t fancy investigating going upstairs until daylight. Deciding that the cleanest of the two chairs would have to do as her bed for the night, she unpacked a fleece blanket out of her smaller case.

Sitting down, she pulled the blanket over her legs and chest and tried to get comfy. This was a little too far out of her comfort zone, but she was here now and determined to make the most of it. This was her first experience of being spontaneous, and she worried that she had failed already. Perhaps she should have ignored her father and returned to Brighton. Recovering from her failed relationship in comfort there would surely have been easier than coming here to do it.

After a cold, uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night, Gemma’s resolve had completely vanished. Her regret at coming to this foul place was almost overpowering and she was contemplating booking an immediate return ticket on the ferry. So what if her mother would sneer at her lack of mettle? She’d never expected Gemma to succeed at anything anyway. Just then, a loud banging on the front door interrupted her troubled thoughts.

Gemma recalled her father mentioning that he had booked a contractor to come and help with the renovations during her stay. Hoping work would begin immediately, Gemma pushed her fingers through her curly blonde hair and hurried to the door.

She pulled it open with a bit of effort. “Good, um, I mean, bonjour,” she said, her breath making clouds in front of her mouth as she spoke. She smiled at the elderly man standing next to a young teenage boy, whom she assumed had been the one to knock. The old man pointed at the roof and to the back of the building before firing a barrage of words at her.

Frowning, Gemma shook her head. “Sorry, um, pardon. Je ne parlé pas le francais,” she said, embarrassed at her basic schoolgirl French.

The man jabbed the boy in the shoulder with a gnarled finger, shouting something she could not understand. The boy nodded, staring at Gemma.

“’e say, ‘e do not the work for you.”

“What? Why not?” If this was the builder, then she wasn’t sure if him letting her down was such a terrible thing. He seemed far too frail to work on the roof. Gemma doubted that the boy was out of school yet, so couldn’t imagine him being able to work here either.

“Tres, difficile,” the boy added, giving her an elaborate shrug of his skinny shoulders.

Gemma contemplated what she should do next. She needed to make sure the roof was weatherproof as soon as possible. It was late February, and although she hoped they didn’t have much snow in the Picardy area, she didn’t fancy rain coming through while she was living here. If she stayed.

She tried to come up with a useful sentence. If they weren’t going to do the work, then she needed someone who would.

“D›autres, er,” she mimed hammering a nail into the front door, much to the amusement of her visitors. “Dans le village?”

The boy’s face contorted in concentration. His eyes widened in understanding and then he turned to the old man. “Grand-père?” He waited patiently while his grandfather chattered away.

Gemma tried unsuccessfully to fathom what was being said. Forcing a smile on her face, she willed them to hurry up and answer her question. It was freezing standing on the doorstep, despite the watery sunshine. She waited, but they didn’t seem to be making any headway.

The boy gave her a pensive look. “Non, pas du tout.”

“What? No one?” She glared at them. They had come here to let her down without any suggestion of who else might do the work? She closed her eyes briefly, determined not to cry with frustration.

“Non.”

“Merci,” she said eventually. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Au revoir.” The boy looked relieved as he followed his grandfather down the path to the road. She watched them leave, trying not to panic, as they both got into an ancient blue car and drove away.

Unsure what to do next, Gemma took a moment to gather her wits. Well, she decided, she still needed to know the extent of the renovation work. She retrieved her puffy jacket from her suitcase and pulled it on over her hoodie that was now creased from being slept in.

The air outside was so cold it took her breath away. Zipping up her jacket, Gemma walked carefully along the uneven pathway and out to the yard. At the back of the house to her right, she found a small u-shaped courtyard. It was made up of the house, attached to which were two small outbuildings at a right-angle and what looked like a three-sided barn, or car port. She wasn’t certain what any of them could have been used for but assumed she would find out soon enough. To her left was a sloping muddy pathway between two rows of hedging leading to a wooden five-barred gate. She stepped over several smashed tiles, groaning inwardly when it dawned on her they had come from the roof.

“At least it’s sunny,” she said, trying to be positive.

Having worked in a trauma unit for two and a half years, Gemma knew that there were times when all seemed impossible, only for near miracles to happen. She didn’t expect any to happen here, but it helped to attempt a semblance of cheerfulness.

She didn’t need experience at renovations to know she wouldn’t be able to do this alone. This place was a wreck, but despite her earlier panic, she was going to give it a go. Gemma knew her mother expected her to fail, but she wasn’t ready to quit and give her the satisfaction of being right. Not yet, anyway.

Checking her watch, she saw that it was almost eight o’clock. Time to venture into the village and see if she could find someone to do the work for her. And maybe, she thought, buy a few things to make her stay here a little more comfortable.

She was relieved to discover that the centre of the village was only a five-minute walk away. The birdsong cheered her up, as she made her way along the peaceful road, as did the bunches of mistletoe she spotted growing in a poplar tree. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it growing anywhere, she thought, pushing her gloved hands deep into her jacket pockets.

Gemma wished she had a friend she could invite over to come and help with the work on the house. She didn’t mind being alone most of the time, but the mammoth task ahead of her was a little daunting. Her mood lifted slightly as she arrived at the main street and saw the belfry standing high over the town. It was exactly as she had pictured a typical French town to look, with the imposing Town Hall and the architecture so different from home. She would have time for sight-seeing another day. What she needed now was to find a builder. She spotted what looked to be a hardware store and decided it was the best place to start.

She entered the dark shop and a bell jangled announcing her arrival as she stepped inside. It looked to her as if it hadn’t been updated for decades. She wasn’t sure how much of her shopping list she would find in here, but it was a useful exercise to look through the stock to see what was here for future reference.

Two men turned to look at her, and by the expressions on their faces, they were surprised to see her. Maybe it was because she was new to the area? The younger man, who Gemma assumed to be in his early thirties, gave her a brief smile before turning and continuing his conversation with the shopkeeper.

Gemma took her time studying the shelves along the short aisles, wishing she wasn’t the only customer there. The wooden floorboards creaked with each step - the shopkeeper didn’t need alarms to tell him when someone was walking in his shop, Gemma thought amused. Spotting a few of the items she needed, she picked up a wire basket and placed cleaning products, sponges and a scourer into it.

She took her items to the counter and placed the basket onto the worn wooden surface.

“Bonjour,” she said, forcing a smile first at the shopkeeper and then at the other customer who stood back to let her in front of him.

“Anglais?” the shopkeeper asked.

Gemma nodded. What was it with her accent that showed her roots so obviously? “You speak English?”

He shook his head, scowling.

She didn’t blame him. It must be irritating when people came to live in another country and expected the locals to speak English to accommodate them. “Pardon,” she said apologising. “Je, um, je achete un…” She cleared her throat and mimed lifting a kettle, pouring water and drinking a cup of tea. “Kettle?”

“The word you’re looking for is, bouilloire.”

Gemma spun round, her mouth opened in surprise. “You’re English?” she asked the man who only moments earlier had spoken fluent French to the shopkeeper. At least she thought it was fluent, it certainly sounded impressive.

He had broad shoulders and was handsome, in a scruffy sort of way. His muddy brown hair needed a brush, but his navy-blue eyes twinkled with amusement. Gemma tried to look more confident than she felt. This would soon be over and then she could return to the farmhouse.

“Marcel should have one somewhere.” He spoke quickly to Marcel, who cheered up instantly. Gemma assumed it must be the thought of selling more than the items she had already chosen.

“I’m Tom, by the way,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the first aisle. “Tom Holloway.”

She watched him as he rummaged around through the contents of an already untidy shelf at the far end of the shop. He was gorgeous, and even in his faded jeans and thick sweater, she could see that he was muscular.

“Here you go,” he said eventually, giving her a triumphant smile. “I knew Marcel would have one of these somewhere.”

“That’s wonderful, thank you,” she said, trying not to let her attraction to him show. “At least I can make endless cups of tea now.”

He held up a battered box as he passed her. Placing it on the counter, Tom opened the box and lifted out a cream kettle that looked as if it came from the seventies. “It’s not the latest model, by any means,” he smiled. “But if it doesn’t work, let me know and I’ll find a replacement for you.”

“You work here?” Gemma was surprised.

“No, I’m a contractor.” He packed the kettle back into its box and said something to Marcel, indicating Gemma by nodding his head.

Excitement made Gemma’s heart pound rapidly. “Could you, um repair a roof?”

“Yes.” He frowned slightly. “Why?”

“How about renovating a farmhouse and outbuildings?” She asked, willing him to agree.

Tom stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes. “That depends. I’ve got quite a bit of work on. I’d have to come and see what needs doing before I could give you a definite date for carrying out any work.”

It didn’t sound quite so positive. Gemma’s smile slipped.

“How bad is it?” Tom asked.

“There are tiles in the yard. They looked to me as if they’ve been there a while.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying not to sound too desperate. “I’m renovating the place for my dad,” she explained, not wishing Tom to think she was completely disorganised. “He arranged for a builder to come and do the work, but he came this morning to tell me he couldn’t do it, after all. Then he left.”

Tom frowned thoughtfully. “Was he an older man, with a young lad?”

“Yes. Look, I don’t want to be annoying,” she said, not wishing to begin her stay in the area by getting on the wrong side of him. “If you can’t do it, maybe you could recommend someone else who can.”

Tom gave it some thought. “There really isn’t anyone else in the area.” He looked at the clock on the wall above Marcel’s head. “Is it far from here?”

“Only five minutes by foot.”

“Tell you what, I’ve got to be somewhere in just under an hour, but I can give you a lift back to your place. That way you won’t have to carry these things back and I can have a quick look to see what can be done,” he shrugged. “If I can’t do all the work, I’ll figure out when I can make temporary repairs to keep it watertight for you.”

Gemma didn’t care that her relief showed on her face. “That’s very kind. Thank you,” she said, grabbing his right hand and shaking it.

Marcel cleared his throat and pointed to the ancient till.

“Sorry,” Gemma said letting Tom’s hand go to retrieve her purse from her bag and pay for her shopping. She spotted a mop and bucket to the side of the till. “If you’re giving me a lift, then I may as well buy these while I’m here.”

They carried everything out to his blue pick-up. Tom loaded everything while Gemma quickly popped into a shop for a couple of essentials. Minutes later they arrived at the farmhouse.

“Ahh,” he said, stopping halfway along the pathway to the front door. He looked up and stared at the missing tiles. “I recognise this place,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone living here though, not for the past ten years or so, anyway.”

“Twelve, more like,” she said, hoping he wasn’t going to be put off by seeing how neglected the place was.

He raked a hand through his hair. “Not good,” he murmured. Spotting Gemma staring at him in horror, he added. “But don’t worry. Right, let’s get this lot inside.” He followed her into the house, carrying most of her shopping into the kitchen

They put the bags on the kitchen table. “Not much going on in here, I’m afraid,” she said surveying the basic kitchen with its chipped butler sink, larder cupboard, fridge and electric cooker.

“I doubt this room has been updated since the fifties,” Tom said.

“It’s quaint, in a strange, grimy way,” she joked, unused to being so relaxed with someone she barely knew.

Tom strode over to the window and looked outside. “There’s a decent yard out there. You know, I think you could do a lot with this place.”

Bolstered by his reassurances, Gemma asked. “Shall we take a look upstairs?”

“May as well,” he said, smiling and waiting for her to lead the way. “What’s it like up there?”

“I haven’t dared look yet,” she admitted. “I hope it won’t seem so bad if I’m not alone.”

She walked up the stairs carefully. She wasn’t sure how rotten the wood was in this place and didn’t want to take any chances.

Reaching the landing, she pushed the door on her left open, wincing when an acrid smell of mould hit her nostrils. “Ooh, that doesn’t bode well.”

“Be brave,” he said. “We may as well go in. At least we’ll know what we’re dealing with then.”

She liked the thought that she wasn’t alone with this project any more. “Come on then.” She stepped into the room, covering her nose with the top of her hoodie. “There’s damp everywhere,” Gemma cringed.

Tom was right behind her. “They,” he said, pointing at the huge group of mushrooms growing in one corner of the room. “Must be directly under those missing roof tiles. Right, I’ve seen enough here. Next room.”

Gemma moved on to the next room, as Tom closed the bedroom door behind them. She was grateful she wouldn’t be needing the spare room any time soon. “I hope this is better than the first one,” she said. “I don’t fancy living in a house that’s a health hazard.”

“This bathroom isn’t so bad,” she said unable to hide her relief. “I’ll soon clean this up with some scouring and bleach.” Reaching the final door on the landing, she took a breath and opened the door. Sighing with relief, she stepped aside to let Tom join her.

“This isn’t too bad at all,” he said, pressing the weight of his foot on various floorboards. Some creaked in defiance, others seemed much stronger to Gemma. “All this needs is a good clean and some decoration.”

“A new bed mattress, too,” she said looking at the striped ticking mattress that had been rolled up and tied with twine. They turned to leave the room at the same time, bumping into each other. Gemma gasped.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” he asked, grabbing her arms and looking her up and down.

Gemma was too embarrassed to admit that it was the unexpected physical contact with him that had caused her reaction. “No, I’m fine,” she said, hurriedly scanning the room for something to use as an excuse. Noticing a tiny fireplace, she pointed. “I just spotted that. It’s going to be useful without any heating up here.”

“It certainly is, but I can’t help thinking —” He hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” Had her erratic behaviour frightened him off? She hoped not; the last thing she needed was for him to change his mind about doing the work.

“Are you sure you want to live here while this work is being done?”

She didn’t like to admit that right now she would prefer to be staying in her sparsely furnished, but warm modern flat in Brighton. “I’m doing this project for my dad,” she said. It wasn’t the entire truth, but she didn’t know Tom well enough to confide in him just yet. “I’m happy being here by myself.”

She didn’t add that she needed time living alone to work through the grief brought about by her ex’s unexpected death and the discovery of his deceit. “I think we’ve finished up here now. Do you want to take a proper look outside, while I test out that retro kettle?”

“Sounds good to me,” he said as they went back downstairs. “I could do with warming up a bit. Coffee, little milk, no sugar.”

She watched him go and then unpacked her shopping. Tom seemed pleasant enough, but then again, she had thought that about her ex. Filling the kettle to the three-quarter mark, she plugged it into the old-fashioned socket.

By the time Tom returned to the farmhouse, Gemma had managed to get the fire going as well as having two steaming mugs of coffee waiting for them both. “There you go,” she said pointing to the freshly wiped table in the living room. She indicated for him to sit on the cleaner of the two chairs.

“Tell me what you think.”

He rubbed his unshaven chin. “The most important thing is that temporary repairs are done to the roof as soon as possible,” he said. “The forecast is dire for the next few days. I’ll come back later, if I have time. If not, I’ll make the temporary repairs first thing tomorrow.”

“That’s very kind,” she said grateful to him for this thoughtfulness. “And the rest?”

Tom looked concerned. “Couldn’t you stay at the B&B in the village for a few weeks? At least until the main bedroom is cleaned thoroughly and the bathroom sorted out?”

“No, I’ll be fine here,” she insisted, wishing he’d drop the matter. She had spent her life deciding what was best for herself. Even as a child with her absent mother focusing on her legal career while her father excelled in finance, Gemma had been left to her own devices. Bored nannies and housekeepers were happy to let the timid child in their care lock herself away with her books and daydreams. “I’ll clean the bedroom and bathroom today and I can always get a takeaway if the cooker doesn’t work.”

He looked as if he was trying not to argue with her. “It’s February, though, and freezing.”

“Seriously, I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile and took a sip of her coffee. The heat of the liquid warmed her throat. “I’m tougher than I look,” she insisted. “And certainly, more capable. Anyway, if I’m not staying here then I can’t get on with the renovations as well as I could if I was on site.”

He smiled. “Fair point.” He put his cup down on the table and pulling out a small notepad from his jacket pocket made a few extra notes. “This place has been empty for a long time,” he said. “It’s isn’t surprising that it has a damp issue. You’ll need to keep the fire going as much as you can to dry it out slightly.”

They stared at the fire in silence for a moment.

“How come you’ve taken over this place then?”

Gemma studied the musty room. “It belonged to my dad’s elderly cousin,” she explained. “He was ninety-eight when he had to go to a care home. Dad said he’d lived here his entire life, so it must have been heart breaking for him to go.”

Tom frowned thoughtfully. “Poor guy. I’ll have to ask my mum if she remembers him. She doesn’t live too far from here. Do you know his name?”

Gemma tried to recall if her father had ever mentioned it. “Sorry, I can’t remember. I’ll ask Dad the next time I speak to him.”

Tom 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.

Chapter 2
Gemma
February 2018

“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?

Tom returned and came up to her bedroom. “I’ve left you a cheese and tomato baguette on the living room table,” he said, entering the room carrying the new floorboards. “What’s that?”

Gemma showed him what she had found.

He put the floorboards onto the floor. “It doesn’t look very old,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “Not that I know anything about jewellery.”

“It was incredibly dusty,” she told him, returning the brooch to the bedside drawer, as soon as he had finished looking at it.

“Maybe the previous owner lost it, or his wife?”

“I don’t think he ever married,” Gemma said thoughtfully. “I suppose it could have been a friend, or relative who came to stay here at some point.”

Tom stared at her thoughtfully.

Gemma wasn’t sure if he wanted to say something, so waited for him to speak. “Right,” he said handing back the brooch. “I’d better get on.”

Feeling slightly awkward, Gemma remembered that he was going to help her remove the old mattress from the bedroom. “Shall we take this old thing outside?”

“Good idea. Then you can get on with your bits, and I’ll replace these bits of flooring.”

They dragged the old mattresses from both bedrooms up the muddy path to the meadow. Gemma brought him old magazines, and anything else she didn’t want from the farmhouse, while Tom set up the bonfire. They watched everything take light, standing with their hands outstretched towards the flames.

“Is it feeling a little more like home now?” he asked eventually. He picked up a small branch lying under a tree and prodding the magazines pushing them further into the fire.

“Slightly,” she pushed her hands into her pockets, glad he’d begun talking again. “It’s much nicer having someone else to chat to, in between jobs.”

“Good. I’m glad.” He turned and gazed at the farmhouse. “It’s an appealing building. Once all the work has been done, I think it’s going to be somewhere you’ll be very happy.”

“I’m not staying here,” she said. “Just doing it up, so my father can sell it on.”

She was taken aback by his surprise. “I didn’t realise you weren’t wanting to keep this for yourself. So, you’re returning to the UK then?”

Was that disappointment she saw in his face? Don’t be ridiculous, Gemma, she thought. Why would he care whether you lived here, or not? “Yes, I’ve taken a sabbatical from nursing,” she said, not adding that it hadn’t been a planned event.

“Good for you. Don’t you miss it?”

Gemma thought back to the last day at work and the meltdown she’d had. “I thought I might, but no, not yet.”

He stared at her briefly. “Did you always want to be a nurse then?”

She nodded. “Ever since I can remember. You?”

He pulled a face. “What be a nurse?”

Gemma nudged him and giggled. “No, silly, a builder.”

He gazed into the flames, not answering for a several seconds. “No.”

Unsure if she was being too nosy, Gemma asked, “What did you want to be when you were younger then?”

Tom smiled at her, and Gemma’s heart did a somersault as his perfect lips drew back revealing his straight, white teeth. He really did have movie star looks, she thought. She realised he was saying something.

“Sorry, I missed that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, throwing the stick into the fire. “We should be getting back to work. This lot can take care of itself.”

Disappointed that she’d missed what he’d said, she was tempted to ask again. When she glanced out of the corner of her eyes at him, he was deep in thought striding along the muddy pathway back to the house.

“I’ve enjoyed cleaning this place more than I expected I would,” she admitted, catching up with him. “You’ve been a wonderful help, stepping in like you did.”

“I’m glad you’re happy.” Tom said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I’d better get on.”

That afternoon, Gemma’s new mattress was delivered. Tom helped her carry it up to her bedroom.

“Now you’ve finished the floor in here, it’s almost habitable,” she said.

“It’ll be much better than sleeping in the living room,” he said looking out the window at the bonfire. “I’d better get back and check on the fire.”

She had already washed down the bed frame, walls, skirting boards and floor, so all she needed to do was make up her bed. Gemma tried to fathom what she’d said to alter Tom’s mood. But unable to work it out, she focused on rehanging the faded floral curtains she had washed. She stood at the doorway and surveyed the results of their efforts, there was still an enormous amount to do, but she could see a big difference in here at least.

She wondered if she and Tom would be able to keep in contact after he’d finished working for her. She hoped so, she thought, swallowing a lump in her throat. Maybe instead of trying to be braver and bolder, she should concentrate on just making some friends. She hadn’t realised before spending time with Tom how much more enjoyable her days could be with someone to have a laugh with. She had spent her entire life believing that she was too dull to befriend. Her first boyfriend had tried to persuade her to emigrate with him to Australia to start a new life, but she had been too timid to go with him and now, seeing how she was coping here doing something new, it occurred to her that she had an awful lot to learn about herself.

Her chest constricted with emotion. She was over-tired and being ridiculous. All she needed, Gemma mused, was a decent night’s sleep in her new bed. She could worry about how things were going in the morning.

Gemma woke after her first night sleeping on her new mattress and stretched. It had been like sleeping on a cloud. For the first time since arriving at the farmhouse, she hadn’t woken up with a backache. She must have been in a very deep sleep, she thought, feeling a little groggy. She rubbed her eyes to try and wake up properly.

Slipping her feet into her cold trainers, she winced. It was going to take some time before she got used to not having central heading, she thought shivering. She had always enjoyed watching programmes on television where people bought a rundown property and did them up but was quickly discovering that the reality was not nearly as comfortable as it looked. She rubbed her arms to keep them warm while she decided what to wear. It was too cold to care about appearances, so she grabbed her nearest sweater and pulled it on.

She opened the curtains and let sunshine flood in to the room. The warmth of the sunny spring day on her face cheered her up. For the first time she thought that maybe her father had a point suggesting she come here. Looking after the renovation work, instead of rushing back to her job at the trauma unit was definitely helping her come to terms with what had happened. Her mood dipped as the image of her ex, dying from his injuries in a car crash swooped into her mind. How could she hate someone who had died so tragically, she wondered? Then again, if she had discovered he was still married before he’d had his accident, she could have finished with him and not felt so guilty. She pushed all thoughts of him from her mind and went downstairs.

She was enjoying working with Tom. He seemed a little mysterious, but very nice. She smiled, thinking how she looked forward to the days he was here more and more. Sundays were the only day Tom didn’t come to the house and they seemed to stretch on forever.

Gemma went downstairs to the kitchen. She heard Tom singing to himself through the open window, as he crossed the courtyard to the three-sided barn. Watching him carrying tools into one of the smaller outhouses, she noticed his t-shirt was filthy from the grime of the disused rooms. For a second, she wondered what he looked like without it on.

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.

Chapter 3
Alice
August 1916
Casualty Clearing Station No 7, Doullens, Northern France

“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.”

Alice smiled at her rosy-cheeked best friend, grateful they had met on the train soon after finishing their training for the Voluntary Aid Detachment.

“You have seven minutes to get there now,” Alice said, throwing back her covers, grateful for the warmer mornings. “I’ll wash first. Hurry.”

“Are we ever going to catch up with our sleep, do you think?” Mary’s sleepy voice asked.

“Probably not until this wretched war ends,” Alice said, stretching. “I can’t recall ever being this exhausted.”

Her heart ached. They had been here long enough to know what to expect. She stood up from her camp bed and pouring water from a jug into the porcelain washbowl on a stand at the end of her bed, she quickly washed her face, hands and underarms. Then, carefully taking her pale blue uniform from the little canvas chair that was forever falling over, pulled it on over her underclothes.

Mary followed the same routine as Alice. She took her uniform from the tent pole that they had wound a leather strap around to create a make shift place to hang some of their clothes.

“This tent is leaking again,” Mary said, picking up her towel and drying several spots next to the small mirror on her trunk. She brushed her hair and checked her handkerchief-style cap. “Wouldn’t it be a dream if we could have a chest of drawers for our clothes, instead of keeping everything in these,” she said slapping the top of her trunk.

“We wouldn’t fit one inside this tent, though, would we?” Alice pinned back her hair and tied up the laces on her sensible shoes.

“When I get home,” Mary said, picking up her hand mirror to check her teeth. “I’m going to find a man who can buy me a proper dressing table. I fancy one of made of walnut. What about you?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Alice said, glancing at her watch before pinning it to her uniform. “Come along, we need to get a move on if we want to avoid a reprimand from Matron.”

They walked quickly along the dusty pathway that months before had been covered in grass. Alice yearned to return to her uncomfortable bed in their cramped tent. She was used to the long days and nights on shift but knew only too well that she had at least another ten hours until she could lie down and close her eyes again.

“There she is,” Alice whispered, indicating Matron Bleasdale who was waiting for them, hands clasped in front of her apron as she stood at the helm of the other over-tired nurses.

“Did I tell you about the letter I received from my aunt yesterday?”

Alice shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Mary straightened one of her sleeves as they walked. “She wrote to tell me that the Black Tom Island munitions plant in the States, you know, it’s in Jersey City where my cousin works, well it was destroyed by an explosion.”

Alice gasped, covering her hand over her mouth when a couple of the other volunteers turned to see what had shocked her. “That’s horrible. Is he alright?” she asked, finding it strangely unnerving hearing the familiar name of Jersey being mentioned and relieved her friend wasn’t talking about her home island.

“He was, thankfully. Absent from work with a fever of some sort, my aunt says. Apparently, German saboteurs are suspected of bombing the place. She also wrote that the Statue of Liberty was damaged by shrapnel from the explosion. Shocking, isn’t it?”

Alice thought it strange that the Hun had caused damage so far away from Europe. The notion made her uneasy. “Poor people.”

“I know. It shook my aunt up a fair bit, I can tell you.” Mary slowed her pace slightly. “I forget we’re not the only ones dealing with injured people.”

Alice did, too. “I always feel sorry for the families of these poor men,” she said matching her friend’s speed. “I’m relieved I don’t have a sweetheart at the Front, or anywhere else,” she said. It was the one thing she was certain about. “The worry of him ending up like some of our poor patients would be too dreadful.”

They reached the group of nurses and other VADs at the ten-minute deadline. Both stood silently at the back of the line on the walkway behind Matron, who raised her watch, staring at its face for a few seconds before lowering it and studying the group before her, eyes narrowed. “Nurse Le Breton, your uniform is incorrect.”

Embarrassed, Alice patted her head to check her cap was straight. She mentally worked through her outfit, mortified to note that she had forgotten to tie her apron. She quickly did so, smoothing down the skirt and clearing her throat. “Sorry, Matron,” she said before giving Mary a sideways glance.

“You four,” Matron said, pointing to Alice, Mary and two nurses next to them. “Go and ensure all necessary trolleys are readied. I want all free beds made up. Go,” she shouted when they didn’t move the instant her order was out of her mouth.

They had all perfected the art of hurrying without breaking into a run. Matron loathed running. As they reached the wards, two went to help make up beds, while Alice and Mary kept going to the supplies hut.

“That was your fault,” Alice teased, grabbing several packets of dressings from the shelf in front of her. “Telling me things about your cousin.”

Mary took several more. “I thought you’d be interested.”

“I was,” Alice admitted, not wishing to fall out with someone with whom she shared a small tent. “Sorry, I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Apology accepted,” Mary smiled, throwing a pack of dressings at her.

Outside, they waited silently in the uneasy calmness. The only sound interrupting the quiet orderly grounds being the occasional burst of shell fire from the Front. Alice wondered if she would ever get used to the noise. The worst was when she felt the earth shudder beneath her feet. The closeness of those explosions never failed to give her a fright. Mary had told her countless times to try to ignore it, but how was she to do that when each explosion almost certainly meant the death or mutilation of at least one soldier, usually many.

A bugle sounded, jarring Alice out of her reverie as it signalled the arrival of the convoy.

“Let the nightmare begin,” she whispered to Mary.

Mary grimaced. “I hate this bit most of all.”

Alice didn’t. The bit she dreaded most was nursing a soldier as he screamed in an agony she could only imagine, unable to lessen his pain. And the fear some of them showed, her heart ached at the thought. It was something she knew she would never get used to, no matter how long this damn war continued.

The sound of motor ambulances arriving over the hardened summer ground increased as they neared. Horses whinnied as they pulled ambulances to the rear of the convoy.

“There are so many,” Alice said nervously, as the vehicles drew up in front of the casualty clearing station and parked long enough to unload their damaged passengers. Orderlies ran to take stretchers from the vehicles. “There must have been another big push.”

Cries and agonised pleading for help rang through the early evening air. Alice braced herself for what was to come.

“Do we know how many?” One of the sisters asked as the first driver opened the back of his vehicle.

“At least seven, maybe eight ambulances,” he said. “These are all from the fighting going on near Pozières. I was hoping the worst of it was over, but it just goes on and on.”

“It does seem to.”

“All of these are full. We’ll be going back for more later. By the looks of things, you’re going to have around two hundred wounded brought here over the next few hours.”

Alice wondered how many more patients they could take, or how many soldiers there were still left to injure in the battles being fought in various areas across the Western Front. She waited for stretchers to be lifted from the vehicles. Matron read their tags to check injuries and the severity of damage to the new patients. Some didn’t need checking, even Alice could see from where she waited for Matron’s instructions, that they were horribly injured.

“Nurse Le Breton, Nurse Jones,” she called waving over Alice and Mary. There’s a pile of bandages at the back of the tent there,” she said pointing. “Take them to be burnt and get back here straight after.”

Alice was carrying a pile of soiled dressings, trying not to get blood on her clean apron, when a smirking patient stood in front of her on the boardwalk dragging on a cigarette.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to side-step the man. When he didn’t move, she stepped to the right to pass him, only for him to block her route once more. Not wishing to get into an unnecessary argument with him, she glared at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Doctor Sullivan bellowed coming up to them. “Move aside and let the volunteer nurse pass, now.”

The patient did as he was told. He doesn’t look nearly as full of himself now, she realised, amused.

“Thank you, Doctor Sullivan,” she said hurrying off, hearing the doctor scolding the patient. Having thrown the revolting mess into the fire, Alice washed her hands in the sluice room and returned to wait near Matron.

As she walked, she thought of the doctor and his eighteen-hour long shifts battling to save patients. Alice didn’t know how he and the other surgeons carried on working, day after day. They rarely had a day off, or at least, that was how it seemed to her.

A loud uproar alerted her to a disturbance outside the ward. Without hesitating, Alice grabbed the string of a large jar containing a lit candle and ran outside to help.

More ambulances had arrived. The crying and groaning increased. Matron, the front of her beige uniform bloodied, pointed for Alice to go and assist with the ambulance next to where she was standing. Doctor Sullivan and two other surgeons ran from the direction of their huts to the theatre wards.

Three men were lifted out of the first ambulance, all of whom were conscious. Alice noticed that there was a further patient. This one was still, and she had to take his pulse to be certain he was still alive. He was. Just. “Take these men to Ward Five,” she said. “Please, hurry. There are nurses in there who’ll tell you which bed to put them in,” she said, as the fourth man’s stretcher was slowly pulled back from the vehicle.

Holding up her lantern, she narrowed her eyes and studied the patient. He was covered in dried earth and lice, but then so many of the men were. She lifted the tag attached to his uniform jacket and saw that he had received a shrapnel wound to his head and a bullet had grazed his hip.

“Bring him with me,” she said, covering him up to his neck with the brown blanket. “This way.”

They followed her to Ward Five. Inside, she scanned the tent for a free bed. He would need one as far away from the door as possible, she decided. He needed to be kept warm and Alice was relieved to discover a bed at the other end of the ward. Hurrying over, she carefully passed nurses stripping, cleaning and tending to wounds on the new patients.

“Here,” she said. They placed him down on the bed and left her to it.

The poor man was very cold, despite the warm day. Much colder than the other soldiers she had come across that evening. Alice didn’t like to think how low his body temperature must have fallen. He groaned and winced as she undid his uniform jacket.

“You’re safe now,” she said. “My name is Nurse Le Breton. I’m going to wash and change you. A doctor will be here to check on you as soon as he can.”

When she moved his head slightly, blood covered her hand. Alice saw Mary finishing with a nearby patient and waved her over.

“Can you help me, please?” she asked and Mary hurried over. Alice held the patient up by his shoulders while Mary removed the clothes from his torso. Carefully resting him down again, they both removed his trousers and underclothes. Keeping him covered as much as possible, they quickly washed him before cleaning and redressing his hip wound. “Fetch an extra blanket,” she said quietly to a passing probationer. “Be as quick as you can.”

Alice was aware that she should not move his head any more than was necessary, but his bandage was filthy and soaked with blood. “We need to change this,” she said, waiting for Mary to raise his head slightly, so she would remove the dirty dressing. Cleaning the wound as best she could, Alice pressed two new dressings against it before bandaging it.

“That’s better,” Mary said, lowering his head gently onto the pillow. “I’ll make up his records, while you let Matron know his situation.”

“Thank you,” Alice said. “He’s,” she checked his tag again. “Captain Edgar Woodhall.”

Alice spotted Nurse Haines returning to the ward and took the extra blanket from her. Lying it over the Captain, she took his temperature, once again. “We need to bring his body temperature up, slowly, but surely,” she said to Mary. Alice knew her friend was as aware as she, what needed to be done for the patient, but could not help herself.

Mary gave her one of her, bugger-off-and-leave-me-to-get-on, looks. Alice took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’ll go to speak to Matron.”

She went to Matron’s office but couldn’t find her there. Alice assumed she was still frantically working with her nurses on the new patients. They all knew that the sooner the men were cleaned, settled and their records were taken, the sooner they could be given the correct treatment for their injuries and start to recover.

Alice was diverted from her ministrations by cries of pain emanating from the surgery tent. She shivered, imagining the surgeons battling to save lives. Slipping and almost falling on the wooden pathway, Alice righted herself and spotted Matron coming out of one of the furthest wards.

“What is it, Nurse Le Breton?” she said in hushed irritation. “Oughtn’t you be busy elsewhere?”

Indignant at the other woman’s accusatory tone, Alice had to contain herself from answering back. Her mother always criticised her for being too sure of herself.

“I was looking for you.” Alice explained.

“I can see that, but why?”

Alice explained about Captain Woodhall’s low body temperature. “He’s not responding much and seems very cold.”

Matron’s expression changed from one of annoyance, to concern. “I gather he was stranded overnight in No Man’s Land.” She glanced in the direction of the ward. “I’m surprised he survived,” she added, her voice lower, so as not to be overheard. “What with his injuries and the night being one of the coldest we’ve experienced for weeks.”

“He’s lucky he’s made it this far,” Alice said almost to herself.

“What was that, Nurse Le Breton?” Matron asked as they hurried to the ward.

“Only that he must be strong,” Alice said, without thinking.

“And lucky,” Matron said. “to be found by a casualty dog. It stayed with him until stretcher-bearers could reach him.”

Alice had heard about the dogs, who were trained to take medical supplies to injured soldiers. She recalled hearing a patient say how the dogs carried first aid packs to wounded soldiers on the battlefield and that if the soldier was unconscious, the dog would snuggle up keeping him warm.

The thought of Captain Woodhall being kept alive by a little dog brought a lump to Alice’s throat. There were so many cruel and unnecessary acts being performed every day. At times she wondered if she was ever going to feel real joy again. Discovering that a small dog could make the difference between life and death made her heart swell. It reminded her that every small, seemingly insignificant job she undertook helped one of these men.

“Now nurse, unless you have anything you wish to ask me, I suggest you return to the ward and keep a closer eye on Captain Woodhall. He must be observed at all times. Or, at least until his body temperature returns to within the normal parameters.”

“Yes, Matron.” Alice turned and hurried to the ward. It was a relief to find the captain sleeping and Mary checking his temperature.

“Don’t look so concerned,” Mary said, her voice barely above a whisper in the now relatively quiet tent. “He’s slowly warming up. I’ve put two extra blankets on him and Sister has just checked his vital signs.”

Alice drew up a stool and sat next to his bed. “Matron wants me to stay with him.”

“Then you’d better do as she wishes,” Sister Brown snapped.

Mary opened her mouth to speak, when a cry from another injured patient pierced the air. “I’ll go see to him,” she said and left Alice alone.

Alice watched the captain sleep. She could see his eyes moving under his closed eyelids. He must be dreaming, she thought. He looked so handsome now that the dust and caked blood had been washed from his face and his head wound freshly bandaged. She couldn’t help wondering if he was going to make it. She hoped so.

She didn’t think his head wound was too deep. She did, however, know from experience that it was deaths brought about through infection that came as more of a shock, especially when it had stemmed from a minor injury. Alice had been here a year and knew not to assume that those with lesser injuries would definitely survive. She had learned to expect the unexpected. It made sense not to allow herself to get too close to any of the patients, the heartache when they were discharged, or died, would be too hard to stand.

She felt the captain’s forehead with the back of her hand, and he sighed as her skin came in contact with his. Alice thought of the more severely injured patients she had been surprised to see make incredible recoveries, and how floored she had been by two seemingly healthy men dying unexpectedly on her shift. This was a place of miracles and heartache.

“How is he doing?” Matron asked a couple of hours later.

“He’s not very responsive. He’s been asleep most of the time.”

She watched Matron examine him. “We’ll do our best for him,” Matron said, making a note on the captain’s records. “I’m not holding much hope, I’m afraid,” she whispered so quietly that Alice barely heard what she said.

She studied the captain’s tanned face, his lashes fanned on his scratched cheek. She willed him to survive. Surely, he must have a wife, or sweetheart waiting to hear from him back in England somewhere?

“I’ll send someone to take over from you,” Matron said, resting a cool hand on Alice’s shoulder.

“I’m fine, Matron,” she said, not ready to leave him. “I don’t mind staying.”

“You’ve been here long enough,” the older woman said quietly. Her voice didn’t invite argument. “We must take care not to become attached to any of the patients, Nurse Le Breton. However handsome they might be.”

Alice went to argue but thought the better of it. “Yes, Matron,” she said, mortified. Had her thoughts about the captain been that obvious, she wondered?

Chapter 4
Gemma
2018

Gemma finished reading the note about Captain Woodhall on the back of Alice’s letter. Alice seemed to be developing a soft spot for him and Gemma couldn’t help hoping he survived. Knowing what she did about his condition, she couldn’t help fearing the worst for the poor Captain, especially as the nursing staff at the casualty clearing station must have been pushed to their limits. How did they find the time to focus on the more fragile patients?

It had been a bonus to discover the extra snippets on the back of most of the letters, written in Alice’s rounded script. The added insight into Alice’s day intrigued Gemma. They were both nurses, albeit Gemma was highly trained, and Alice had only received three months’ worth of training. However, the experiences Alice endured during her time assisting on the wards was something no training could ever hope to prepare someone for, Gemma was certain of that much.

She wondered how different it must have been to deal with the constant arrival of horribly damaged men. She thought the trauma unit to be busy if there were a dozen patients arriving at once and that didn’t happen too often, she thought. Gemma couldn’t imagine how shocking it must have been for Alice to nurse those poor soldiers. Gemma had seen old film footage that gave her an idea of the devastation to life during and after a battle. But would Alice have known what she was letting herself in for when she’d registered for her training? Gemma doubted it.

The notes referred mostly to someone called Ed, and Gemma presumed Alice must be referring to the injured Captain, Woodhall. But why would Alice write the notes on the back of Lieutenant Peter Conway’s letters?

Distracted by footsteps, Gemma wondered how long had she been engrossed in Alice’s story? She noticed that the fire was lit, which she was sure it hadn’t been earlier. Gemma looked up to see Tom walking into the kitchen.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, aware she had been unsociable.

“It’s no problem. I don’t mind being ignored,” he smiled. Holding up a mug, he added. “I hope you don’t mind, if I made myself a coffee. I can make you one, if you like?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine, thank you. I should be getting on with work, too,” she said guiltily as she stood up.

“Why? Carry on reading your letters. I’d be interested to hear what they’re about.”

“I shouldn’t really,” she said, wondering why she found it so difficult to sit quietly in someone else’s company.

“Rubbish. You read on. I’ve got to get back to work. I don’t want to let my client down.” He gave her a cheeky grin. “I don’t want her sacking me before I’ve finished.”

Amused by his gentle teasing, Gemma held out the letter for him to see. “Alice was a nurse, like me,” she explained. “I was comparing how different our lives must be, despite similar work.”

He took the letter and scanned it quickly. “I can’t see that it would be that different. If you worked in a trauma unit, then isn’t that really what she was doing?” He handed her back the letter a little abruptly.

Gemma was disappointed that he hadn’t taken the time to read it properly. “I suppose so,” she said. “Although I could at least get away from the day’s drama. She lived on site, so there was no real relief from it.”

“That’s true.”

Gemma told him about the notes added to the back of most of the letters. “I had a sneaky look at a few from the other bundle and most of those have notes, too. I’m not sure why yet. They seem to be like diary entries, but without the dates.”

“Maybe they were parts of her story she recalled afterwards.”

Gemma assumed that to be the case. “Or she might have written on the backs of the letters because she knew the information would be hidden away.”

“Possibly,” he pushed up his sleeves. “It’s intriguing.”

Gemma agreed, even though she could see Tom was only being polite about the letters. He could be squeamish, she thought, aware that not everyone had the stomach she did for gore. Tom was a bit of an enigma to her. Always easy going, but with a haunted air about him that she hadn’t worked out yet. “Still,” she said. “No need for me to ignore you when I invite you inside for a coffee.”

“You weren’t,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

She heard him washing his mug in the sink. Returning to the living room, he glanced at the open tin containing the letters. “You won’t miss having a television,” he said. “Not with all those to keep you busy. You can tell me more about what you’ve discovered so far, if you want?”

Gemma put the letter she was holding down onto the table next to her. She picked up her mug, nodding as she took a sip.

“That’s probably cold by now.”

It was, but she barely noticed. “It’s fine, thanks,” she said, not wishing to lose her chance to share her excitement with someone. “I don’t know why these letters were hidden here,” she looked around the room, trying to picture how is must have looked one hundred years before. “I assume Alice must have lived here at some point?” When Tom waited for her to continue, she added. “When I said she was a nurse, she really was a VAD.”

Tom shook his head. “Volunteer?”

She motioned for him to take a seat. “Yes, a VAD was a voluntary nurse in the Voluntary Aid Detachment. The women who enrolled had to be at least twenty-three. So far, I’ve discovered that Alice was stationed at one of the casualty clearing stations near Doullens. I don’t know where exactly, but I believe there must have been a lot of them around, as it’s near to the Somme area.”

“It is,” Tom said. “She must have been a brave lady,” he added staring into the flames of the fire.

“Very. They all were.” Gemma took another sip of her tepid drink. “When you think of some of the horrendous injuries they came across, on a daily basis, too.” She thought of some of the horrors she had been expected to cope with at the trauma unit. “I’ve seen some devastating injuries in my time, but I think war is another matter entirely. The injuries would have been far worse and back then there was a constant stream of injured men needing medical treatment.” She shook her head thoughtfully. “It doesn’t get any better either, I don’t think.”

“Hmm,” he swallowed and stood up. “I’d better get on. I don’t want it to get dark before I’ve had a chance to really make some headway today.”

“Okay, sure,” Gemma said, aware his mood had slipped, but unsure why. As she watched him go through to the back of the house, she had a feeling that the letters had disturbed Tom in some way. Was there a reason talking about the war or her work made him uneasy? She never failed to be impressed by the almost magical differences doctors made to some patients, even those in the trauma unit since she’d began working there. However, she was aware that some people, most, probably, didn’t like to think of such things.

Gemma watched him go outside and close the door behind him. She finished her drink and thought back to two months ago and her last day at work. She still felt sick when she recalled her shock at discovering that the man she’d thought herself in love with had not only lied to her about being single but was in front of her on a trolley, dying. One day, she hoped to discover her lost love of nursing, but she couldn’t see it happening for a long time yet. If ever.

Gemma swallowed the lump forming in her throat. All her yearning to be a nurse followed by years of training, dashed away. Maybe she just wasn’t cut out to deal with traumatised people. It wasn’t as if she had experience of opening up herself. She wondered if it was the loss of a life-long dream that upset her most or walking out of her job. No money coming in, no purpose.

She recalled her dad’s serious expression when he’d sat her down to tell her of his idea about her coming to Doullens to renovate the farmhouse. She couldn’t help wondering if her dad had wanted her to come to France for her own good, or simply to appease her mother and get her out of the house.

She had always been the cuckoo in her parent’s love nest and it stung whenever anyone joked about a baby being a mistake. She assumed most won their parents around to be cherished in the end, but Gemma wasn’t sure what that must feel like. She shook her head, enough wallowing. She was a strong, independent woman and renovating this place was going to prove it to herself as well as her parents. You had to reach the bottom to rise again, didn’t you?

Gemma folded the two letters she had been reading back into their envelopes. She slipped them at the back of the bundle, to keep everything in order, determined to savour every one. She was determined not to miss out any of Alice’s letters by getting them muddled.

Tom had been right, she thought as she washed her mug, she did have a lot to read. It would keep her mind off everything that had happened in Brighton and her parent’s rejection. She felt like she had made a new friend in Alice, albeit one she would never meet. She couldn’t wait to discover more about the woman’s life.

Gemma tidied away her letters and washed the kitchen floor. Hearing Tom working outside, she couldn’t think of a reason not to go and speak to him. When she found him, he was up the ladder checking the roof above the barn. Gemma opened her mouth to speak, when Tom reached forward to test a tile and the bottom of his trouser leg lifted revealing a prosthetic right ankle.

Gemma covered her mouth instinctively with her hand, not daring to make a sound. She didn’t dare distract him, frightened he might fall. Stunned by her discovery, she stared briefly before deciding to go back into the house. She’d only walked a couple of steps when Tom dropped a cracked tile onto the cobbles. Gemma glanced up. She noticed Tom watching her and blushed

Desperate to cover up what she’d done, she forced a smile. “I was just wondering if there was anything I could do to help,” she said, aware how guilty she sounded.

He narrowed his eyes. “Is there something wrong?” he asked before carrying on with what he’d been doing.

“No, nothing. I’ll be in the house,” she added, retreating.

Hoping Tom would come in to speak to her, which he usually did at the end of each day, Gemma kept herself busy by cleaning. Her mother loved preaching that keeping busy was good for clearing the mind, but Gemma had never believed her until now. Putting her energies into scouring the landing floor was doing little to calm her though.

How had he lost his leg? Had he been in the Army? Gemma dropped the scourer into the grimy water as a thought dawned on her. Was that why he’d reacted as he had earlier when she’d been droning on about injuries sustained during wars? Of course, he must have spent time in a trauma unit.

“I’m such an idiot,” she groaned to herself.

“And why would that be?” Tom asked, her giving her a fright.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said playing for time. She knew she had to broach the subject of his leg, just in case he had noticed her looking earlier.

“Sorry, I should have knocked.”

“Not at all,” she said, mortified. “Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she said, nervously. “I noticed you have a prosthetic ankle.”

“Leg, actually,” he said. “But only the lower half.” Tom laughed. It was a sad laugh, filled with pain. Gemma could see he was trying to put on a brave face. “Sorry, I never really know how to react when people bring it up. It’s fine, though Gemma, really. I don’t want you to feel awkward.”

“I don’t,” she fibbed. “I didn’t know you were an amputee, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” he looked towards the golden glow of the sun streaming through the bedroom window onto the wet floor.

Gemma cringed. What a stupid thing to say. She wondered how many times Tom must have had to deal with idiots like her who stumbled over their words. “I mean that seeing you work, well, it isn’t obvious.” Damn. That still wasn’t right. “That is—”

Tom leant forward and placed his right hand on hers. “It’s fine. I know what you mean.” He shrugged. “I am a little sensitive about it sometimes,” he looked down at his right leg. “I can still do everything that I did before,” he said. “In civilian life, at least.”

“You were in the Army then?” So, she had been right. “Is that where it happened?” She couldn’t help being intrigued.

“I was,” he said, his voice distant. “For seven years. And yes. I lost this, and three friends when an IUD exploded in front of our patrol in Kabul in 2013.”

Gemma wished she hadn’t brought the subject up hearing such pain in his voice. She needed to put her professional head on, what there was left of it, to try and salvage the awkwardness between them. “I’m so sorry, Tom.”

“Me, too.” He let go of her hand. “They were good men; good friends. They didn’t deserve to die.”

“You didn’t deserve to suffer in the way you’ve done either.”

He walked over to the window and rested his palms on the sill. “I didn’t think I was lucky initially,” he confided. “The prospect of not being able to stay with my unit was unbearable at first. I missed the camaraderie, and the friends who’d been killed.”

She stared at his broad shoulders, drooping as he stared out at the garden, his back still to her and her heart ached for him. “Had you always wanted to be in the Armed Forces?”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “My grandfather had been a soldier and I’d never considered a life on civvy street, but after this, I was left with no alternative.” He looked down at his hands. “It was a lot to take in,” he said quietly. “I still have a brother in the Army. I’m envious of him and worry about him in equal measures.”

Listening to his experiences made her feel doubly guilty for dwelling on her own loss of purpose. “Was this why you chose to come and live in France?”

She hoped he didn’t think she was over-stepping the line between them. They didn’t know each other well, but she hoped to learn more about him. She was aware that it was a strange question, but it was her life taking an unexpected turn that had led her to being here, maybe Tom’s reason was due to what had happened to him? Maybe, she thought, he was here because it was easier to move away from all that was familiar in England and those who only knew him as a soldier?

“Partly,” he said mysteriously. He sighed heavily and gave her a tight smile. “Basically, I just needed to get away and be somewhere away from anything that reminded me of that time.” He turned to face her. “Right, I’d better get going. I’ll leave you to your letters,” he said. “See you first thing tomorrow.”

“Thanks for everything you’ve done today, Tom,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No worries.” He gave her a brief nod and left.

She suspected he wasn’t used to sharing his feelings. Then again, she hadn’t ever shared her thoughts with anyone either. Apart from maybe her first boyfriend, and he now lived on the other side of the world. Another decision she hadn’t been brave enough to take. Gemma tidied away her bucket and scourer. She wondered what her life would have been like, if she’d chosen to go with him when he emigrated and not stay behind and continue with her nursing training. But it was too late to regret that decision now, she mused.

Gemma took the bucket downstairs and tipped the dirty water down a drain outside the kitchen door. She and Tom had been relaxing with each other more every day, now though, she sensed something in their relationship had shifted, and not in a good way.

A log dropped from the fire and sent a lump of charcoal onto the floor in front of her chair. Running over to grab the small shovel at the side of the fireplace, she quickly slid it under the burning ember and flicked it back into the fire. Noticing a burn mark left behind on the wooden floorboard, Gemma slumped down on her armchair and began to cry as a sadness gripped her. Sadness for her own situation, but also for Tom and the pain he had suffered.

Waking hours later, she rubbed her puffy eyes gently. The fire was low, and she was cold. She banked up the embers thinking how her mother often insisted that a good cry was a release of pent up emotions. After her faux pas earlier in the day, she was glad to be rid of the accumulation of emotion inside her since her arrival. Deciding she wasn’t going to be any use in the morning if she didn’t get some proper sleep, Gemma went upstairs.

She washed and changed into her pyjamas. Then, cleaning her teeth, she looked in the mirror and hoped that her eyes would look less swollen in the morning. She didn’t want Tom to think she felt sorry for him. That would be the worst thing she could do. She hated what he had been through, but he had found a way to cope with a life-changing injury and she admired him for it. He was a strong man physically, that much was obvious when you looked at him, but now she knew that he was mentally strong too.

She lay in bed staring at the moonlight shining through the small gap in her curtains. Gemma thought back to the letters and couldn’t help wondering how Alice had coped a hundred years earlier. The nurses at most casualty clearing stations didn’t have the luxury of a building to sleep in. How brave she and other women like her friend Mary, must have been to volunteer. The horrific wounds and traumatised soldiers would have been bad enough, but Gemma found it difficult to imagine dealing with such pressure day after day, year after year. No antibiotics or penicillin to help battle infection, far more basic implements than she was used to having at her disposal. She could only imagine how exhausting it must have been.

Working in a trauma unit, she’d seen many injuries that would forever be engraved in her mind, but never in the numbers that Alice and 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.

Chapter 5
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?

She hurried outside to wait with the others for Matron to give her orders. Ambulance, after ambulance rolled into the dusty yard. How was it possible for these poor men to keep coming in? Soon there would be none left to fight at this rate.

“Nurse Le Breton, Nurse Fielding, you take the second ambulance over by Sister Brown.”

They hurried over to it, arriving as the driver opened the door. Several orderlies appeared to help carry the injured men. Alice took Sister Brown’s lantern, lifting it so she could inspect the soldier’s tag attached to his uniform jacket.

“Take him to Ward Two,” Sister instructed the orderlies. Lowering her voice so the semi-conscious soldier couldn’t hear, she added to Alice, “He needs to be away from the door, in one of the quieter beds. I’m not sure he’s going to make it.”

She nodded, handed Sister Brown’s lantern to Mary and followed the stretcher to the ward.

The following two soldiers weren’t as close to death as the first one, but both had bloody bandages around stumps on their legs.

“These men are to be taken to the Theatre Ward, as soon as possible. “The surgeon can check them and decide what he wants to do.”

The final stretcher was pulled from the back of the dusty ambulance. Alice forced a calm smile on her face when she gazed into his dirty, panic-stricken face. The bandage covering half his face was thick with layers of dressing, but still the blood was oozing through. She read his tag, but his face was the only injured part of him mentioned.

“Ward Seven?”

Sister Brown looked at her and nodded.

Of all the wards, Ward Seven was the one that Alice found the most difficult to deal with. She wasn’t sure why. After all, the men who had lost limbs were going to find it difficult to integrate into the outside world, too. Somehow though, the men with damaged faces, found it harder to cope than those who’d lost limbs. Alice supposed it was because people found it hard to look in the mirror and not recognise the person staring back.

She couldn’t help hoping their loved ones would put aside any misgivings about these men’s new physical situation to support them. It upset all the nursing staff when they heard of a fiancée calling off an engagement after seeing the result hot shrapnel had done to their loved one’s face.

The night was long and filled with the usual cries of pain, panic and horror, but Alice didn’t mind being on night duty, especially after a new influx of injured came to the station. The time flew by as she moved from bed to bed, assisting the sisters, or Matron.

Just after two in the morning, Alice was finishing redressing a leg wound. She enjoyed having established recognition from Matron Bleasdale and being allowed to carry out tasks usually only permitted to be done by qualified nurses.

“Nurse Le Breton,” one of the younger volunteers shouted, breathless from running to find her. “Doctor Sullivan needs you to assist in Theatre Two immediately.”

Alice stood up. Ordinarily she would never pass on work to a probationer, but this was an emergency. “This is nearly done,” she said handing over the bandage carefully. “You’ll need to finish it for me.”

Excitement coursed through Alice. Ever since joining the VADs she had dreamt of assisting during a surgery. This, though, was the first time she had been called to do so. She arrived at the theatre tent moments later, trying not to show her nervousness.

“Wash your hands in there,” Matron Bleasdale instructed, removing a blood-stained apron. “Hurry, now. The surgeon needs you to relieve the current nurse, she’s unwell.” She left Alice to prepare.

Alice quickly scrubbed and dried her hands. Pulling her apron straps over each shoulder she crossed them, fumbling with the material as she tied them in a bow at her back, before rushing in to the theatre.

“What kept you,” the surgeon barked, his black eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “I called for you long ago.”

She didn’t care to argue. “Sorry, Sir,” she said.

Alice had noticed how strained the surgeons seemed recently. The continuing arrival of patients increased the relentless surgeries each man had to perform. Alice was exhausted, with every muscle aching, but she could only imagine how they must be feeling. If only more tents and beds could be brought to the station, as well as more surgeons and nursing staff, she thought. Surely, they would be falling ill soon themselves, if they didn’t get some relief from the endless work.

“Hand me that clamp,” he said indicating the instrument he wanted. He then looked down on the operating table at the soldier, his chest opened on one side. “Blast. Another, now.”

Trying not to panic, Alice did as he asked. “Call another nurse to assist. We’re going to need more hands here.”

Alice went to leave and do as instructed.

“Bloody shout from the door. We don’t have time for you to fetch people. They’ll come to you.”

Alice nodded and went to the opening. Pulling back the canvas flap she called for someone to help.

Matron spun on her heels, glaring at her. “Nurse Le Breton, what is the meaning of this?”

Alice hadn’t seen her. “Doctor Sullivan’s, instructions,” she explained. “We need assistance here, now.”

Matron pointed to another nurse and waved her over. Alice didn’t wait to hear what was being said, but dropping the canvas returned to the operating table. She knew Matron might be a bit of a tyrant, but she was brilliant in an emergency. Seconds later, another nurse ran into the side room.

“I’m washing my hands, I’ll be there in a moment,” she called.

“Wadding,” the surgeon bellowed, ignoring her. “Lots of it.”

Alice grabbed a handful of the wadding, handing it to him.

“Hold it there.” He grabbed her hand and pressed it against the boy’s open wound.

She did as she was told, wondering if there was any chance the bleeding in the boy’s side could be stemmed. “It’s not stopping, Doctor,” she said, without thinking what she was doing.

“I can see that for myself, Nurse.” He continued working on the boy, concentration etched on his perspiring brow.

The patient began to convulse on the operating table and Alice held her breath. She wasn’t sure what to do and almost sighed with relief when they were joined by the other nurse.

“Where the hell have you been?” the doctor growled. “Here,” he said pointing for them to place their hands over the side of the open wound. “Hold him there. I need to think.”

They did as he said, not daring to look at him or each other. Alice wondered if the other nurse was shaking as much as she was right now. The soldier convulsed, once again and Alice’s bloodied hands slipped away from his side.

“I said hold it,” the surgeon roared, grabbing Alice’s wrists and pushing her hands against the torn bloody side. “Damn, this isn’t doing anything.”

He took her hands away and reaching inside the man’s wound, groaned. “Quick, the smallest clamp.”

Scrambling around on the metal tray to find the correct implement, Alice grabbed it, handing it to him. The two nurses watched in awe as the surgeon took a deep breath, visibly calmed down and closed his eyes, his two hands lost inside the bloody mess of the soldier’s side as he worked.

Finally, he withdrew his hands. “Yes, that’s it. We’ve managed to stem the bleeding.”

She wasn’t sure she had managed to do anything of the sort but was delighted to be included in his congratulatory delight.

“Can he be left like this?” she asked, relieved enough to forget herself.

“What? No, of course not,” the surgeon, looked shocked at her ridiculous question. “I’ve just bought the boy time, that’s all. We must clean up this mess inside him. I need to see the damage before I can close him up.”

Alice couldn’t see how that was possible. However, she had witnessed many miraculous actions by Doctor Sullivan, so trusted that he’d manage it somehow. She did as he instructed, giving the handsome surgeon an occasional side glance. He glowered back in concentration and she realised he was addressing her. “Sorry, Sir?”

He exhaled sharply. “Pay bloody attention. Apply the dressing, Nurse Le Breton. See to it that he is kept sedated for at least the next twelve hours. He needs fluids and must be kept still at all times. We do not need him back in surgery to stem a haemorrhage.”

“Yes, Sir.” Alice did as he asked. He left the theatre and she could hear him washing in the canvas room next door.

“You lucky bugger,” Mary whispered as she and Alice crossed paths later. “I heard you assisted Doctor Sullivan today.” She lowered her voice further. “I think he’s sweet on you.”

“Hush, Mary.” Alice frowned at her cheeky friend. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

She marched into the ward her face red with fury and embarrassment. What did Mary think she was doing, saying such things? She could start all sorts of unnecessary rumours. Alice couldn’t imagine the doctor even noticed her, beyond her skills as a nurse. She was glad of it, too.

She thought of Dr Sullivan’s deep voice and how she had cringed the first time she’d heard him addressing a patient. She had been shocked when he didn’t use a gentler approach. But having seen his expertise achieve almost the impossible, her feelings towards him had softened over the past year. Alice smiled; she had seen the other two surgeons deal with patients at the station, and neither had the harshness of Doctor Sullivan, nor his brilliance.

They barely had time to catch up with their ministrations when Matron announced that another convoy of injured men was on its way.

“Not again,” Mary groaned. “I don’t know how much more of this my poor feet will take.”

“Come along,” Alice said, thinking of how impressed she’d been by Doctor Sullivan’s dedication. “We can do this.”

“Once the beds and trolleys are ready for the new intake of men, I suggest you all find yourselves something to eat and have a cup of tea,” Matron took a deep breath. “I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

Alice and Mary returned to their ward to help move beds even closer together as more space was needed to allow further beds to be brought into the ward. Having made up the new beds and replenished the trolleys with implements, disinfectants and dressings, they went to the dining room for lunch.

“I heard one of the orderlies talking about a village — Guillemont, I think he said was the name,” Mary said quietly, as they poured strong tea into their cups. “He said a battle has been raging there for the last couple of days. I think these men could be the injured from there,” she said taking a sip of her steaming drink.

“I can’t imagine ever sleeping without hearing men’s screams in my dreams,” Alice admitted rubbing her eyes. “Sometimes I wish I could stay awake all night. Then I remember that I need my sleep to do what I must each day.”

Mary put down her cup and rubbed Alice’s forearm. “It is relentless, but it’s got to end sometime.”

They stared at each other. Both reading panic in the other’s eyes that they might be wrong.

Alice closed her eyes briefly, then opening them, forced a smile. “It will. You never know, maybe it’ll all end sooner than we expect.”

“Yes, it just might,” Mary said.

Alice knew they were fooling themselves, but if they remained positive then they were better placed to help the patients. “I wish they didn’t discharge them straight back to the trenches as soon as they were well.”

Mary didn’t reply immediately. She drank the remainder of her tea. “I can’t help wondering at the fruitlessness of it all.”

“That’s enough of that,” Matron snapped from behind them making them both jump and Mary spill her tea. “No feeble talk from my nurses,” she said. “I want you back at your ward now. The convoy will be here shortly.”

They stood up and cleared their plates and cups.

Alice waited for Matron to leave the room before exhaling. “I hate being caught out like that,” she said, embarrassed.

“Don’t you think she feels the same as us sometimes?”

Alice looked at Mary and shrugged. “I imagine so, but the difference between her and us is that she’d never allow her feelings to show.”

And neither should she, Alice decided. She was here to do a job and bleating about it wasn’t going to help anyone. She needed to buck up her ideas.

Reaching the other nurses and orderlies waiting on the wooden walkway, Alice heard the bugle announcing the arrival of the ambulances. First Matron stepped forward, followed by two nurses and two orderlies. Once they had been told which ward in which to take the initial casualty, Matron checked the next man, and so on, until it was Alice’s turn.

“Ward Four,” she said. Alice looked down at the conscious man who winced in pain as the orderlies lifted his stretcher from the back of the ambulance. She accompanied him across the wooden boards to the ward.

“We’re in here,” she said, aware she was stating the obvious, but not sure what else to say until she had discovered what his injuries were exactly.

Indicating the vacant bed next to Captain Woodhall, Alice checked the tag on the man’s jacket. “Corporal William Healy?”

“Yes, Nurse, that’s me,” he said, in a gentle southern Irish accent. He gazed around him.

He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was pale, thin, and, like most of the men who came here after spending months in the discomfort of the trenches, utterly exhausted.

“You have a gunshot wound to the right foot, I see,” she said, waiting while the orderlies lifted him carefully from the stretcher onto the bed.

“Yes, and stings something dreadful, it does.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She unbuttoned his dust encased jacket. “Let me help you off with this filthy uniform,” she said. “Then I can wash you and help you change into your pyjamas. You’ll be more comfortable then.”

“Thanks, nurse,” he said, gritting his teeth as she slowly worked his trousers down past his bandaged foot. He looked to his right and nodded at the captain in the next bed.

“Welcome to The Haven,” the captain said, smiling up at Alice. “Most of our nurses here are angels.” He lowered his voice. “Matron can be a bit of a tyrant, but I’ve noticed that her heart is in the right place.”

Alice was relieved to see the captain had improved dramatically since she’d last seen him. She went to speak to him, but two more injured soldiers were carried in to the large tent, diverting her attention. One was writhing in pain and Alice noticed Mary assisting a sister as she attempted to calm him. The two men next to her stopped talking, as both stared anxiously at the weeping casualty.

Alice emptied the corporal’s pockets and placed a photo, wallet and letters onto the small chair by his bed that he’d be sharing with Captain Woodhall. She dropped the trousers and jacket in a heap that a probationer would take away with a mound of other dirty uniforms.

“Poor sod,” the corporal said. “He was in my battalion. I wondered what had happened to him.”

“He’s here now,” Alice said, trying to sooth their concerns. “We’ll ask Sister to give him something for his pain shortly.”

“There’s far worse than that arriving,” Captain Woodhall said quietly.

“Thank you, Captain,” she shook her head. “I need to clean Corporal Healy. You can impart your survival tips afterwards.”

Alice washed and partially changed the corporal into pyjamas.

“I’m going to have to change this dressing,” she explained, concerned that the heat in his damaged foot indicated an infection might have set in to the gunshot wound. “If you lie back,” she said taking him gently by the shoulders and pushing against the freshly plumped pillow. “Then I can have a proper look.”

Taking a pair of large tweezers, Alice held her breath, nervous at what she would find. She gently pulled back the filthy dressing, relieved it didn’t stick to the wound. Dropping the once white gauze into a metal bowl, she began meticulously cleaning the area with hydrogen peroxide.

“Hell, that stings,” Corporal Healy grimaced, his eyes watering from the pain.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said hating having to inflict more pain on him. “I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

“How is it looking Nurse?” he asked, moments later.

She suspected the pain of his wound must be intense. She moved his foot to the right, hearing him wince. “Sorry, Corporal. I think the bullet exited through your foot cleanly.”

“Don’t you worry Nurse,” he said. “You do what you must.”

Alice fixed a smile on her face. She was determined not to show how saddened she was that her suspicions were right. Infection had begun to swell the damaged area on that side. “I’m going to ask Doctor Sullivan to have a look at this,” she said, trying to instil positivity in him. “We need to ensure no fragments of bone are left in there that might hinder healing.”

Satisfied she had done all she could for now, Alice carefully placed clean gauze on his foot and finished dressing him.

“There you go,” she said returning his smile. “Try to rest. You must be exhausted after what you’ve been through.” Alice smoothed down her skirt. “I’ll leave you now. Tea should be here shortly.”

“Thanks, Nurse—”

“She’s Nurse Le Breton,” Captain Woodhall said, giving Alice a shy smile.

“I’ll leave you two to become acquainted,” she said, hoping her face wasn’t as red as she suspected it might be. Alice wished the rules about becoming too close to any of the patients wasn’t so absolute. She knew the captain would be discharged at some point, but she daren’t risk ruining any chance she might have of training to become a fully qualified nurse after this war ended.

She helped Mary wash and change her patient who had calmed down a little after receiving a morphine injection. These new arrivals always unsettled the patients, thought Alice. It was upsetting to witness those that had found comfort in the security of the hospital, to be reminded of what they would probably return to.

She glanced over at one patient, relieved to see one of the sisters soothing him. The recent amputation of his lower leg meant he had to be kept as still as possible. The last thing they needed was for him to haemorrhage. Alice doubted most of these men would ever come to terms with what they had experienced.

“Were you at Guillemont?” she heard the captain quietly ask Corporal Healy. “I heard it was particularly bad there.”

“Yes,” he hesitated. “It was a nightmare. We’ve been there since the third of September. That’s where I got this hole in my foot. Some bloody Hun caught me in the village, just as I was running for cover behind a wall.”

The captain frowned. “Many men down?”

The corporal shook his head and cleared his throat, his voice cracking as he answered. “Far too many. It was a bloodbath. Men were being mown down in their droves. I wonder if, in a hundred years, anyone will remember all the Irish blokes who lost their lives there this week?”

“I think about that often,” the captain admitted. “All of us cannon fodder. I can’t help thinking about all the families that will never be. Will future generations commemorate what we’ve done, or do their best to forget us?”

Alice wondered the same thing. She had never heard the captain speaking so frankly before, but he voiced what most of them must be thinking. It was only September and the war had been dragging on for over two years now. Unable to bear seeing the endless columns of names of the missing and fallen, Alice had stopped reading the papers months ago.

“How about you?” the corporal asked Captain Woodhall. “What brought you to this place?”

He touched the bandage on his head. “Thankfully, this is more of a graze than anything,” he said. “Could have been far worse.” They both looked over at two men on the other side of the ward, both with thick dressings covering one side of their faces and heads. “Also, a bullet sliced through my side, near my right hip.”

“I’m hoping this is a Blighty one,” Corporal Healy whispered. “My wife’s struggling to cope at home with the kids.”

“How many have you got?”

“Six. Five boys and a little girl,” he smiled, groaning as he reached to lift up a photo from his small selection of personal items. “My daughter, Kathleen’s only nineteen months old.”

Hearing the corporal talk about his children chilled Alice. What if he was to lose his leg to infection? She had heard about it happening too many times to count, men with families losing the ability to obtain gainful employment after losing a limb. Her concern for how these injured men and their families would survive after the war ended, kept her awake at night.

She hoped the corporal wouldn’t be one of them, not with such a large family relying on his earnings. She’d speak to the surgeon as soon as she finished helping Mary. Sister Brown would be furious if she discovered Alice had over-stepped her authority, but she couldn’t take a chance that his infection might be missed. If he needed surgery as soon as possible, and she was almost certain he did, she needed to speak up. She had seen how rapidly and uncontrollably infection could spread through these weakened men’s systems once it took hold.

“You got any kids?” She heard the corporal ask and glanced over at the two men again.

Captain Woodhall shook his head. “No. No kids.”

“Married?”

There was a hesitation before Alice heard him answer, “No. No wife, either.”

Alice looked at him then and their eyes met for a few seconds, before he turned away to answer another of the corporal’s questions. Something had happened to him, she could tell. But what? Had his fiancée called off their engagement, like she had done?

Spotting Matron standing in the entrance, Alice finished redressing a wound on another patient when a particularly loud bombardment exploded nearby. Alice’s heart pounded heavily and a few of the newer patients stared at her, their eyes wide with concern.

“It probably sounds closer because of the wind direction,” she said, recalling how this explanation had calmed her on her arrival. “We’re perfectly safe here.”

She was interrupted by shouting outside the ward. Alice walked as quickly as she could to find out the cause of the commotion. Two of the orderlies were restraining a young patient in the middle of a grand mal episode on the wooden walkway. Alice returned to the ward, grabbed a blanket and pillow and went back to help. She carefully raised the patient’s head and placed the pillow underneath. She didn’t want him banging his head, causing himself even more damage. His contorted body finally relaxed, but the man seemed barely conscious. She covered him with a blanket to keep him warm and glanced at the closest orderly.

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