The Poppy Field. Deborah Carr

      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 heating, 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?”