Disclaimer: I don't own anything but at least I can add in links... on other websites, but not this one unfortunately.
A/N: I was bombarded with a particular image after hearing Eva Cassidy singing the song I mention; even had a go at drawing it. *sigh* So I gave up on that and wrote it instead when this wouldn't let me sleep.

Barley Field

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"You are listening to BBC Radio 2. We now have for you the lovely voice of Eva Cassidy, singing 'Fields of Gold'," Terry Wogan could be heard to announce from somewhere in the kitchen, just before a haunting melody filtered in to the lounge where Donna and her mother sat reading the morning newspapers.

As the strains of the song played out on the radio, Sylvia noticed a happy grin on her daughter's face. "What's made you look so pleased?" she queried. Surely such a sad song should have had the opposite effect.

The grin stayed but weakened slightly. "I was just thinking of that day we spent running through the corn field that time," Donna responded.

"When? I've never even wandered into a corn field, with you or anyone else for that matter," Sylvia stressed. "You must have dreamt it."

"No I didn't," Donna protested. "We were laughing because I saw my very first field mouse and he couldn't believe..." Her words drifted slowly to a stop as she realised the faint memory hadn't included her mother at all but someone else entirely. A man dressed in tones of brown, including a heavy overcoat despite the warmth of the day.

"He?" Sylvia fearfully asked, hoping to god that it wasn't THAT man but someone completely different. "Your fancy man, was he?"

Everything about that day was so vivid in Donna's mind, from the feel of the ploughed soil beneath their feet, the soft breeze, the buzz of insects in the air, the warbling song of some little bird she had no idea of the name of, the unaccountable threatening quality of the sown crop, but most of all she remembered how happy she had felt in his company. The sort of contentment you rarely get the chance to enjoy in life. And she had loved every second she had spent with him; of that she was sure. There was only one nibbling irksome thing that dampened her mood: she couldn't recall his face. Not at all. She couldn't even tell you what colour his eyes were.

"Never fancy, just a bit dazzling," Donna faintly replied before she caught herself doing so. "Never mind me. I'm getting muddled up somewhere, obviously. No bloke would do that with me unless he was held at gunpoint. Must have been dreaming. Yes," she continued, warming to this new topic now, "I'm sure he reminded me of Gramps's mate, that John Smith bloke with the sad smile; probably picked him because he needed cheering up so badly. Anyway..." She shook her head as though dislodging any idle thoughts whilst internally acknowledging something else entirely. "Do you want a cup of tea? I'm gasping for one."

"Yes please," Sylvia readily replied, hoping against hope this would be the end of that topic of conversation. "A biscuit would be nice too."

Out in the kitchen, Donna surreptitiously dug out some painkillers, desperate to fight off the sudden crippling headache that had assaulted her, without letting her mother know one had sneaked up on her again. That's all she needed, all that fuss whenever she admitted to having one.

Both of them fretted in silence, keeping their secrets whilst thinking about the same man; both longing for him to fix whatever this was whilst knowing he never would.