In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

The colonel coughed, as if he’d just realised that the son of a vicar recently down from Oxford and now teaching at a very minor prep school wasn’t likely to have much cash to spare. He looked around, clearly trying to think of a topic to change the subject and suddenly said in surprise, “Hello. Here’s a turn-up for the books. It’s Lady Pamela. I didn’t know she was interested in cricket.”

Ben felt a flush come over his face and was furious with himself. Pamela was walking toward him with that easy grace, looking cool and elegant in peach silk. A strand of ash-blonde hair blew across her face, and she brushed it back as she spotted Ben. The men scrambled to their feet.

“Good of you to come to cheer us on, my lady,” the colonel said, offering her his place on the bench. “Sit here beside young Cresswell. I’m up next. Need to get the blood flowing into these old legs, anyway.” Pamela flashed him a dazzling smile and slid onto the bench the colonel had vacated.

“Hello, Pamma,” Ben said. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you were in Paris with your sister.”

“I was. Pah ordered me to come home. Actually, he ordered me to bring Margot home with me. He’s sure war is about to break out any second, and he’s scared she’ll be stuck on the continent. But she’s refusing to budge.”

“She’s so keen on learning to design fashions that the threat of a war won’t move her?”

Pamela’s eyes held his in an amused smile. “I rather think that a certain French count is the reason she doesn’t want to leave.”

“Crikey,” Ben said, cursing himself for sounding like a schoolboy. “Your sister has fallen in love with a Frenchman?”

“They are rather attractive, you know,” Pamela said, her eyes still holding his. “So attentive. And they do things like kiss hands. Who could resist?”

“I hope you did.” The words came out before he could stop them.

“I don’t go for the Gallic type myself,” Pamela said, then she looked around. “Is Jeremy not playing today?”

And Ben realised like a punch in the stomach that she had not come to see him after all. It was Jeremy. Of course, it was bloody Jeremy. A picture flashed unbidden into Ben’s mind. He and Pamela and Jeremy on a long-ago summer afternoon like this one, climbing the big oak tree at Farleigh Place, home of Pamela’s father, the Earl of Westerham. Jeremy leading as usual, with Pamela close behind him, going up and up until the branch she was perched on was swaying violently. “Don’t go any higher,” Ben had called. She had flashed him a challenging smile. Then the awful cracking noise. The sight of Pamela’s surprised face going past them, as if in slow motion, and then the thud as she hit the ground. It had taken forever to scramble down to her. Jeremy had reached the bottom first, jumping down beside her. Ben was last, as usual. She was lying there, not moving. Suddenly she opened her eyes, looked first into Ben’s worried face, then focused on Jeremy, and her eyes lit up. “I’m all right. Don’t fuss,” she said. She had not been all right. She’d broken an arm. But that was really the first time Ben had realised that it was Jeremy, not him, that she cared about. Also how damned much Ben cared about her.

So many memories from long-ago summers . . .

There was a yelled “Howzat?” and a groan from the crowd.

“Damned young fool,” Colonel Huntley muttered. “He will swipe at it. Clean bowled again.”

He got to his feet. But before he could walk out from the clubhouse to meet the dismissed batsman, there was a droning sound in the sky. Everyone looked up as a plane appeared over the hills, flying very low. The drone became a roar. The plane continued to descend.

“It can’t be going to land here?” Colonel Huntley exclaimed. “What is the fool thinking?”

But the plane was going to land. It skimmed over the large copper beech before touching down on the field, scattering cricketers, and just missing the rolled green of the cricket pitch.

The plane was painted bright yellow and black, like an overgrown wasp. It bounced across the grass and came to a halt in front of the clubhouse. Ben heard the colonel mutter: “What the devil,” but he didn’t bother to answer. Before the pilot took off his goggles and helmet, Ben had known it was Jeremy. Jeremy’s eyes were scanning the crowd. He spotted Ben; his face broke into the familiar grin, and he beckoned furiously.

“I’ve just bought her,” he shouted. “Isn’t she a beauty? Come on up for a spin.”

Pamela stood up and ran toward the plane before Ben could react. “Can’t I come up, too?”

“What ho, Pamma,” Jeremy said. “Didn’t expect to see you at a cricket match. I thought you were in Paris. But sorry. She’s only a two-seater, and you’re not exactly dressed for climbing into cockpits, however charming you look . . .” He left the rest of the sentence hanging. “I’ll come over and see you later if I may,” he added. “And if you like, I’ll ask your pah if I may take you up in my new bird.”

“Fine.” Pamela turned away and walked back to the pavilion, brushing against Ben in her annoyance. “It’s always a man’s world in the end, isn’t it?” she said. “Ask my pah, indeed. Go on, then. Go up with him. Have a good time.”

“I don’t want to leave you on your own. I’m sure there will be other . . .” Ben mumbled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I know you’re dying to go up in a plane,” Pamela said. “Go on. Go.” And she gave him a friendly push.

Feeling very self-conscious with the eyes of the village upon him, Ben walked out to the plane. Jeremy’s face was bright with pleasure. Ben had seen that look many times before—usually when Jeremy had accomplished something utterly forbidden.

“I take it you passed your test,” Ben said dryly.

“With flying colours, old chap. The bloke said I was born to it. Well, I do have a falcon on my family crest, don’t I? Come on, don’t just stand there. Hop in.”

Ben climbed into the backseat. “Don’t I need a helmet or something?”

Jeremy laughed. “If we crash, a bloody helmet’s not going to do you much good. Don’t worry. I got the hang of it in the first five minutes. Now it’s a piece of cake.”

The engine revved. The plane bumped over the grass, gaining speed until it rose into the air. They circled behind the pavilion and roared over the cricket pitch again, clearing the big copper beech at the bottom of the vicarage garden with a couple of feet to spare. The village of Elmsleigh spread out below them: built around the green with the cricket pitch in the middle, the memorial to the Great War in its prominent place on one side, and St. Mary’s Church with its fine perpendicular tower on the other. Below the right wing were the manicured gardens of Nethercote, Jeremy’s home. The plane banked, and the town of Sevenoaks came into view, then the whole of Shoreham Valley with the line of the North Downs curving to the south. The River Medway was a bright streak to their left, the Thames an even brighter one on the distant horizon. The wind whipped through Ben’s hair. He felt exhilarated.