In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“How are you, Mrs. Finch?” Pamela asked.

“Can’t complain, your ladyship. We’re getting along as well as can be expected. A lot better than the poor blighters in London, getting bombed every night. And we don’t do too badly for food, either. I’ve got a good little kitchen garden going out back, and the two hens provide us with eggs when the rats or foxes don’t get at them first. Added to that, everyone’s fond of the vicar around here, and we often find the odd bit of meat or fish on the doorstep. I shouldn’t be surprised if they are not illegal or even black market, but of course I don’t tell the vicar. What he don’t know can’t hurt him.”

And then she chuckled. “You’re in luck today, as it happens. We were given a brace of pigeons yesterday, and I’ve made pigeon pie. I’m just about to get the vicar’s dinner for him, so why don’t you stay to join us, your ladyship?”

She still called it dinner, although the vicar had tried to educate her for years that the working classes had their dinner at midday, but the upper classes had luncheon.

“I really should be getting home. The family will be waiting to see me,” Pamela said.

Without thinking, Ben covered her hand with his own. “Do stay,” he said. “If the stuff you’ve been eating is anything like the stodge from our cafeteria, then I can assure you that Mrs. Finch’s pigeon pie will seem like manna from heaven.”

Pamela did not withdraw her hand. Instead, she smiled. “After a buildup like that, how could I resist? Thank you, Mrs. Finch.” She looked around at the well-worn oak furniture, highly polished for years by Mrs. Finch and by the housekeepers who came before her. Then her gaze moved from the view out of the window across the fields to where she glimpsed the shape of Farleigh rising above the trees. And she thought, This is where I feel safe.

Reverend Cresswell came up the path from the church just as Mrs. Finch was laying the table. A smile crossed his tired face. “Well, this is a nice surprise, my boy. We had no idea you were coming.”

“It was all very last minute,” Ben said, going over to shake hands with his father. “Someone decided I was due for a few days’ leave, so here I am.”

“And Pamela, too.” He turned to smile at her, then examined her critically. “Looking a bit peaky, my dear.”

“It’s night shifts. I can’t seem to sleep during the daytime.”

“Of course you can’t. But a few days here will have you right as rain. Good food. Country air. You can put the war aside for a few days. It’s just as it always was out here.”

“Apart from an army regiment living in my house,” Pamela reminded him.

“And that body in your field,” Mrs. Finch said as she put the pie on a trivet on the dining table.

“Body? In a field?” Pamela asked.

“A parachutist whose chute didn’t open,” Mrs. Finch said with great relish. “They say he was an awful mess.”

“How terrible for him. Who was he?”

Mrs. Finch leaned closer. “He was wearing an army uniform, but it’s my belief he was one of them German spies. They say they’re everywhere these days. Even dressed up as nuns, if you can believe it.”

“Mrs. Finch, what have I told you about gossip?” Reverend Cresswell said. “Remember the posters: ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives.’ We have no reason to believe this poor man was anything more than the victim of a training exercise gone wrong. I protested when they had him taken away. I’d like to have given him a decent burial.”

Leaning forward to cut into the piecrust, he was clearly dismissing the matter. The rich aroma of herbs came out, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Now that’s what I call a proper meal. Give me your plate, young lady, and you’ll have some real food for the first time in ages.”

They ate until they were full. The flaky crust covered a succulent portion of young bird in rich herb gravy and was accompanied by cauliflower with a white sauce, then followed by stewed apples and custard.

“I really should be getting on home.” Pamela stood up. “But I’m dying to see Jeremy. I don’t suppose the family will mind much if I go over to Nethercote first. I didn’t tell them exactly when I’d be arriving. And you said you’d come with me, Ben.” She looked at him appealingly.

“If you want me to.” He stood up also, placing his napkin on the table. “All right with you, Father, if I walk Pamma over to Nethercote?”

“You don’t have to ask my permission, my boy. You’re a grown man now. If Pamela wants you with her when she goes to visit her young man, then by all means.”

Ben reacted to the words her young man as if they were a punch in the gut. He knew they were true, of course. They had always been true. But he’d always had hope, especially when Jeremy was reported missing. And now his job was to deliver Pamela back to his rival. He wondered if she realised, if she had any inkling of what he was feeling?

They set off through the village. The one street there was almost devoid of life. A bell tinkled as a woman came out of Markham’s General Store and Post Office with a basket over her arm. She greeted them with a polite nod. “Lady Pamela. Mr. Ben. Pleasant weather for the time of year, isn’t it?” And went on her way, as if their sudden return was nothing out of the ordinary. London and points beyond Sevenoaks were out of her sphere of experience and thus not of interest. From the school came the sound of children’s voices chanting a times table. A farm cart came toward them with a load of manure. They hadn’t spoken to each other since they left the vicarage. Now Pamela turned to him.

“Nothing changes here, does it? It’s just like it always was.”

“Except no young men,” he said.

She nodded.

They left the village behind them, and the road narrowed to a lane with a riot of flowers growing from the banks. As they came to the impressive wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the Prescotts’ home, Nethercote, Pamela suddenly froze.

“I suppose it’s all right to go in uninvited? Should we have telephoned first to let them know we were coming?”

“When did we ever need to wait for an invitation to Jeremy’s house?” Ben had to laugh.

“But things are different now,” she said, her forehead creased into a worried frown. “Jeremy’s home from a prison camp. He may not want to . . . to see us.”

Ben took a deep breath. “It’s my belief that he’s been dreaming about seeing you again since the day he took off in that plane,” he said.

She flashed him a nervous smile.

“And if we are told that he’s not up to visitors, then we go away.”

“Ben, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I would have flunked it and run off like a frightened rabbit.”