In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“So what will you do now? Will you go back to flying?” Ben asked.

“I’m being given a desk job until I’m deemed fit to fly again,” Jeremy said. “The bullet damaged the muscles in my right arm, and I’m a bag of skin and bones. I need building up first, but that will happen rapidly here. Mother is spoiling me, as you can imagine, and Mrs. Treadwell is a wonderful cook. My God. How I dreamed of meals like this when we got our slice of black bread and watery soup.”

He stared past them, out of the windows. “I suppose I can’t be too impatient to get back to work. It will take a while. I can’t help thinking about those other fellows. The ones who broke out of the stalag with me. All mown down in a hail of bullets. And their families, wondering how they are doing. Not knowing they are dead.”

He turned back with an attempt at a bright smile. “But here I am. Exactly where I dreamed of being. And look at you, Pamma. God, you’re lovelier than I remembered. More grown up.”

“I am two years older,” Pamma said. “And I’ve had my twenty-first, so I am officially an adult now.”

Ben shifted uneasily at the long glance that passed between them. “I should go and leave you two in peace,” he said.

“Would you, old chap?” Jeremy said. “I’m dying to kiss her, you know.”

“Of course,” Ben answered, trying to keep his voice light. “I’ll come and visit you again soon.”

“Do. That would be splendid. I’m anxious to hear what you’ve been doing. Anxious to get back to normality. The last year has been like a bad dream, and now I’ve woken up.”

“I’ve been doing nothing thrilling, I’m afraid,” Ben said. “Good to have you home again.”

“Ben, you don’t have to . . .” Pamela called after him, but he was already heading back into the darkness of the room beyond. He let himself out.

Jeremy looked at Pamma and eased over to make room next to himself on the chaise longue. “Come here, you delectable creature,” he said.

“Which is your bad shoulder?” Pamela asked as she sat beside him. “I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

“All patched up and healing nicely, thank you,” he said. “Here.” He slipped his arm around her neck and pulled her toward him. “God, I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he said. His kiss was hard and demanding, his lips crushing against hers so fiercely that she almost cried out in pain. His tongue thrust into her mouth, and his hand fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. One of them broke off with his persistent tugging and went bouncing across the tiled floor. His hand forced its way inside her blouse, his fingers worming inside her brassiere to cup her breast. As she felt his fingers on her warm flesh, seeking her nipple, she pulled her face away from him.

“Jeremy, not here! Anyone can see us.” She laughed nervously. “I’m as anxious as you are to pick up where we left off, but . . .”

He was still looking at her hungrily. “The only people who might see are working for my father, and they are paid well to keep their mouths shut.”

She sat up. “I’m sorry. It’s a bit too much too soon, Jeremy. I’m so thrilled to see you again, but we had never gone this far before, had we? And it’s been so long . . .”

“Dammit, Pamma,” he said. “I’m only human, you know. Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of doing this, while I was in that wretched hellhole?”

“I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Have to learn to control myself, won’t I? Behave like the good chap again.” He gave her a wicked grin. “As soon as I’m not confined to this chair, I’m going to whisk you away. We’ll run off together.”

“Elope, you mean? To Gretna Green?” Pamela asked, not quite sure whether to be excited or scared.

Jeremy looked amused. “My dear sweet girl, you really still are a romantic innocent, aren’t you? Who can think of getting married with a war on? I want to whisk you up to a discreet hotel in London. I want to go to bed with you.”

“Oh.” Pamela felt her cheeks burning.

“As you just said, my darling. You are now an adult.” His eyes were teasing hers. “Or is there someone else I don’t know about? I’d understand if there was. I’ve been gone a long time, and I don’t suppose you even knew whether I was alive or dead.”

“There’s nobody else, Jeremy,” she said. “There’s only you. There has only ever been you.”

He looked pleased. “Well, that’s all right, then.”

She took a deep breath before asking, “I gather my little sister has been coming to visit.”

“She has. Entertaining little kid, isn’t she? Quite amusing.”

Pamela felt a wave of relief.



As Ben came out of the front door, a Rolls-Royce was pulling up. The driver’s door opened, and Sir William Prescott himself climbed out, brushing down his suit jacket in case it had picked up any creases during the drive. He always looked immaculate. Perfectly groomed, hair with the requisite amount of grey in it, Savile Row tailored suit. There had been a rumour at one time before the war started that he was considering running for Parliament. But the war had put a stop to such aspirations, if indeed they were any more than a rumour. He walked around the car and opened the passenger-side door.

While Ben was considering that in the days before the war a footman would have come running out to do this, Lady Prescott emerged. She was always elegant, too, but in a country sort of way. Where Sir William’s image said clearly, city, high finance, banking, his wife’s spoke more of growing prize roses for the flower show, of church bazaars and charity events. It was she who noticed Ben first. Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “Ben, how absolutely lovely to see you. We didn’t know you were coming down. You’ve heard about Jeremy, then. Isn’t it splendid? There were times when I never thought I’d see him again. And then we got the telegram. Like a miracle.”

Sir William extended his hand. “Good to see you, young Cresswell. How are you? Are they keeping you busy?”

“Busy enough, sir. How are you?”

“Up to our eyes, old boy,” he said. “Trying to put a deal with the Yanks in place. They might want to stay out of the war this time, but we need their help financially. Churchill’s the only one who can persuade them. If we don’t get their money, we’re sunk.”

“The Americans are going to give us money?”

Sir William gave a short, brittle laugh. “Lend, my boy. Lend. And at a pretty favourable rate to them, too. But we desperately need help. Money and equipment, all to be repaid if we ever win this damned war.”

Lady Prescott was less interested in the American lease-lend deal. “You’ve been to see Jeremy, have you? He’s so painfully thin. I can’t imagine how he survived all those weeks, making his way through hostile territory. Sometimes not eating for days, he said. And with that horrible infected wound. How does he seem to you?”