In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“You’re asking whether they kicked me out? From a desk job? In wartime?” Ben’s voice was sharp. “Really, Father. In spite of what anyone may think, I am not a poor cripple. I can walk perfectly well. Pamela and I walked from the station with suitcases. I just have a blasted knee that won’t bend, that’s all. So don’t sign me up as wicketkeeper if we have a village cricket match.”

His father looked shocked at the outburst. “I’m sorry, Benjamin. I really didn’t mean to upset you. I just wondered when you arrived home out of the blue and one hears that nobody is getting any sort of leave these days.”

Ben took a deep breath, his distaste of what he had to say already showing on his face. “As a matter of fact, I was told I had been overdoing it and needed a few days off. All those night shifts can take a toll, you know. And fire-watching duty when one isn’t working.”

“You’re still in central London? Seen a lot of bombing?”

“Quite a bit.”

“You’re in one of the ministries, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Interesting work?”

Ben smiled now. “Father, there’s a war on. Even if I’m doing the most boring job in the world, I’m not allowed to tell you about it.”

“I understand,” his father said. “Well, it’s good to have you home, my boy. Make the most of your time here. Enjoy Mrs. Finch’s cooking. Get some fresh air.”

“I intend to. Thanks.”

As he was about to walk from the room, his father said, “And Lady Pamela, what’s she doing home?”

“Same as me, I should think,” he said. “Working too many long night shifts.”

“They don’t expect girls to work all night, do they?”

“Everybody has to work, all the time,” Ben said.

“But, surely, they don’t need things like filing done at night? Where did you say she works?”

“I didn’t. But it’s a government department, and they’ve been moved out of London.”

“Bright girl, Lady Pamela. First-class brain,” Reverend Cresswell said. “She’d have done well at Oxford. I tried to tell her father, but he wouldn’t hear of it. In his mind, one marries off a daughter at the first opportunity and then is free of all obligations toward her. Positively medieval.”

The word reminded Ben of his other sphere of inquiry. “That reminds me, Father. You’re a history buff. Fourteen sixty-one. What happened that year? Anything significant?”

Reverend Cresswell stared past Ben out the window, where a large draught horse was pulling a cart full of manure. “Fourteen sixty-one, you say? Wars of the Roses, wasn’t it?”

“Wars of the Roses?” Ben tried to remember the history lessons at Tonbridge School.

There had been endless repetitions of dates and battles that he retained in his head until the exam was passed, then he happily forgot. “The House of Lancaster versus the House of York. And York won, eventually?”

“Henry VI with his bouts of insanity was deposed by Edward IV in 1461, if I remember correctly. That’s right. There were two bloody battles, one on the Welsh border at Mortimer’s Cross and the other up in Yorkshire. Battle of Towton. One of the bloodiest battles ever. Scores of men killed, and Edward emerged victorious.”

Ben was taking this information one step further. “And would you happen to know whether either was fought on terrain with a steep hillside behind it?”

“I have no idea.” Reverend Cresswell sounded surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in battles, at least not ancient ones.”

“A question I was asked at work,” he said. “I get a lot of strange questions in the reference department.”

“Well, the Welsh Marches are quite hilly, aren’t they? And Yorkshire? You have the Dales and the Moors, but both are more gentle slopes if I recall correctly from rambling up there in my student days.”

“Thank you.” Ben smiled at his father. “You’ve been very helpful. It’s good to have a father who is a fount of knowledge.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The vicar coughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I’ve always enjoyed history, as you know. And I like to read. Not much for the wireless, and the winter evenings can seem very long and lonely. So one reads.”

Ben looked at his father with compassion. All those years alone since his mother died, and yet he had happily sent his son off to boarding school, knowing it would be the right thing to do if his son wanted to get ahead.

“You don’t happen to have an ordnance survey map of the whole of Britain, do you?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. I expect they have one in the library in Sevenoaks or Tonbridge.” He looked at Ben with interest. “I’m glad you’re keen on taking exercise. Build up the muscles. That’s the ticket.”

“Actually, I was thinking more of those battles. Mortimer’s Cross. Towton.”

“I’m surprised that ancient battles are of interest in the middle of a modern war,” Reverend Cresswell said, “but I expect you have your reasons. Good to have something to work on and keep the mind busy. And I should be getting back to my sermon.”

He turned back to his open Bible.



Ben took the map and went through to the drawing room. He spread the map on a low table and looked at it again. Then he opened the little notebook he carried in his breast pocket and took out his fountain pen. Oast-house people? He wrote. Check village for newcomers. Then map for Mortimer’s Cross and Towton. Although how two ancient battles could possibly be connected to a modern war, he found hard to imagine. Maybe something else happened in 1461—a smaller battle, a critical turning of the tide in the Wars of the Roses. He’d need to go to the library or to his old school in Tonbridge and see if they had any books on the subject. He realised he was rather looking forward to the research aspect. Rather like a puzzle.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Farleigh Place, Kent

May 1941



The Rolls-Royce crunched over the gravel drive as it approached Farleigh Place. Pamela was glad she had accepted Sir William’s offer to run her home. She realised she was out of practice for the long walks that country living entailed. Also, she had to admit that she was glad when Jeremy’s parents came in to interrupt them. His sudden fierce passion had alarmed her. She certainly could understand it, after being locked up all that time, but she had found his advances overwhelming. She was not completely na?ve. She had repelled young men’s advances at debutante balls. She’d had to fight off a couple in taxis. But she had always been conscious that she was waiting for Jeremy—saving herself for him. Now his frank admission that he wanted to take her to bed had unsettled her. Of course, she wanted him to make love to her. But her fantasy had always pictured the long white dress, the flowing veil, and then the honeymoon at a lovely villa in Italy, where he’d take her into his arms and whisper, “Alone at last, my darling.”

“How did you get here?” Sir William had asked when they pulled out of Nethercote’s driveway onto the country lane.

“I walked with Ben,” she said. “Can you believe it? We came down from London on the same train. Pure coincidence.”

“Good chap, young Cresswell,” Sir William said. “I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. Stuck being a pen-pusher and missing all the fun.”