In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Do you really think it is fun?” Pamela asked. “For those who are actually fighting?”

“At least they know they are doing something worthwhile. Defending their country. What could be more valuable than that? A chance to prove you’ve got what it takes. And my son robbed him of that chance. Showing off as usual. Taking risks. It’s in his nature, I’m afraid. Let’s hope this latest escapade has knocked some sense into him.”

They had reached the tall brick wall that enclosed the Farleigh estate; they turned in at the gateway between the stone pillars topped with lions. Pamela looked out the window at the dear, familiar surroundings. The chestnuts were in full flower with their white candles. The flower beds had been allowed to run wild, however. The lawns were certainly not as well manicured as at Nethercote. She leaned forward in her seat, anxious to get her first glimpse of the house. But as they approached, they were met by a procession of army lorries driving toward them, the convoy cutting off her view of Farleigh and reminding her abruptly that it didn’t really belong to the Sutton family at the moment.

“I hope these blighters aren’t messing up the place too badly,” Sir William said, as the first of the lorries passed them.

“Pah hasn’t complained, so I suppose it must be all right so far.”

“One hears horror stories,” Sir William said. “Using the ancestors’ portraits for target practice, peeing on the tapestries—wanton vandalism, you know.”

“Golly, I hope not,” Pamma said. “Pah would kill anyone with his bare hands who damaged anything at Farleigh. But, luckily, all the good stuff was packed away when we heard that the West Kents were coming.”

The forecourt was filled with lines of army vehicles, and Sir William had to manoeuvre around them. “I can’t get close to the front door, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Oh, please, just drop me off here. I can walk,” she said.

Sir William stopped the car beside the lake. “You’ll be all right, then?”

“Absolutely. Thank you for the ride. I really appreciate it. I’ll have to dig out my old bicycle if I want to get around. I’m sure there’s no petrol for the motorcar.”

“Only for people like myself.” Sir William gave a self-satisfied smile.

He got out and came around to open Pamela’s door for her. “I’m glad you’re here, my dear,” he said. “If anyone can speed up Jeremy’s road to recovery, it’s you. He carried a picture of you all the time in that prison camp, you know. He was so upset when he lost it somewhere in that river during the escape.”

Pamela nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Between you and me,” he said in a low voice, “his mother is rather hoping that they won’t let him fly again. Of course, he’s dying to get back to it, but you know Jeremy. He’ll be chasing Messerschmitts and Junkers into Germany the moment he’s back in that bally plane.”

Pamela had to smile. “I expect so. He does love it.”

“He likes living on the edge. Always has.” He took Pamela’s hand. “Come and see us often while you’re home, won’t you?”

“Of course. Thank you again for the ride.”

He released her hand, and she hurried up the front steps and into the house.



She heard voices from what had been the morning room but had now become the drawing room. It faced the front of the house and had a good view over the lake and the drive. She entered to find the whole family at tea. They were seated in a semicircle, and the low table now held a tea tray with a silver service on it, a plate of small sandwiches, a plate of biscuits, a hunk of fruitcake, and some other type of food hidden under a silver dome. Livvy held her baby, bouncing him on her knee while the nanny hovered nervously in the doorway. The two dogs lay sprawled at Lord Westerham’s feet. Missie, always alert, pricked up her ears when she heard Pamela’s footsteps, then stood up, her tail wagging.

“Pamma’s here!” Phoebe noticed her first and gave her sister a beaming smile that warmed Pamela’s heart.

“Hello, my dear. Welcome home.” Lord Westerham also beamed at the sight of his daughter, holding out his hands to her.

Pamela went over and kissed his cheek. “Hello, Pah.” She looked around the assembly. “Hello, Feebs. Mah. Livvy. I’ve already said hello to you, Dido.”

“And greeted me so warmly, if I remember correctly,” Diana said. She was wearing trousers again, royal blue this time, and a white cotton blouse knotted at the waist, looking like a rather sophisticated land girl.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I was surprised to see you at Jeremy’s house. I didn’t realise you even knew Jeremy.”

“I was doing the charitable thing and visiting a neighbour in distress,” Diana said with a smirk.

“He’s very grateful. He said what a nice kid you were,” Pamela said sweetly.

She went over to the low table and poured herself a cup of tea.

“Pamma, guess what, there are crumpets,” Phoebe said. “Mrs. Mortlock is an absolute angel.”

Pamela smiled at her sister. Phoebe had grown a lot since she’d seen her last. She was clearly at that awkward stage, poised between childhood and womanhood, but Pamela could see that she might well turn out to be a beauty. And her face was alight with refreshing enthusiasm. Pamela turned her gaze to the plate on which now only one crumpet reposed.

“It’s not exactly the same with margarine on it,” Lady Esme said, “but luckily, Mrs. Mortlock had the pantry stocked with a good supply of jam before sugar was rationed. If we use it sparingly, it may last us for another year, and by then let us hope that the war is over.”

“Gumbie says she hopes the war won’t be over soon,” Phoebe chimed in.

“What?” Lord Westerham sat up in his armchair. “Don’t tell me you hired a governess who is a Nazi, Esme.”

“A Nazi?” Lady Westerham looked puzzled. “Oh no, dear. I’m sure she’s not. She comes from Cheltenham.”

“No, Pah,” Phoebe said. “What she meant was that if the war ended soon, it would mean Germany had won. She said it would take a long time if we were going to beat Germany and drive them out of Europe.”

“That’s so true,” Pamela said. “This crumpet is marvellous, isn’t it? You should see the great doorstops of bread and margarine I have to face at my digs. My landlady really is the most awful cook.”

“I must say our cook is managing pretty well, considering,” Lord Westerham commented, helping himself to a biscuit. “Haven’t had a decent joint of beef for ages, of course. But one can’t expect prewar meals. So how are you, Pamela? How’s the job going?”

“I’m well, thank you, Pah. The job is tiring. Long hours. Night shifts. But at least I feel that I’m doing something. And it’s quite jolly on our days off—sports and concerts and various clubs.”

“So what exactly are you doing, Pamma?” Diana asked. “Can’t you get me a job there?”

“Just secretarial work—filing, that kind of thing. And no, I’m sure Pah wouldn’t want you living in digs so far from home.”