In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Mrs. Robbins cut a slice, holding up the loaf and cutting toward her stomach. Phoebe half expected her to slice into her ample body, but she put an evenly cut slice on a plate and handed it to Phoebe. Then she handed Phoebe a butter dish. Phoebe tasted it and exclaimed, “This is butter.”

“Well, of course it is.” Mrs. Robbins laughed. “Mr. Robbins can’t abide that margarine stuff, so I do a little deal with the farmer’s wife at Highcroft. Only don’t you go mentioning it to anyone, will you?”

“Of course not.” Phoebe spread butter on the bread, then strawberry jam.

“You’re very lucky to be getting such good food,” she said to Alfie.

“I know. It’s smashing, isn’t it?” he agreed. “What did you want to see me for?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” she said, looking up as Mrs. Robbins put a big ceramic teacup beside her. She had already added the milk and sugar, and the tea looked incredibly strong.

“I’ll leave you two young people to get on with it, then, shall I?” Mrs. Robbins said. “Just holler if you need anything. I’ll be out back, stringing up the runner beans.”

Alfie looked at Phoebe expectantly.

“I’ve just learned something interesting,” she said, her voice just louder than a whisper, in case Mrs. Robbins was still listening.

“About our body?”

“That’s right. My father says there was something wrong with his uniform. He thinks he might be a spy.”

“That’s what they’re saying in the village,” Alfie said, pleased that he had heard the information first. “Everyone’s been talking about it at school. Even the big boys are jealous that I found the bloke.”

“Do they have any ideas in the village what this spy might have been doing? Presumably, he was sent to make contact with someone around here, don’t you think?”

Alfie shook his head. “They say Jerry is dropping parachutists all over the place.”

“Well, I think he was supposed to meet somebody,” Phoebe said. “So I think it’s up to us. We have to find out what he was doing here.”

“Blimey!” Alfie said. “You and me? Looking for possible spies?”

“Why not? Nobody would ever suspect two children, would they? What time do you get out of school?”

“Four o’clock,” he said.

“Then let’s meet tomorrow, and we’ll make a list of possible suspects,” she said.

“I’m not coming up to the big house.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t want my family snooping into what I’m doing. I’ll meet you in the village. By the war memorial on the green.” She grinned at him. “This is going to be fun. We’ll actually be doing something useful.”

They both looked up as the dogs started barking, and then they heard the pop-popping sound of an approaching motorbike.

“I wonder who that could be?” Phoebe said. She went to the window and saw a young man in uniform get off a bike and approach Mrs. Robbins while the dogs jumped up, half greeting, half warning. Phoebe went out and called them to her, reprimanding them. The motorcyclist handed Mrs. Robbins something, then rode away. Phoebe waited a long while as Mrs. Robbins stood still, staring down at the piece of paper in her hands. At last, Phoebe could stand it no longer.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Robbins?” she asked.

The woman looked up with a stricken expression on her face. “It’s our George. The telegram says his ship was torpedoed, and he’s missing, presumed dead.” She looked around her, bewildered. “I’ve got to find my husband. He’ll need to know.”

“I’ll go and find him, Mrs. Robbins,” Alfie said. “Don’t you worry.” And he ran off, leaving Phoebe standing beside the gamekeeper’s wife.

She turned to Phoebe. “I shouldn’t be surprised if this news doesn’t kill him. Thought the world of that boy, he did. Thought the sun shone out of his head. Nothing was too good for our George. And he didn’t want him to go and volunteer. He didn’t have to. He was in a reserved occupation. But the stupid boy wanted to do his bit, said he wanted to join the navy and see something of the world.” She was crying now, fat tears trickling down her cheeks. “And he were only eighteen.” Then she seemed to realise she was speaking to Lady Phoebe. “I’m sorry, your ladyship. I’d no right to . . .”

“You’ve every right,” Phoebe said.

But the woman shook her head. “I can’t go making a fuss, can I? I’m no different from all the other mothers who got bad news today. We’ve just got to learn to get on with it. Learn to get on without him.”

With that, she put a hand to her mouth and ran back into the house. Phoebe stood there, undecided about what to do next. Should she go in and try to comfort Mrs. Robbins or would the woman rather be left alone? Before she could make up her mind, Mr. Robbins came running up, red-faced and sweating, followed by Alfie.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Phoebe pointed blankly at the door. Mr. Robbins blundered in. Alfie hesitated, looking at Phoebe.

“I think I’d better go home,” she said. “I’d just be in the way at the moment.”

Alfie nodded.

“Tomorrow, then?” Phoebe asked.

Alfie nodded again.



Phoebe walked back to the house. She could hear the others still talking, but she crept up the stairs back to her room. Miss Gumble looked up as she came in.

“Whatever’s the matter, Phoebe?” she asked.

“It’s George Robbins, the gamekeeper’s son. He’s missing, presumed dead.” She turned away. “I hate this horrid war. I hate it. Hate it. People are getting killed, and I’ll never go to school now, and nothing nice will ever happen again.” She picked up the stuffed rabbit that lay on her bed and flung it at the wall. Then she flung herself down on the bed, sobbing.

Miss Gumble went over to the girl, sat beside her, and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, darling. You have a good cry.”

“Pah says we have to be strong and set a good example.” Phoebe gulped, trying to control the tears.

“You’re allowed to cry as much as you like with me,” Miss Gumble said. “Our little secret. Here. Have a good blow.” She handed Phoebe a handkerchief. Phoebe managed a watery smile.

“Do you know what, Gumbie?” she said, “I sometimes wish that we would let the Germans win the stupid war and let them come into England and stop fighting. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Pamela went to Germany before the war, and she went skiing and had fun there. And our king had German ancestors, didn’t he?”

Miss Gumble was staring at her, her face stony.

“Phoebe Sutton, don’t let me hear you say that ever again,” she said in a tone Phoebe had never heard her use before. “If the Germans came into England, it would be the end of life as we know it. Oh, your type of people would probably be all right, as long as your father learned to salute the Nazi flag and say ‘Heil, Hitler.’ But not the rest of us. Not me. My mother was Jewish. Her family fled from Germany before the last war because they didn’t like the anti-Jewish sentiment. And since then, it’s much worse. First it was smashing up Jewish businesses, then it was making all Jews wear a yellow star, forbidding them to go to school and university, beating up Jews in the streets. And my personal belief is that Hitler won’t stop until all Jews have been exterminated.”