In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“You’re a brave kid. You should stick up for yourself more. Don’t let them bully you.”


Alfie sighed. “They gang up, don’t they? And they’re bigger than me.”

“I could give you a few boxing pointers while I’m home if you like.”

“Would you?” Alfie looked hopeful.

“Not that I approve of fighting,” he said with a wink. “As a vicar’s son, you understand.”

Alfie grinned.

“So what are they saying at school about this parachutist of yours?” he asked as they started to walk together.

“Nobody knows, do they? Some people reckon he was a German spy. They say the Jerries are landing parachutists all over the place so that when the invasion comes they can cut telephone wires and that sort of thing.”

“People here think that the Germans will invade, do they?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “That lord bloke up at Farleigh is already having drills, teaching us how to fight with pitchforks and shovels. I don’t think we’d do much good against tanks and bombers, do you?”

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” Ben said, “but if it does . . .” The rest of the sentence remained unsaid.

As he left Alfie and walked on through the village, he thought about what the boy had said. That the man had been sent to sabotage ahead of the invasion. But he carried no tools on him, nothing to cut telephone wires. Which would have to mean that someone local would supply him. And house him maybe. He paused at the doctor’s surgery, then shook his head. He’d known the doctor his whole life. He wasn’t the sort to let the side down and house a traitor.



Ben ate a light supper of hard-boiled egg and salad with his father, then decided that he couldn’t just sit around all evening, making polite conversation when he was sent there with a job to do. “I thought I’d go down to the pub, Father,” he said. “See if any of my old mates are still here.”

“Good idea.” Reverend Cresswell nodded.

“Do you want to come with me?” Ben asked.

The older man looked amused. “Me? Oh, thank you for the invitation, but I don’t think I’m the pub-going type. My one small glass of sherry wouldn’t go down well among the drinking public. But you go, my boy. Go and enjoy yourself. God knows how much longer we’ll have to make the most of small pleasures.”

Ben nodded, went to say something positive but couldn’t think of anything. There wasn’t much to be optimistic about these days. Would they all be drinking German lager this time next year? Or would they all be starving, or slaves, or shut away in prison camps? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Bats were swooping through a pink twilight, and rooks were cawing as they settled for the night in the big trees behind the vicarage as Ben made his way around the village green to the Three Bells. There was a pleasant hum of conversation going on as Ben pushed open the door into the pub. Several men were standing around the bar with beers in their hands, and they looked up as Ben came in.

“Evening, Mr. Cresswell,” the bartender said. “Good to see you home again.”

Ben went up to the bar and ordered a pint.

“You here for long, then?” one of the men asked. “Or just popped down to see your old dad?”

“I had a few days’ leave coming,” Ben said. “It’s nice to get out of London for a break.”

“Seen much bombing, then?” one of the men asked.

“We’ve had our share,” Ben said. “But you get used to it. Nobody even looks up at work now when the air-raid sirens go off.”

“What sort of job are you doing, then?” another asked.

“Working for one of the ministries,” he said.

“Doing what?”

Ben grinned. “You know we’re not allowed to discuss our work.”

“Not allowed to discuss it,” a voice behind them said, and Ben turned to see a skinny chap with bright-red hair coming toward them. Billy Baxter, the builder’s son. Ben felt his hand clench into a fist. Billy had always enjoyed tormenting him when they were small boys. He was grinning. “Hush-hush work is it then, Ben?”

“He said he can’t discuss it,” one of the older men said.

Ben turned his gaze to the redhead. “I notice you’re not in uniform either, Billy Baxter,” he said.

“Ah well, I’m in a protected occupation, aren’t I?” Billy said.

“Making bow windows for Britain?” Ben asked and was pleased to get a general laugh.

Billy Baxter flushed. “If your roof gets blown in during the next bombing raid, who do you think will come out and patch it before the rain gets in?”

“You seem to be doing quite well out of it,” Ben said. “I noticed that new bungalow your dad has built. Looks quite fancy.”

“Hard work pays off, doesn’t it?” Billy said.

Ben watched Billy Baxter as he ordered a pint. He was the type who would sell his own grandmother if the price was right. But working for the Germans? Ben didn’t think he’d have the temperament. At heart he was a coward, as proved that time Ben had punched him and made his nose bleed and he’d run home crying. Ben’s father had lectured him on violence and restraint, but actually he had looked quite pleased.

Halfway through his pint, the pub door burst open and a group of soldiers came in, talking and laughing loudly. They barged their way up to the bar, and Ben noticed that the local men moved away. There was tension in the air. Then one of the soldiers said, “What are you drinking, miss?” and Ben noticed Lady Diana was with them. She was dressed in red trousers and her hair was tied back in a red bandanna, like a land girl’s. And she was wearing bright-red lipstick.

“Don’t call her ‘miss.’ It’s ‘my lady.’ She’s the daughter of an earl,” one of the soldiers hissed at his friend.

Dido heard and laughed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Call me Diana or Dido. I can’t stand stuffiness. I’ll have half a pint of shandy, please, Ronnie.”

As she looked around the room, she spotted Ben at the same time and gave him a big smile. “Hello, Ben,” she said. “These nice boys offered to take me with them to the pub. Wasn’t that kind of them? A brief escape from captivity, you know.” She laughed, but her eyes were saying “Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me here.”

The bartender looked uncomfortable. “Pardon me, my lady, but this is the public bar. Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in the private bar next door? There are armchairs, and it’s not quite as rowdy there.”

“Nonsense,” Dido said, giving Ben a swift glance for support. “I spend my life banished and away from people. I want to live a little. I want to hear laughter and talk to ordinary people.” She looked back to the soldier who had offered her a drink. “Make that a pint, Ronnie,” she said. She walked over to Ben as the pint was being drawn.

“So what are you doing these days, Dido?” Ben asked her. “Still at home?”

She gave a dramatic sigh. “Still stuck at home. Pah won’t let me do anything useful. I’m dying to do my part, you know. I don’t suppose you could find me a job in London, could you? At the place where you work?”