In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Miss Gumble nodded. “So I had no choice. With no money and nowhere to go, I had to leave university and get a job teaching other people’s children because that gave me a roof over my head.”

“Why didn’t you get married?” Phoebe said. “You must have been quite pretty once.”

“I think you mean that as a compliment.” Miss Gumble gave a sad smile. “There was a young man. But he died in the trenches in the Great War, like so many others. A whole generation of young men wiped out, Phoebe. For women of my age, there were no men to marry.”

“Golly,” Phoebe said again. “Do you think that will happen this time? Do you think by the end of this war there will be no men left for me to marry?”

“I hope not, for your sake,” Miss Gumble said. “At least when the last war ended, we were still free. And we won, however terrible the cost.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN


All Saints vicarage


Over at the vicarage, Reverend Cresswell opened the morning post and looked surprised. “Well, well,” he said. “We’ve received an invitation to a dinner party tomorrow night, at the Prescotts. That’s a turn-up for the books, isn’t it, Ben?”

“At the Prescotts?” Ben paused. “I suppose they’ve only invited us as a courtesy.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” the vicar said. “They’ve invited you, as Jeremy’s oldest friend. I’m the courtesy.”

“We don’t have to go,” Ben said.

“Not go? I personally shall look forward to a slap-up meal in these times of economy. One hears things about the Prescotts’ table.”

Ben wished he could come up with a good reason not to go. Lord Westerham’s family would most definitely be invited, and he’d have to watch Jeremy and Pamela gazing at each other with that special look. Get used to it, he muttered to himself, disgusted with his own weakness. He was here to work, and the dinner party would see the leading lights in the local community assembled in one place. A perfect opportunity for observation.

“Then we can’t deprive you of a good meal.” Ben got up. “I’ll write an RSVP note to Lady Prescott.”

After breakfast he took out the bicycle. It was a brisk, windy day with the promise of rain. He went back inside again to look for his windcheater.

“I’m going for a bike ride,” he said to his father.

The vicar looked at him critically. “Don’t take this fitness thing too far, Benjamin. You’ve nothing to prove. You’ve made a remarkable recovery from your accident.”

Ben swallowed back annoyance. “I’d hardly call pedalling around the village taking fitness too far. I thought I’d go by the old oast house and see if the artists who live there now will let me see their work.”

“Good luck.” The vicar smiled. “From what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t say putting out the welcome mat was one of their virtues. In fact, they threatened to shoot someone who was using the public footpath. We had to get the local bobby to talk to them and explain about rights-of-way.”

“Then it might prove to be an interesting encounter,” Ben said and headed for the front door.

Half a mile out of the village, he rather regretted his bravado. The wind was coming up from the Thames Estuary, hitting him full in the side and threatening to topple him around each bend. It was fine when the lane dipped between high hedges, but when it skirted the open barley field, it was brutal. Still he was not about to get off and walk. He went first to Broadbent’s farm. Old Mr. Broadbent was mucking out a pigsty when Ben cycled up, with a yapping dog on either side of him.

“Well, if it isn’t young Ben,” he said, wiping down his hands as he came toward the bike. He invited Ben in for a cup of tea, and they talked about the shortage of farmworkers and how the land girls had taken over from the young men.

“Good hard workers, some of them,” Mr. Broadbent said. “Others are hopeless. Worry more about their hair and makeup than getting the job done. I’ve caught a couple going behind the haystack for a smoke. The haystack, mind you! I told them if that went up, my beasts would have no fodder for the winter, and we’d all starve.” He shook his head. “Don’t have much of a clue. City girls.”

Ben hadn’t considered that the contact for the fallen parachutist might be a woman.

“Any of them foreign?” he asked.

“There’s Trudi from Austria. She’s one of my good hard workers. Comes from a farm at home. I put her in charge of the hopeless ones, and she keeps ’em on their toes.”

Ben brought the fallen man into the conversation, but the farmer had only vaguely heard of him and didn’t seem interested. “I suppose you’re bound to get some accidents in wars, aren’t you?” he said and offered Ben a slice of pork pie.

On his way out, Ben stopped to chat with some of the girls and learned that Trudi was not well liked. She made the girls work too hard, and what’s more, she was dating one of the soldiers stationed at Farleigh. A good-looking bloke, too. She slipped out at night to see him. They seemed delighted to tattle on her. Ben rode off again, his stomach full, and only an Austrian named Trudi to add to his list. Trudi, who was conveniently dating one of the soldiers. He went on to the infamous oast house, wondering how he could approach the two hostile owners who had shot at trespassers. They were both artists, he knew that much. It would be time to channel Guy Harcourt, who roomed next door to him. Guy was very keen on modern art and design and had tried, unsuccessfully, to convert Ben to his tastes. But today his small amount of knowledge might come in useful.

The oast house still lay between tall rows of hops, but there was now a picket fence and a gate separating the hop fields from a front garden full of roses. A rose bower curved over the front door. Ben had to admit that it created a lovely picture of rural serenity, except for the sign on the gate saying “Keep Out: No Soliciting.”

Ben opened the gate cautiously and wheeled his bike up to the front door. There was a brass knocker with what looked like a demon’s face on it; Ben hesitated before he knocked. The door was opened by a chubby man dressed all in black—a black fisherman’s jersey, in spite of the warm weather, and baggy black trousers. He had a podgy face, a stack of straw-coloured hair, and a black cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth. Ben took in the smell of foreign tobacco.

“Well, what do want? If you think we’re donating to any metal or paper drive, you can think again.” He had a slight foreign accent that Ben could not identify.

“Actually, I’m the vicar’s son—” Ben said, but the man cut him off.

“And you’re not getting us to church, either. We don’t believe in that nonsense.”

“I’m not here to convert, either,” Ben said. “Someone said you were artists, and I’m an admirer of modern art myself, so I wondered . . .”

“You’re an aficionado yourself? Whose work do you admire?”