In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Ben racked his brains for artists that Guy had talked about. He had dragged him to galleries when there were still such things. “Well, I admire Karl Schmidt-Rottluff and, of course, Paul Klee, although it’s probably not permitted to admire a German artist anymore.”

“Then you’d better come in,” the man said. “Serge’s work has been compared to Schmidt-Rottluff’s.” He went ahead of Ben. “Oh, Serge. Come out, wherever you are. We have a civilised visitor at last,” he called in fluted tones.

Another man came out of a back room. He was tall, dark, and lean, with sharp features, and was wearing a paint-spattered smock.

“Serge, this young man is an admirer of Schmidt-Rottluff’s. I told him your work has been compared to his.”

“Really?” He was looking at Ben sceptically. “You admire the German expressionists?”

“Oh, definitely,” Ben said, hoping the discussion did not get too deep. He looked around the room. On the walls were several awful paintings—bright daubs of primary colours and distorted figures. Ben thought that Guy might actually like them. Ben said, “Your work, Serge?”

The dark man nodded. “You approve?”

“Powerful.”

The man nodded again. “You are most kind.”

Ben’s gaze lingered on an elongated purple woman. He was sure that he’d seen the picture before—hadn’t Guy pinned up a postcard of it?

“Have you exhibited much in galleries?” he asked.

“A little.” Serge shrugged.

“You are from Russia?” Ben asked. The accent was still strong.

“I am. I came here when I was no longer allowed to paint anything other than healthy peasant women operating harvesting machines. There is no art in Russia anymore.”

“Did you also come here when you could no longer practise your art?” Ben asked the other man.

He smiled. “I am from Denmark, my dear, where usually anything goes. But I got out in a hurry when the Germans were about to invade. And thank my lucky stars that I did so. I would not have made a good Nazi. I don’t salute well, for one thing. And I’m hopeless at taking orders.” He grinned. “You are the first halfway civilised person we’ve met since we moved here. Most of them are philistines, aren’t they, Serge?”

Serge nodded. “Philistines.” He frowned at Ben. “So what are you doing in these parts?”

“My father is the local vicar. I’m here on a few days’ leave.”

“A soldier? A sailor?”

“Civilian, I’m afraid. I was in a plane crash.”

“Don’t apologise. Be grateful that you’re not part of the carnage. We’re certainly grateful that they are not yet calling up men over forty, aren’t we, Hansi?”

The chubby man nodded. “Would you like to try our homemade parsnip wine? It packs quite a kick, I’ll warn you.”

Ben nodded and was handed a glass. Ben took a sip, gasped as the liquid burned his throat, then asked, “So did you come here from London?”

They both nodded. “We lived in Chelsea, naturally,” the chubby Hansi said. “Then a house three doors away was bombed, and we said that’s too close for comfort and fled here. We were taken with the building immediately. It has character, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” Ben said, “although I still remember when the hops were hung to dry in the tower. Are you also a painter?”

“Sculptor,” Hansi said. “I work with metal. Or rather I worked with metal when there was any. I used to make great outdoor pieces. Now, of course, every piece of scrap metal goes toward building another bomb or plane. So I am reluctantly switching to clay, of which there is no shortage.”

Ben looked from one to the other. The saturnine Serge from Russia—Ben could picture him working with the Nazis. But the affable Hansi? And yet he worked with metal. He would have any tools that a visiting German paratrooper would need.

When he left them, half an hour later, they parted on the friendliest of terms with an open invitation for Ben to visit them whenever he was back in the area. He rode away, wobbling a little along the path, as the wind had become even stronger, and he was feeling the effects of the potent parsnip wine.

As he bicycled wearily home, he realised that he was none the wiser. The two artists seemed to have fled to England to escape from tyranny and only wanted peace and quiet to create their art. And yet, they had chosen a remote location, and Hansi wouldn’t be the first German to claim he was Danish. The local farmers were solid local men he had known all his life. Their land girls beyond reproach, except for an Austrian called Trudi who was dating a soldier. But the dead man had landed in Lord Westerham’s field, presumably for a good reason. Ben hoped the dinner party might give him some sort of clue.





CHAPTER TWENTY


At Nethercote


The dinner party



Ben was glad for long summer evenings as he and his father walked up the drive to Nethercote, the Prescotts’ residence. He was also glad the driveway was straight. It wouldn’t be so easy to walk back in the dark with just a flashlight covered in black cloth to guide their steps. No light was permitted to shine out from the windows of any house, and the whole way home would be in total darkness. Ben tried to remember if there would be a moon. He turned to ask his father.

“In its third quarter, so it won’t be any use to us, unless we stay very late, which we won’t,” Reverend Cresswell said. “I have to admit I am looking forward to the food, but I’m beginning to find the prospect of the evening a little daunting. Still, if it’s just us and the Sutton family, then it won’t be too bad, will it? Just like old times.”

Ben nodded. Just like old times, he thought. They pushed open the tall wrought-iron gates that hadn’t yet been commandeered for scrap metal, and their feet crunched over the raked gravel as they walked up the path. He was marvelling at the beautifully kept state of the grounds when his father said, “I see they haven’t tried to convert their lawns to potato patches. The place looks positively sinful. They must still have gardeners.”

“They do,” Ben said. “I saw them working when I came here with Pamela the other day.”

“You came here with Pamela?”

Ben nodded. “She was worried about seeing Jeremy by herself. I think she was frightened he’d be disfigured or something. But he seemed his old self, apart from having lost a lot of weight and being rather pale.”

“That young man must have been a cat in a previous existence,” his father said. “He’s certainly used most of nine lives.”

Ben nodded again.

“And no doubt he’ll be back tempting fate in a fighter plane again as soon as they’ll let him.”

“No doubt.” Ben agreed.

They had just reached the front door when there was the sound of a motor engine behind them, and Lord Westerham’s ancient Rolls came up the driveway. Lord Westerham himself, not a chauffeur, got out of the driver’s seat and went around to open the passenger doors. His wife and daughters emerged one by one, smoothing out crumpled evening dresses. Ben watched Pamela step down daintily. She was wearing a pale-blue Grecian gown, the perfect shade for her ash-blonde hair and English complexion.