In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Well said, Lady Prescott,” Colonel Huntley nodded approvingly. “That’s the ticket. A fighting spirit. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.”

“Is that a cue for someone to break into song?” Jeremy asked with an amused look on his face. “‘There’ll Always Be an England’? ‘Rule, Britannia’?” He winked at Pamela.

“It’s a sign that we get down to some serious eating,” his father said. He nodded at the servants, and soup tureens were carried around.

“Is this oyster stew?” Lord Westerham asked in amazement. “Where the devil did you manage to get oysters?”

Sir William smiled. “Usually they are found in the sea. Actually, I have a little man in Whitstable. He couldn’t get me enough for a dozen each, but there was enough to make a good oyster stew.”

“But the coastline is off-limits to civilians.”

Sir William was still smiling. “Who said anything about being a civilian? Sorry, Colonel, or rather Colonels, but rules are made to be bent in times of need. And those oysters would die without being harvested. Such a shame.”

He tucked into his bowl with relish. The others followed. Bowls were whisked away to be replaced with grilled trout. Again, Sir William smiled. “And before you ask, I stocked the lake. They are all homegrown.”

After the trout there came roast pork, thin pink slices topped with crackling and a mound of sage-and-onion stuffing.

“Don’t tell me you have your own pigs, too?” Colonel Huntley said.

“Actually, no. This leg of pork came from a chap who knows a chap. You can pretty much get anything, if you know where to look and are prepared to pay.”

“Black market, you mean?” Lord Westerham looked as if he were about to explode again.

“You don’t have to eat it, old chap,” Sir William said. “In fact, it was quite legitimate. A bomb fell on a pigsty. The pigs were either killed or wounded and had to be put down anyway.”

“At least that’s his story and he’s sticking to it,” Lord Musgrove said and got a general laugh. The pork was accompanied by crispy roast potatoes and asparagus. “From our vegetable garden,” Lady Prescott said proudly. “We’ve had a good crop this year.”

Glasses of claret were poured. Ben ate as if in a dream. After the austerity of the digs he shared with Guy and the bleakness of life in London, it was almost too much for the senses to bear: to be sitting at a glittering table, eating course after course of delicious food, drinking fine wine, looking at Pamela sitting across the table from him. He expected an air-raid siren to wake him up.

“So do you have Highcroft Hall to yourselves, Lord Musgrove, or has someone been billeted on you?” Lady Esme asked.

“So far it’s just us, but then the place is in bad shape and needs lots of work done. We only have a few rooms that are fit to live in. But the fearsome old biddy in charge of requisitions did hint that we’d have to take our share of evacuees if and when they were sent from London.”

“We have one at Farleigh,” Lady Westerham said.

“Be honest, Mah, you palmed him off to the gamekeeper,” Livvy said.

“Much kinder,” Lady Esme said. “One could tell the poor little chap was terrified in a place the size of Farleigh. And I know he’s well fed with the gamekeeper.”

“Wasn’t he the one who found that body in your field?” Ben asked innocently, seizing the chance to bring up the subject and to observe their reactions.

“Body?” Lady Prescott asked.

“That’s right,” Lord Westerham said. “Some poor blighter whose parachute didn’t open. The gamekeeper’s boy and our youngest daughter found him. Dashed brave about it, both of them, because the chap was in a nasty mess, as you can imagine.”

“Were they doing training exercises?” Lady Musgrove asked.

“No idea. The body was whisked away in a hurry. He was wearing the uniform of the West Kents, but the colonel here swears he wasn’t one of theirs.”

“Something funny about him,” the colonel said. “Not quite right, you know. His cap badge for one thing. His was the older version of Kentish horse.”

“A spy! I knew it!” Miss Hamilton said with great animation. “I’ll wager he was a German, dropped in to spy or to aid the invasion.”

“Quite possibly,” Colonel Pritchard agreed. “Much good will it do them. I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out now.”

The roast pork was cleared away, and in its place came a dessert of chocolate profiteroles in a chocolate sauce.

“Chocolate!” Lady Musgrove exclaimed, giving a sigh of contentment. “Where did you find chocolate?”

“No doubt a bomb fell on a cocoa grove, and my father had to rescue the trees,” Jeremy said, making them all laugh. The wine was having its effect. Ben looked around the table at the smiling faces, all of them relaxed and contented. How could any of them possibly be connected to an enemy agent?



They were still all in a convivial mood when the party broke up later.

“How did you get here?” Jeremy asked Ben.

“We walked.”

“I’ll run you home.”

“Not necessary,” Ben said. “It’s a nice night, and it’s not far.”

“It’s no problem. Just hang on while we get rid of the rest of them, and I’ll go and get the motor.” He didn’t wait for an answer but went over to join his parents, saying good-bye to the other guests. Colonel and Mrs. Huntley joined Miss Hamilton in a very ancient Bentley with an equally ancient chauffeur. Lord Westerham’s Rolls was not much younger. Jeremy went over to help Lady Westerham into the passenger seat, then Livvy into the back. When he came to Pamela, he put a hand under her chin, drew her to him, and kissed her. Then he smiled and Ben heard him say, “I’ll come over tomorrow if my father lets me have the motor. We could go for a picnic.”

Ben didn’t hear Pamela’s answer, but she smiled back at him. Jeremy had a rather satisfied grin on his face as he walked back over to Ben. Somewhere in the distance came the drone of approaching aircraft.

“German bombers,” Jeremy said, listening intently. “God, I hope they let me fly again soon. I really miss it.”

Then he turned to Ben, clearly realising that what he said was tactless. “Look, old chap,” he said in a low voice. “When I start at the air ministry, I’ll see whether I can find something for you.”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked. “I already have a job.”

“I meant something more challenging. Exciting. If you’re stuck in a boring desk job . . .”

Ben was so tempted to tell him that he wasn’t in a boring desk job. What he was doing was vital to national security, but of course he wasn’t allowed to. “I’m being useful,” he said. “I don’t need excitement.”

“But I’d really like to help, you know,” Jeremy said. “I mean, I can’t stand the thought of you stuck at some boring desk.”