In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“And how is he? Is he—um—fully recovered?”

“Still a little pale and thin, but well on the road to recovery, thank God. He looks a little like a Romantic poet, you know, like Keats on his deathbed. But recovering rapidly.” An image of Jeremy in the car, trying to pin her down, flashed across her mind. “Yes, making a remarkable recovery.”

“So did you have an absolutely divine time? Confess all. Tell Auntie Trixie.”

“We had family around most of the time,” Pamela said. “We did go out to dinner at a pub, and then he drove me home.”

“Oh God, I remember going home in a taxi with him once, after a deb’s ball,” Trixie said. “My dear, I had no idea you could get up to that sort of thing in the back of a taxi. Nobody had mentioned he was NSIT.”

“What?” Pamela asked.

“NSIT. Not safe in taxis, darling. It was a common code among debs. Did you grow up in a nunnery?”

“No, but Farleigh was almost as bad. My parents are horribly prudish, and I knew nothing until I went away to finishing school in Switzerland.”

“Where I’m sure you learned more than how to curtsey and hostess dinner parties. I know I did.” She gave a knowing grin. “My dear, those ski instructors. So virile.” And she pretended to fan herself.

Pamela laughed, a little nervously.

“So did Jeremy pop the question? Or did you already have an understanding, as they used to say so quaintly?”

Pamela felt herself flushing. “Jeremy thinks that one can’t think of marriage until this horrid war is over.”

“Quite right,” Trixie said. “And who would want to get married when clothing is on ration? You won’t see me getting married in a frumpy two-piece. I want the twelve-foot train, the veil, and yards of glorious silk. And a yummy trousseau, too.”

“You’ll be wearing white, then?” Pamela asked, raising an eyebrow and making Trixie giggle.

“My dear, if the only brides who wore white were virgins, you’d have very few white weddings,” she said. As she talked, she was pulling on the second stocking. Then she stood up, studied the result in the mirror, and nodded approvingly.

“Are you going somewhere nice?” Pamela asked.

“Probably not. A chap from Hut Six I met at the concert last night invited me to the pictures. He’s a bit serious and brainy for my taste, but then who isn’t at this dump? Nobody exactly comes here to have fun, do they? So I thought the pictures would be better than staying in and eating Mrs. Entwhistle’s cottage pie. And by the way, the food has been particularly drear this week. Boiled cabbage, mashed spuds, and a slice of Spam three nights in a row. I kept thinking of you, eating real food. Did you have some good meals?”

“I did, actually,” Pamela said. “Especially one at the Prescotts’. Oysters and roast pork and chocolate mousse. And all the right wines for each course. I thought I’d die from happiness.”

“Where did they get their hands on all that?”

“Black market, by the sound of it. Sir William seems to have fingers in a lot of pies.”

“Then you’d better force Jeremy to marry you before some other girl snaps him up, if you want to live in luxury for the rest of your life.” She applied a generous coat of lipstick. “So when will you see him again, do you think? It’s rather too far to pop down to Kent on a day off, isn’t it?”

“Well, he’s moving to his parents’ flat in London this week,” Pamela said. “He starts work at the Air Ministry. Oh, and he’s planning a party a week from Wednesday—a sort of flat warming. I just hope I’m not still on night duty. Maybe I can trade shifts.”

“A party? How divine. Can I come?”

Pamela hesitated. Trixie would be only too anxious to get her hands on Jeremy again, she was sure. But she saw no reason to decline. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “If we can both get a free evening. I told Jeremy I might still be working the night shift, and it might be hard to get time off.”

“Maybe not,” Trixie said. “I was handed a note from Commander Travis on Friday. He wants you to report straight to him as soon as you come back.”

“Golly,” Pamela said. “I hope it’s not a reprimand.”

“Why, you haven’t blotted your copybook, have you?” Trixie asked. “Given away state secrets? Talked about your job here, God forbid?”

“No, of course not. Although it was rather hard at home. They all think I’m doing some boring office job in a faceless ministry, and I couldn’t tell them that what we are really doing is important.”

“Is it?” Trixie asked. “Sometimes I wonder. All I do is a boring office job in a faceless ministry, but I suppose your job must be more exciting than mine.”

“Not exciting,” Pamela said hastily, “but at least I know I’m a small cog in a long chain that does make a difference, and that’s all that matters.”

“Is this where I stand up, wave a flag, and sing ‘Rule Britannia’?” Trixie said, laughing.

Pamela gave her a friendly shove. “Shut up and go off to your pictures. I suppose I’d better go downstairs and face Mrs. Entwhistle’s Spam and spuds.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


At Bletchley Park


At eight o’clock the next morning, Pamela parked her bike outside the big house and headed for the imposing front door. It was a glorious day. The sun sparkled from the lake where swans glided. Pigeons fluttered and wheeled in the sky. The air smelled of roses and honeysuckle. It was the sort of day to take a picnic to a riverbank. Pamela’s thoughts went to lazy summer days at Farleigh before she wrenched them firmly back to the present and entered the gloom of the front hall. She couldn’t think of what she might have done wrong, except for fainting. Maybe she was about to be told she wasn’t up to the task here and would be sent home in disgrace. But then she wasn’t the first person who had fainted or even had a nervous collapse while working here. The long hours, the dreary conditions, and the constant pressure got to other people, she knew.

The receptionist popped out of her cubby when she heard Pamela’s feet on the tiled floor.

“Ah, Lady Pamela,” she said. “Do go up. I’ll telephone Commander Travis and tell him you are coming.”

She had sounded bright and cheerful, which was encouraging, but maybe receptionists knew few details about visitors. She went up the ornate wooden staircase and tapped on the commander’s door.

“Lady Pamela,” he said jovially. “Do take a seat. Did you have a good week’s rest at home?”

Pamela perched on an upright chair, facing the commander’s mahogany desk. “I did, thank you, sir. A few nights’ sleep and good food, and now I’m right as rain.”

“Splendid,” he said, “because I’ll need you to be on your toes. I’m giving you a new assignment. It’s a little out of the ordinary, even for Bletchley, and nobody else is to know about it. Do you understand? I know you are used to secrecy by now, but in this case, it is especially important.”

“I see, sir,” she said.