In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“I suppose.” Pamela nodded. “So we’ll go back to London, and you can report what you’ve found. And my mother will kill me if we don’t get back for her party.”

“We should stop for something to eat first,” Ben said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Good luck at this time of night.” Pamela chuckled. “I bet they all go to bed by eight in the country, especially now that the blackout makes travel so hard. And I think you’ll find it really difficult to drive home in the dark, Ben. Maybe it would be more sensible to find somewhere for the night and leave at first light tomorrow.”

“Did you bring overnight clothes?”

She laughed. “A toothbrush. But I’ll survive.”

It had been raining as they wound their way down the hill, but the overhead canopy of trees protected them. As they came out onto the flatlands, the heavens opened into a downpour. “We can’t go on in this, Ben,” Pamela shouted over the drumming of the rain. Thunder grumbled in the distance.

“There was a pub in that first village,” Ben shouted back. They crept along at a snail’s pace, conscious of the water-filled ditches, now overflowing on either side of the road. Then the first houses appeared, and they could make out a pub sign. It was called the Fox and Hounds, and had a thatched roof and a nice Old World feel to it.

Ben parked the bike under an overhang in the courtyard, and they sprinted to the front door. When they came in, they were greeted by a low murmur of voices and saw several older men standing around the bar. A couple of dogs lay at their heels. The room had a beamed ceiling and an enormous fireplace. All eyes were on them as they approached the bar.

“Been for a swim, have you, then,” the landlord asked in a strong Somerset accent. “My word, but you look like a couple of drowned rats.” He chuckled.

“We were on a motorbike,” Ben said. “Would you possibly have rooms for the night?”

“I’ve got just the one room,” the landlord said. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind that, will you?”

Ben looked at Pamela. Before he could say anything, she gave a bright smile. “Of course not. That would be lovely.”

“I’ll see if the missus can send up an airing rack to dry your clothes,” the landlord went on. “Should I bring up a couple of pints of beer or cider?”

Ben looked at Pamela, and she said, “Cider for me, please. And something to eat?”

The landlord frowned. “We don’t serve food anymore, not since rationing. But the wife has baked pasties, and I dare say we can spare a couple.”

He led them up a creaky staircase to the room. It had an enormous double bed, piled high with quilts. As soon as the landlord closed the door, Pamela looked at it and laughed. “Talk about the Princess and the Pea.”

“And you, being of noble birth, will undoubtedly be too uncomfortable to sleep.” Ben tried to sound lighthearted.

“On the contrary, after all that fresh air, I shall sleep perfectly,” she said.

“We should take off our wet clothes,” Ben said. “Do you want me to wait outside while you change?” His face was red with embarrassment.

“I’m not too badly soaked,” Pamela said. “My legs were under the canopy of the sidecar. And my blouse was only wet around the collar. My jacket, however, is a disaster.” She took it off and draped it over the back of a chair. “You, on the other hand . . .” She looked at him and laughed.

“Quite damp, I’d say.” He laughed, too.

“Go on. Take them off. I won’t look,” she said.

Ben stripped to his underwear and wrapped himself in a towel that was hanging on the rack.

“You take the bed. I’ll curl up in that chair,” he said, not looking at her.

“You certainly won’t. There is room for both of us,” she said. “You need a good night’s sleep as much as I do.”

There was a tap at the door, and a landlady appeared with glasses of cider and two pasties.

“Give me the wet things, and I’ll put them in the airing cupboard,” she said, then gave them a bright smile and left.

The cider and pasties went down remarkably quickly, then Pamela climbed up into the bed, and Ben turned the light out before sliding in beside her. “Are you sure this is all right?” he asked.

Pamela put a hand on his arm. “Oh, Ben. You are so sweet. I feel perfectly safe with you. You’re like the brother I never had.”

“Good,” Ben said. He didn’t mean it.

They lay there in darkness, listening to the drumming of rain and the distant growl of thunder.

“I never felt safe with Jeremy,” Pamela said suddenly. “I suppose that was part of the attraction—that he was not quite safe. Flirting with danger, you know. He wanted to make love to me, but I wouldn’t let him.” There was silence again, then she blurted out, “I was wondering. Do you think I might be frigid?”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I prove otherwise right now,” Ben said, with an uneasy laugh.

She laughed, too. “Oh no, of course not. It’s just that I’ve been wondering ever since. And feeling guilty. If I’d given Jeremy what he wanted, he’d never have seduced Dido.”

“I don’t think Dido needed much seducing,” Ben said. “You, on the other hand, would want everything to be right before you committed yourself. That’s the way you are.”

“You understand me so well,” she said. And she laid her head on his shoulder. He could hear his heart beating, horribly conscious of her nearness, the cool touch of her skin. The brother she never had, he muttered to himself. She fell asleep quickly, and he lay listening to her breathing.



They woke to a deafening chorus of birds and sounds of activity outside. A farmer was driving cows past the window. A tractor was heading for the field. They looked at each other and smiled. “A little rumpled but hardly the worse for wear,” Pamela said.

“You look splendid,” Ben said. “Would you go down and find my clothes, then we’ll get some breakfast and be off, shall we?”

Down in the private bar, the landlady cooked them bacon, eggs, fried bread.

“That was wonderful,” Pamela said. “After what we’ve been living on. My landlady is a horrible cook.”

“You’re out on a little holiday then, are you? Before your young man goes back into uniform?”

“That’s right,” Pamela said. “And we were interested in that hill over there. Does it have any sort of special history?”

“What, Church Hill, you mean?” The landlady asked.

“Is that its name?” Ben asked sharply.

“That’s how it’s always been known around here.”

“What is it, Ben?” Pamela asked while the landlady cleared away their plates. “You’ve gone quite white.”

“I was just looking at the calendar on the wall,” he said. “It’s the fourteenth of June. That makes the date 14, 6, 1941. Look at the numbers on the photograph. 1461. Today’s date. I think I know what it must mean now. This was an order from Germany to kill Churchill today.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


In Somerset