by Rhys Bowen
Farleigh
Alone at last, Pamma stood in her bedroom, threw her jacket onto the bed, and heaved a sigh of relief. Seeing the family all at once, after months without them, was almost too much, coming right after her heady encounter with Jeremy. Warm afternoon sun shone in through her west-facing windows, and beyond the forecourt, a pair of mallards drifted effortlessly down onto the lake. Only the army vehicle, scrunching over the gravel, reminded her that not everything at Farleigh was as it used to be. She looked around, taking in the dear, familiar objects: the much-read books on her white bookcase, Black Beauty and Anne of Green Gables; the cowbell and dolls she had acquired when she was at finishing school in Switzerland; the framed picture of her presentation to Their Majesties. The room even smelled like home—the lingering scent of generations of furniture polish and the faint hint of winter fires.
Home, she thought. Exactly what she had dreamed of all those bleak and lonely nights in Hut 3. And yet, now that she was here, she couldn’t shake off the uneasiness. A nagging thought inside her head whispered that she was needed at Bletchley. If they were one person short on her shift, maybe something critical would be missed. Would the gamekeeper’s son still be alive if a submarine message had been intercepted and decoded? She was not part of the naval section, but maybe someone else’s son might have survived because of a message she translated. She told herself that she was giving herself too much importance, but she also knew that every small cog in the great war machine was needed to make it run smoothly.
Her gaze fell on a small china dog on the mantelpiece. He sat up, begging, with ridiculously long ears and a sad face. Jeremy had given it to her when he went into the RAF because she had seen it in an antique shop in Tonbridge and it had made her laugh. He had told her to look at it once a day so that she remembered how to smile. Smiling had been hard when the news came that he had been shot down, and then that he was in a prisoner-of-war camp. And now, against all odds, he was safely home, half a mile away, and she should be bursting with joy. So why wasn’t she?
“I am,” she said out loud. “I just need a little time to get used to things.”
She sank down onto her bed, her hand unconsciously going to her blouse front, feeling the place where the missing button had been. And that mixture of fear and arousal shot through her again. Of course, he had wanted to make love to her. He was, after all, a red-blooded male, deprived of female company for the longest time. He must have dreamed of this moment all those months he was shut away in a prison cell. No wonder he got carried away and couldn’t control himself. Normal behaviour, only to be expected, she told herself. In the time he had been gone, they had both turned from adolescents to adults, and adults took sex for granted—at least her class of adult did. From what she had heard, bed-hopping was an accepted sport among her kind. Apart from her prudish parents, that is. Her mother seemed to have only the vaguest idea about the facts of life, and her father went bright red and started talking about the weather if anyone mentioned an unwanted pregnancy. But they were not the norm. Her roommate Trixie certainly wasn’t a virgin and didn’t mind sharing details of her many rolls in the hay. Pamela didn’t think she’d be averse to it. In fact, now that she had time to examine her feelings, she was rather surprised to find that she had been excited as well as scared. But she was also uncomfortable—it was just the shock of hearing Jeremy’s candid admission that he couldn’t think of getting married to anyone with a war going on. Which made Pamma wonder if she was just one of many girls, if Jeremy really did care about her the way she had always loved him.
Over at the vicarage, Ben stood looking around the back garden. There was an Anderson shelter in the middle of the back lawn, and beyond it beanpoles showing the promise of a good crop of runner beans. Ben pushed the hair back from his forehead, as if this gesture would wipe away the image that still haunted him: Jeremy’s face lighting up when he saw Pamma, and hers equally alight with joy. True, she had been pleased to see him when he had boarded the train, but her eyes hadn’t sparkled in the way they had when she looked at Jeremy. “Damn Jeremy,” he muttered out loud. Trust him to be the one to escape from a German prison camp. And he felt guilty for wishing that Jeremy hadn’t come home. Jeremy was, after all, Ben’s closest friend. They had shared a childhood. And it wasn’t his fault that Pamela had fallen in love with him.
Ben told himself to get over it. There was a war on, and he had a job to do. He stomped down the garden path to the shed where he rescued his old bicycle from among the flowerpots and deck chairs. He sighed as he examined it in the bright sunlight. It had been far from new when it was donated to him by a parishioner, and now looked decidedly the worse for wear. Rusty in places, leather cracking on the saddle. He cleaned it up the best he could, oiled it, and took a tentative loop around the forecourt between church and rectory, wobbling a little as he got the hang of riding again. It was still operational, although he realised that riding a bike wasn’t going to be easy with a knee that didn’t want to bend. He felt a moment’s irritation that someone like Maxwell Knight should expect him to scour the neighbourhood without giving him the means to do so. Perhaps people like Knight thought that everybody owned a motorcar. Although he realised that these days, many people might have cars but no petrol allowance to drive them.
He left the bike for longer explorations and set off on foot around the village. He didn’t quite know what he was looking for. He passed Colonel Huntley’s house, named “Simla,” after his time in India. He paused to admire its neatly trimmed bushes and spotted the colonel’s wife in the immaculate garden pruning the roses. She looked up as she heard Ben’s approaching footsteps and waved to him. “Hello, Ben. Welcome home. Are you here for long? My husband would love to get a cricket team together. He complains he has nothing but schoolboys and old fogies these days.”
She came toward him, wiping her hands on her gardening apron, a pair of secateurs in one hand.
“I’m afraid I’m just taking a few days’ leave,” he said, not about to tell her that he’d been ordered to take things easy for a while. He didn’t want it all around the village that Ben Cresswell had cracked up, even though he hadn’t done a day’s fighting. They already looked down on him for not wearing a uniform.
Mrs. Huntley nodded and smiled. “I expect it’s good to be home after London,” she said. “Is it ghastly up there with all the bombing?”
“One gets used to it,” he said.
“I sometimes feel that we are living in our own little world here,” she said. “We have enough to eat, nobody drops bombs on us, and when we look out of our windows, we still see this—a little plot of paradise, wouldn’t you say?”
Ben nodded. “Your garden is looking lovely,” he said politely.
“We had some chap round the other day telling us we should turn it all over to growing cabbages or potatoes,” she said. “You can imagine how my husband replied to him. Told him one of the advantages of being British as opposed to being German was that we were free to do what we wanted with our own little plots. We already had a kitchen garden that grew enough for our needs, and if his wife gained solace from growing flowers, he wasn’t going to deprive her of that pleasure.” She smiled now at the memory of it.
Ben looked around. “It’s hard to believe that we’re only an hour from London,” he said. “Quite a shock to the senses to come back to a place where life is going on as it always has.”
A frown crossed her face. “I suppose we can’t escape completely here. We’ve all those soldiers at Farleigh. Dashed great lorries rumbling past at all hours and men coming out of the pub drunk and picking fights with local boys. And we’ve had our share of excitement recently. Have you heard that a body was found on the Farleigh estate?”
“I did hear something from Mrs. Finch,” he said. “A parachutist, wasn’t it? Accident with his chute not opening?”
She moved closer to him. “No accident, if you ask me. They came and took the body away in an army van. Not taken to the local morgue. You know wh
at that means, don’t you? There was something suspicious about it. My husband thinks it could be one of those German spies one hears about. Was probably sent to do some mischief at the RAF station. Sabotage the Spitfires.” She paused, looking around as if afraid of being overheard. “But where are my manners? Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? I was just about to take a break.”
“It’s very kind of you, but I should be getting along,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance for much exercise, stuck in an office all day, and I’m interested to see if anything has changed in the village.”
“Not much,” she said. “You’ve heard about the strange men who have moved into the oast house? And the Baxters seem to be doing very well out of the war. Looking quite prosperous these days. Lots of work going on in their yard, but no one knows what it is.”
“Sounds mysterious,” Ben said. “Well, it’s been good talking to you, Mrs. Huntley. Please give my best regards to the colonel.”
As Ben started to walk away, she called after him, “Oh, and Dr. Sinclair has taken in a German.”
“What?” Ben turned back again.
“We think he sounds like a German,” she said. “Claims he’s a refugee, but you never know, do you? They could easily have sent men across ahead of an invasion, ready to give directions from the spot.”
“But Dr. Sinclair would never harbour . . .” Ben began.
The colonel’s wife shook her head. “Too kindhearted. And lonely, since his wife died. I wonder how many of us have been hoodwinked. We’re a nation of kindhearted people.”
She headed back to her house, pausing to snip off a large yellow rose. Yellow petals floated down to the grass. Ben continued around the perimeter of the village green, weighing up what he had just heard. It wouldn’t surprise him at all that the Baxters were making money on the side. Billy Baxter had never struck Ben as quite trustworthy, even as a boy. He remembered a purse going missing at church once, when they were both choirboys, and his father suspected that Billy Baxter had taken it. But they had never found either the purse or the truth.
At least he could eliminate Colonel and Mrs. Huntley from his list. Not that they were ever on it. But they had clearly both been interested in the mysterious parachutist, eager to talk about him. And the colonel had served his country for years in the heat and sweat of India. He looked upon his home now as a return to paradise. But the doctor had taken in a German refugee. Now that was worth following up.
He passed Miss Hamilton’s solidly prosperous Victorian. Her father had made his money in manufacturing up north, then brought his family to the genteel home counties, away from the smoke and factory chimneys of the northern towns. Elderly Miss Hamilton was the sole surviving family member. Ben looked up at the big house. He wondered whether she had been forced to take in evacuees from London or whether she still lived there all alone, apart from an equally elderly servant called Ellen. He paused at the wrought-iron gate but couldn’t think of a good reason to pay her a visit at that moment.
He paused at the war memorial, looking at the list of names of local lads who fell in the Great War. Sixteen from one small village. Three brothers from the same family. Would the list be longer this time? He sighed and walked on.
The Baxters’ new bungalow stood beside their builder’s yard. The tall gates to the yard were closed, and from inside came the sound of hammering. Ben wondered who would want building done in a time of war, then realised that there would be work repairing bomb damage in the towns. Well then, not so surprising that the Baxters were flourishing. The school day had just ended, and children were streaming out of the old school building, pushing and jostling to get through the gate. He saw a couple of big farm boys shoving a thin little kid he didn’t recognise and went over to them.
“Cut that out,” he said. “Save your energy for when you have to fight Germans.”
The biggest boy curved his lip up in a sneer. “You’re a fine one to talk. I notice you ain’t fighting Germans like my brother.”
“Just because I have one damaged leg doesn’t mean I can’t fight, Tom Haslett,” he said. “For your information, I used to be junior boxing champion at Tonbridge, and I’ll wager I could still knock you cold with one punch. But I don’t believe in fighting someone weaker than me, and you shouldn’t either. Go on. Go off home.”
The boys’ eyes darted nervously and they slunk away. Ben grinned at the smaller boy. “I haven’t seen you around here before,” he said.
“I’m Alfie. I came down from London.”
“Oh, so you’re the one who found the man’s body,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“It must have been quite a shock for you.”
Alfie shook his head. “Nah. I saw much worse in London.”
“You’re a brave kid. You should stick up for yourself more. Don’t let them bully you.”
Alfie sighed. “They gang up, don’t they? And they’re bigger than me.”
“I could give you a few boxing pointers while I’m home if you like.”
“Would you?” Alfie looked hopeful.
“Not that I approve of fighting,” he said with a wink. “As a vicar’s son, you understand.”
Alfie grinned.
“So what are they saying at school about this parachutist of yours?” he asked as they started to walk together.
“Nobody knows, do they? Some people reckon he was a German spy. They say the Jerries are landing parachutists all over the place so that when the invasion comes they can cut telephone wires and that sort of thing.”
“People here think that the Germans will invade, do they?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “That lord bloke up at Farleigh is already having drills, teaching us how to fight with pitchforks and shovels. I don’t think we’d do much good against tanks and bombers, do you?”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” Ben said, “but if it does . . .” The rest of the sentence remained unsaid.
As he left Alfie and walked on through the village, he thought about what the boy had said. That the man had been sent to sabotage ahead of the invasion. But he carried no tools on him, nothing to cut telephone wires. Which would have to mean that someone local would supply him. And house him maybe. He paused at the doctor’s surgery, then shook his head. He’d known the doctor his whole life. He wasn’t the sort to let the side down and house a traitor.
Ben ate a light supper of hard-boiled egg and salad with his father, then decided that he couldn’t just sit around all evening, making polite conversation when he was sent there with a job to do. “I thought I’d go down to the pub, Father,” he said. “See if any of my old mates are still here.”
“Good idea.” Reverend Cresswell nodded.
“Do you want to come with me?” Ben asked.
The older man looked amused. “Me? Oh, thank you for the invitation, but I don’t think I’m the pub-going type. My one small glass of sherry wouldn’t go down well among the drinking public. But you go, my boy. Go and enjoy yourself. God knows how much longer we’ll have to make the most of small pleasures.”
Ben nodded, went to say something positive but couldn’t think of anything. There wasn’t much to be optimistic about these days. Would they all be drinking German lager this time next year? Or would they all be starving, or slaves, or shut away in prison camps? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Bats were swooping through a pink twilight, and rooks were cawing as they settled for the night in the big trees behind the vicarage as Ben made his way around the village green to the Three Bells. There was a pleasant hum of conversation going on as Ben pushed open the door into the pub. Several men were standing around the bar with beers in their hands, and they looked up as Ben came in.
“Evening, Mr. Cresswell,” the bartender said. “Good to see you home again.”
Ben went up to the bar and ordered a pint.
“You here for long, then?” one of the men asked. “Or just popped down to see your old dad?”
&
nbsp; “I had a few days’ leave coming,” Ben said. “It’s nice to get out of London for a break.”
“Seen much bombing, then?” one of the men asked.
“We’ve had our share,” Ben said. “But you get used to it. Nobody even looks up at work now when the air-raid sirens go off.”
“What sort of job are you doing, then?” another asked.
“Working for one of the ministries,” he said.
“Doing what?”
Ben grinned. “You know we’re not allowed to discuss our work.”
“Not allowed to discuss it,” a voice behind them said, and Ben turned to see a skinny chap with bright-red hair coming toward them. Billy Baxter, the builder’s son. Ben felt his hand clench into a fist. Billy had always enjoyed tormenting him when they were small boys. He was grinning. “Hush-hush work is it then, Ben?”
“He said he can’t discuss it,” one of the older men said.
Ben turned his gaze to the redhead. “I notice you’re not in uniform either, Billy Baxter,” he said.
“Ah well, I’m in a protected occupation, aren’t I?” Billy said.
“Making bow windows for Britain?” Ben asked and was pleased to get a general laugh.
Billy Baxter flushed. “If your roof gets blown in during the next bombing raid, who do you think will come out and patch it before the rain gets in?”
“You seem to be doing quite well out of it,” Ben said. “I noticed that new bungalow your dad has built. Looks quite fancy.”
“Hard work pays off, doesn’t it?” Billy said.
Ben watched Billy Baxter as he ordered a pint. He was the type who would sell his own grandmother if the price was right. But working for the Germans? Ben didn’t think he’d have the temperament. At heart he was a coward, as proved that time Ben had punched him and made his nose bleed and he’d run home crying. Ben’s father had lectured him on violence and restraint, but actually he had looked quite pleased.
Halfway through his pint, the pub door burst open and a group of soldiers came in, talking and laughing loudly. They barged their way up to the bar, and Ben noticed that the local men moved away. There was tension in the air. Then one of the soldiers said, “What are you drinking, miss?” and Ben noticed Lady Diana was with them. She was dressed in red trousers and her hair was tied back in a red bandanna, like a land girl’s. And she was wearing bright-red lipstick.