In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II Page 4

She paused while Alfie digested this information, then continued, “But the others didn’t quite obey the rules, much to Pah’s fury. Margot went to France to study fashion in Paris and met a handsome Frenchman. She wouldn’t leave when she had a chance, and now she’s trapped in Paris, and we don’t know what has happened to her. And Pamma—well, she’s really nice and very clever. She wanted to go to university, but Pah said it was a waste of time educating women. I think she had someone she wanted to marry, but he went into the RAF, and he was shot down, and he’s in a prison camp in Germany. So it’s all rather sad, isn’t it? This horrid war spoiling everybody’s lives.”

  Alfie nodded. “My dad’s with the army in North Africa,” he said. “We hardly ever hear from him, and when we do, it’s a tiny little bit of paper with most of the words blacked out by the censor. Mum cried the last time one came.”

  Alfie was getting out of breath, walking fast to keep up with the pony and talking at the same time as they crossed the soft grass of the parkland, went through a stand of trees, and came to the edge of the formal gardens. There were still perfect rows of rosebushes and herbaceous borders, but the flower beds were now overgrown, and the roses hadn’t been pruned. To one side, the lawn had been dug up and turned into another kitchen garden. And beyond them, where the forecourt had once allowed carriages to draw up, there were rows of camouflaged army vehicles.

  Alfie hardly ever came this close to the big house. He stared at it now in wonder. He’d been taken to Buckingham Palace once, but this was just as big and imposing. It was built of solid grey stone, was three stories high, and the roof was adorned with towers at both ends. Two wings came out from the front to create the shape of an E with the imposing central entry making the middle bar of the letter. The pillars at this central entrance supported a pediment adorned with classical figures engaged in a battle. The impression of grandeur was marred, however, by a group of soldiers, sauntering down the marble steps, laughing and smoking. More soldiers were standing around army vehicles of various shapes and sizes, and from the other side of the house sounded the tramp of boots and shouts of drill sergeants as the ranks were put through morning parade.

  Two officers approached, walking toward them. “Hello, young lady, going out for a ride, are you?” one of them said affably.

  “I’ve already been, thank you,” Phoebe said primly. “We’re just taking my pony back to the stables.”

  She looked down at Alfie as soon as they were past the soldiers. “Don’t mention to my father that I was out riding alone. He’d be furious. I’m not supposed to go out without the groom. But that’s so silly, isn’t it? I’m a perfectly good rider, and the groom is getting old and doesn’t like to gallop.”

  Alfie nodded. Now that he was close to the big house, his stomach had tied itself in knots. He remembered too clearly the day he had arrived here. When he had first come by train from the Smoke, as he called it, he had been a pathetic-looking little specimen—scrawny and small for his age, wearing short trousers one size too big, revealing skinny knees covered in scabs. His nose was running, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of snot across his cheek. No wonder he had been the last of the evacuated children to find someone willing to take him in. In the end, the billeting officer, Miss Hemp-Hatchett, local justice of the peace and Girl Guide captain, had put him in the back of her Morris and driven him to Farleigh.

  “You’ll have to have him, Lady Westerham,” she had said in the voice that made generations of Girl Guides snap to attention. “There is simply nobody else, and you do have a bigger place than the rest of us.”

  Then she had departed, leaving the boy standing there, staring in awe at the marble foyer with its weapons and portraits of ancestors glaring down at him with looks of distaste.

  “Damned blasted cheek,” Lord Westerham exploded when Lady Westerham came to report this to him. “Who does the bloody woman think she is, bossing us around? Where do these damned people think we’re going to put the brat? We’ve already had two-thirds of our house taken from us by the army. We’re reduced to one bally wing, and a damned inconvenient wing it is, too. Does she think I’m going to put a child from the London slums on a camp bed in my bedroom? Or should he bunk in with one of our daughters?”

  “Don’t shout, Roddy,” Lady Westerham said in her calm way, after thirty years, accustomed to her husband’s outbursts. “It makes your eyes bulge most unpleasantly. There is a war on. We have to do our bit, and it must seem to most people that we have more than our fair share.”

  “So we’re supposed to have a slum child given free rein of our house? Running around pinching the silver, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s not on, Esme. It’s simply not on. How am I to enjoy a gin and tonic in my study, never knowing whether I’m going to be interrupted by a Cockney child? Tell that Hemp-whatsit woman that we won’t do it, and that’s that.”

  “The poor little mite has to find somewhere to stay, Roddy,” Lady Westerham said gently. “We can’t send him back to bombed streets. His parents might even be dead. How would you feel if you were wrenched from all you knew?”

  “What about the tenant farmers?”

  “They’ve already taken in children.”

  “Then the outdoor staff? Aren’t there any spare cottages?”

  “You can’t put a child in an empty cottage.” She paused, a pensive look coming over her face. “I’ve got it. The Robbinses must have a spare bedroom since their son was called up. Robbins isn’t the friendliest of individuals, I’ll give you that. But Mrs. R is a good cook. The poor little mite needs fattening up.”

  Alfie had been overhearing this conversation as he stood alone and shivering in the foyer. They hadn’t realised that his biggest fear was that he’d have to stay in a place like this, where he’d be terrified every moment of meeting a ghost or breaking something. A cottage with a good cook in it sounded like a much better idea.

  “Here. Hold the bridle a moment while I dismount,” Phoebe said, jerking him back into the present. Alfie realised she was used to giving orders. He did as he was told, even though he’d never touched a horse before. The pony stood, still and placid, while Phoebe kicked her feet from the stirrups and swung herself down. Then she set out for the stables, leaving Alfie to walk behind her, still leading the pony. They had just rounded the corner when a groom came running toward them, red-faced and waving his arms.

  “You shouldn’t have taken Snowball out alone without me, your ladyship. You know what his lordship said.”

  “Rubbish, Jackson. You know I ride perfectly well.” Phoebe tossed her head defiantly, and it seemed that the pony mirrored her action, almost jerking the reins from Alfie’s grasp.

  “I know you’re a splendid little rider, my lady,” he said. “I think your dad is more concerned about all them soldiers hanging around here. Not safe anymore, even on our own grounds.”

  Phoebe’s cheeks were rather pink, but she said, “You can take Snowball now. I have to tell my father something important.”

  The groom took the pony, and Alfie followed Phoebe, who was already striding out for the big house. He had to run to catch up with her as she headed up the front steps. For a moment he was tempted to let her go in alone—he could sneak back to the gamekeeper’s cottage where he knew breakfast would be waiting. But at the last second, she turned back, holding open the door. “Come along, Alfie. Do get a move on,” she said impatiently.

  The entrance hall was as daunting as he remembered it; now their feet were echoing on the marble tiled floor to the painted vault of ceiling high above. A group of officers was coming down the main staircase.

  “We could tell them,” Alfie whispered to Phoebe.

  “I told you, it’s my father’s land. He has to know first,” Phoebe said. She passed the officers, who nodded to her as they crossed the foyer, then she turned left. The long gallery that ran the length of the building had been boarded up with plywood, with a newly erected door in it marked “Family Quarters: Private.” Phoebe opene
d the door, and Alfie found himself in the gallery. It was lined with oak panelling. The high ceiling was carved with gilded Tudor roses, and along its length were trophy heads of animals as well as tapestries of hunting scenes. To Alfie it was quite alarming, but Phoebe strode on, not seeming to notice.

  At the end of the hall, they came to another foyer with a staircase on one side, not as grand as the central one. Phoebe looked around. “I do hope he’s up. I’m sure he must be up.”

  At the sound of her voice, a butler appeared. “You’ve been out riding already, my lady? A fine morning—”

  “Have you seen my father, Soames?” Phoebe cut into his words. “I must find him. It’s important.”

  “I saw him come down the stairs a few minutes ago, my lady, but I’m not sure where he went. Would you like me to locate him for you?”

  “It’s all right. We’ll find him. Come on, Alfie,” Phoebe said as she set off again down a central hallway lined with family portraits. “Pah?” she called. “Pah? Where are you?”

  Lord Westerham was sitting at the breakfast table, about to attack a mound of kedgeree. Thank God for kippers, he was thinking. One of the few things that are still worth eating. Not that they appeared often at the local fishmonger’s, since fishing in the North Sea had become such a dangerous occupation. But when the odd kipper was available, the fishmonger always sent a message to Farleigh and reserved a couple behind the counter. “I know how fond his lordship is of his kippers,” the fishmonger’s wife said. In the good old days, it would have been a pair of kippers each for breakfast. Now Mrs. Mortlock had to make the most of them by using them in a kedgeree instead of the traditional smoked haddock.

  He had just taken a mouthful when he heard someone shouting. He had barely identified the voice as his youngest daughter’s, as she burst into the room.

  “Was that you making that unseemly row?” Lord Westerham scowled at her, waving his fork. “Does your governess not teach you the rudiments of good behaviour?”

  “No, Pah, she’s always telling me that a lady never raises her voice, but it’s an emergency. I simply had to find you right away. We’ve found a body. At least Alfie found it, and he stopped me from riding over it.”

  “What? What’s this?” Lord Westerham put down his fork and glared at Alfie, trying to remember who he was and why a strange child was in his breakfast room.

  “A body, Father. In the far field. He fell out of the sky. It’s rather horrible, but you have to come.”

  “His parachute didn’t open,” Alfie added, then rather wished he had stayed silent as Lord Westerham turned to glare at him. Lord Westerham’s glare, under those bushy eyebrows, was quite alarming, and Alfie swallowed nervously, glancing at the door and wondering if a bolt was possible.

  “What were you doing on my land? Poaching, I shouldn’t wonder,” Lord Westerham said.

  “No, sir. I’m staying with your gamekeeper, remember?” Alfie said.

  “Oh yes. So you are.”

  “And he sends me out to check the traps in the early morning,” Alfie said. “And I saw this thing lying there, and I didn’t know what it was, so I went to look, and it was this bloke, all smashed up. A right mess. And then your daughter came galloping toward him, so I stopped her, and she said we should tell you first.”

  “Quite right. Quite right.” Lord Westerham put down his napkin and stood up. “Well, I suppose you’d better take me to see, hadn’t you?” He glared in annoyance as two English setters raced toward the door, sensing that their master was about to go out. “And make sure those blasted dogs don’t get out. I don’t want them nosing about a corpse.” He looked down at them, their feathery tales wagging excitedly, eyes fixed on him, and his tone softened in a way that he never addressed his children. “Sorry, St. John. Sorry, Missie, old girl. Can’t take you this time. But we’ll make up for it later.” He gave them a quick pat on the head. “Now stay!” he commanded. Both dogs sat, looking worried. As their little party reached the end of the long gallery, Phoebe turned to see the dogs still sitting in a shaft of sunlight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Farleigh, the kitchen

  May 1941

  “What was that kerfuffle all about, Mr. Soames?” Mrs. Mortlock looked up from the kitchen table, her arms elbow deep in flour as the butler was coming through the baize door. “Young Elsie said she heard shouting when she was carrying up the hot water for Miss Livvy.”

  “Lady Phoebe seemed most agitated about something,” Mr. Soames said, in his calm and measured way. “I didn’t quite hear the full story, but I caught something about a body.”

  “A body? Well, I never. What next?” Mrs. Mortlock brushed off her hands so that a cloud of flour rose around her. “Poor Lady Phoebe. Don’t tell me she came upon a body. A shock like that could unhinge the mind of a delicate young girl like Lady Phoebe.”

  Mr. Soames smiled. “I rather suspect that Lady Phoebe is as tough as any of us, Mrs. Mortlock. But as you say, it is most worrying to think of a body here at Farleigh.”

  “Where was it found, Mr. Soames? Anyone we know?” Mrs. Mortlock asked, moving away from her mixing bowl now that she was truly interested.

  “Not that I heard. Just that she had found a body. And since she had just come in wearing her riding outfit, one must assume she found it on the grounds.”

  “It’s them soldiers,” Ruby, the kitchen maid, commented from the kitchen sink. “They’re all sex-starved.”

  There was a gasp from Mrs. Mortlock.

  “Ruby, where did you hear such language?” Mr. Soames demanded. “It’s not what I expect from the servants in a house like this.”

  “I heard it from Elsie,” Ruby said. “She was telling Jenny. And she gets it from the picture papers. They’re always talking about sex in Hollywood. Anyway, Elsie said them soldiers are all sex-starved. Some of them invited her to go to the pub with them when she was polishing the door knocker.”

  “I hope she put them in their place,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “Speak to her, Mr. Soames. We can’t let down standards just because there’s a war on.”

  “I most certainly will speak to her, Mrs. Mortlock. That’s what happens when there’s no housekeeper and no senior servants to supervise things. The young ones get ideas.”

  “Did they say what kind of body it was?” Mrs. Mortlock asked.

  “I bet they lured some girl from the village here and had their way with her and she died of shock,” Ruby went on.

  “That’s enough, Ruby,” Mr. Soames said firmly. “I don’t wish to hear such talk again.”

  “And luckily, Ruby will be so fully occupied with washing up and peeling potatoes that she is not likely to encounter any of the soldiers,” Mrs. Mortlock said, giving Ruby a long warning look. “And if she doesn’t get a move on, we’ll be behind with the luncheon. I don’t know what his lordship will say when he finds out it’s vegetable pie again, but we’ve no more meat coupons for the rest of the month.”

  “It don’t seem fair that the family can’t eat their own meat when they’ve got a farm and all them animals.”

  “Those animals, Ruby. Really your grammar leaves a lot to be desired!” Mr. Soames sighed.

  “I’m not really complaining,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “I know we do better than most, and it’s only right that those that raise food share it with those who live in the cities. But it’s certainly a challenge trying to come up with appetizing meals on the ration of a quarter pound of meat per person per week.”

  “And it don’t seem fair that I’m stuck in a kitchen washing up when I could be making good money in a factory,” Ruby muttered, half to herself.

  “And what factory would take you?” Mrs. Mortlock demanded. “You have to be sharp and nimble to work in a factory. You’re all thumbs. You wouldn’t last a day. No, my girl. You thank your lucky stars her ladyship took you on here. Otherwise, it would have been a land girl, digging potatoes out in the freezing rain.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. At least there would be people
to talk to,” Ruby said. “It’s no fun now all the footmen have gone, and we’re down to Elsie and Jenny and her ladyship’s maid and nanny.”

  “It’s not exactly fun for us, either, Ruby,” Mr. Soames said. “I am not thrilled about waiting at table and doing footmen’s work at my age and with my seniority. But I do it cheerfully, knowing that the family depends on me. Above all, we do not let the family down. We try to make it seem that this place is running as it always had. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Soames,” Ruby said in a dutiful voice.

  “Don’t you think we should send up some hot cocoa with brandy in it to Lady Phoebe?” Mrs. Mortlock asked. “They say brandy is the thing for shock, don’t they?”

  “Knowing young people, I suspect that Lady Phoebe is more thrilled than shocked at finding a body, Mrs. Mortlock, and will now be tucking into a large and satisfying breakfast.” Mr. Soames smiled as he walked toward the door.

  Phoebe was just coming out of her bedroom when a door farther down the hall opened, and a bleary-eyed head poked out. “Was that you running up and down the hall and waking everyone at the crack of dawn?” Lady Diana Sutton asked in a petulant voice. She was wearing blue silk pyjamas, and her blonde bob was tousled.

  “Dawn cracked hours ago, Dido,” Phoebe said. “I’ve already been out riding, and you’ll never guess what I found!”

  “I can hardly wait. The suspense is killing me.” Lady Diana came out into the hall and leaned against the doorframe, in what she hoped was a blasé and sophisticated manner. “Could it have been mushrooms? Or a fox maybe?”

  “It was a body, Dido,” Phoebe said.

  “A body? Of a person? Dead?”

  “Bodies usually are. And this one was very dead indeed. It had fallen from an aeroplane.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he was wearing the remains of a parachute that didn’t open properly.”

  “Golly.” Dido suddenly forgot her sophistication. “Have you told Pah?”