In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II Page 5

“Yes, and he’s gone to talk to the army people.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Lady Diana said. “I’ll get some clothes on, and you can show me before they move it away.”

  “I don’t think Pah would like that,” Phoebe said. “Not when he’s with the army people.”

  “Don’t be such a wet blanket, Feebs,” Diana said. “You know I have to make the most of the only excitement we’re likely to get around here. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying of boredom. It’s just not fair. I should have had my season and come out by now. I might even have been engaged to a yummy French count like Margot is. Instead, there are only boring soldiers and aged farmers, and Pah won’t even let me go up to London. He won’t even let me be a land girl because he says the farmhands only have one thing on their minds. Doesn’t he know that I’m positively drooling for that one thing?”

  “What thing is that?” Phoebe asked. “A boyfriend?”

  “Sex, darling. You don’t understand, but you will one day.” She gave Phoebe a withering look. “I hate this stupid war. And I’m going to take a look at that body whether you show me or not.” She turned and went back into her bedroom, slamming the door so that the pictures on the wall shook dangerously on their hooks.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A field at Farleigh

  May 1941

  “Well?” Lord Westerham looked up at the officer standing beside him. “One of yours, is he?” He was not at all pleased with having the Royal West Kents taking over his house, but he tolerated Colonel Pritchard, their commanding officer, reasonably well. He was a gentleman, one of the right sort, and he had gone to some trouble to make sure the army caused the least disruption possible.

  Colonel Pritchard looked rather green about the gills as he stared down at the corpse. He was a small, dapper man with a neat little mustache. Out of uniform, he would not have been taken for a soldier—a city gent maybe, or a bank manager. He now moved his shoe out of the area of blood-soaked grass. “Our chaps don’t go leaping out of aeroplanes,” he said. “We’re strictly infantry.”

  “But isn’t he wearing your uniform?”

  “Hard to tell. Looks a little like it.” The colonel frowned. “But as I say, if any man under my command had been given permission to jump out of a plane, I should have been told. Besides, I also should have heard if they were not all present and accounted for.”

  “So what’s the procedure now?” Lord Westerham demanded. “We can’t have him lying here in my field, scaring my deer. Someone’s going to have to remove him. Should we summon the local police and have him taken to the nearest morgue?”

  “I hardly think that’s appropriate,” Colonel Pritchard said. “The chap is in uniform, after all. It will be an army matter. Someone will know who he is, or was, rather. Someone will have ordered a bungled parachute jump last night—although why here, I can’t tell you.”

  “Perhaps he drifted off course in the wind.”

  “Hardly any breeze last night,” Colonel Pritchard said. “Besides, judging by the shape that parachute is in, he didn’t do much drifting. I suppose we could take a look at the poor blighter’s identity discs. Then at least we’ll know who he was and where he came from.” He gave a shudder of supreme distaste at this thought.

  Between them, they bent to turn over the body. It felt like moving a bag of odd bits and pieces, as if every bone had been smashed, and even Lord Westerham shuddered this time. The front of the corpse was a bloody mess, his face unrecognisable. The colonel turned away as he opened the top button on the uniform and hauled out the identity tags. It was hard to tell that one had been red and one green, and the cord that held them was now sticky and crusting. Flies had already located the body and were arriving in droves, their buzzing filling the quiet of the meadow. Colonel Pritchard removed a knife from his pocket and cut the cord that held the discs.

  “Can’t read anything at the moment. They’ll have to wash away the blood.” He took a starched white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully placed the tags inside it.

  “There you are. He was one of yours,” Lord Westerham said, pointing down at the flash on his shoulder. Through the blood and grime they could just make out the words Royal West Kents.

  “Good God.” Colonel Pritchard stared. “What did he think he was doing? Out for a joyride or some kind of prank? Had a pal in the RAF and was going to surprise us all by dropping in on morning roll call? Let’s hope his fate dissuades anyone else from such foolishness.”

  Diana hurried down the steps and out onto the grounds. She was well aware of the surreptitious looks she was getting from the soldiers she passed and allowed herself a secret smile. She was wearing red linen trousers and a white halter top—a little too cold for the time of day, but highly fashionable. On her feet were rope-soled wedge sandals. By the time she had crossed the first lawns, the sandals were wet with dew, and she rather regretted that she had not put on a cardigan. But such thoughts vanished as she approached the group of soldiers, in the process of lifting the body onto a stretcher. It was already covered with a sheet. An ambulance stood nearby. The men looked up as Diana came toward them, and she saw the astonishment, and appreciation, in their faces.

  “You don’t want to come anywhere near here, miss,” one of them said, coming over to intercept her. “There’s been a nasty accident, I’m afraid.”

  “She’s not ‘miss.’ That’s his lordship’s daughter,” an older man, wearing sergeant’s stripes, corrected him. “You have to say ‘my lady.’”

  “Sorry, I’m sure, my lady,” the young man said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I really don’t care about all these silly rules. My name’s Diana. And I came out to see the body.”

  “You wouldn’t want to see it, Lady Diana, trust me,” the older man said. “What a mess. Poor bloke.”

  “Was he a spy, do you think?” Diana asked. “You hear about German spies parachuting in, don’t you?”

  This made them chuckle.

  “If he was, he’d got hold of our army uniform,” the older one said. “No, it’s my guess he was on some kind of training mission that went wrong, poor bugger.” Then he remembered to whom he was speaking and grimaced. “Pardon my language, your ladyship.”

  “They were probably trying out some new parachute prototype on him,” another soldier agreed. “There’s a lot they don’t tell us, and they use us as guinea pigs.”

  His friends nodded agreement.

  “He was wearing a ring, bloody poofta,” the young one said with disgust.

  “Well, he was married, wasn’t he?”

  “He was bloody stupid,” the young one went on.

  “Why was that?” Diana asked. “Stupid to get married?”

  “No, your ladyship. Stupid because if he got his ring caught during the jump, it would have ripped his finger off.”

  Diana shuddered, noticing how easily they spoke of such things. But then they had already fought in France and escaped from Dunkirk. They had seen friends blown up beside them. Another failed parachute jump was nothing to them. The stretcher was loaded into the ambulance and was driven away. The men headed back to the house. Diana fell into step beside them.

  “How long do you think you’ll be staying here? Do you know?”

  “For the duration, as far as I’m concerned,” the older one said.

  “Not me, Smitty. I want to see some action. I wouldn’t mind heading out to North Africa tomorrow and taking on Rommel,” the young soldier who had first spoken to her said.

  “You’ve only just joined up, Tom. If you’d been with us at Dunkirk, you wouldn’t feel the same way. Never more grateful in my life to get home. Those blokes in their little boats did an amazing job. I came home on someone’s yacht. This posh bloke crammed about twenty of us on board. Horribly overloaded. I thought we were going to capsize, but we didn’t. And when he dropped us off on the beach, he turned around and went back again. That takes guts, that does.”

  Diana nodded. “So what do you do all
day when you’re here?” she asked.

  “Training. Drilling. Preparing for an invasion.”

  “Do you think the Germans will invade?”

  “I think it’s only a matter of time,” one of them said. “They’ve got a bloody great war machine. But we’ll be ready for them. They won’t get past us without a fight.”

  “I think you all are so brave,” Diana said, watching with amusement as they looked embarrassed.

  “You should come down to one of the dances in the village, my lady,” the bold one said. “They’re good fun.”

  “I just might do that,” Diana said. She didn’t add “if my father lets me.”

  She was rather sorry to have reached the house, and she watched the men moving off toward their quarters.

  Back at the house Phoebe went into her bedroom to change clothes. Jodhpurs were not allowed in the dining room, even with the relaxed rules of wartime. Now that she was alone, she found that she felt rather sick, but put it down to the fact that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

  “Been out riding, Phoebe?” Her governess, Miss Gumble, came into the room. She was tall and thin and carried herself well. Her face was now rather gaunt, but she must have been good-looking once. In fact, she came from a good family and she might have married well, but the Great War robbed her of the chance to find a husband.

  She had been hired as Phoebe’s governess when Dido was sent to finishing school in Switzerland. They got along well. Phoebe was a bright little girl and a pleasure to teach, even though Miss Gumble’s conscience had been nagging her to abandon her post and volunteer for war work. She had a good brain. Surely she could be useful in any number of ways.

  Phoebe looked up. “Oh, hello, Gumbie. I didn’t hear you come in. You’ll never guess what: I found a body in the far field when I was riding this morning.”

  “A body? Good gracious. Did you tell your father?”

  “Yes, and he and the army man went to take a look at it. It was a man whose parachute didn’t open, and he must have fallen out of a plane. He was awfully smashed up.”

  “How horrid for you,” Gumbie said.

  “Yes, it was, rather,” Phoebe said. “But you would have been proud of me. I didn’t let anyone see I was upset. The worst thing was that I almost rode over it. Can you imagine? Luckily, the boy from London who’s living with the gamekeeper ran out and stopped me. He was jolly brave, actually.”

  “Good for him.” Gumbie came around behind Phoebe to do up the buttons on her cotton dress. Since Phoebe had now declared herself too old to have a nanny, her governess had taken over such tasks. She was smart enough to realise that a girl of twelve needed some looking after, even if she claimed she didn’t. The child’s mother, Lady Esme, was a nice enough person but hadn’t a clue about mothering her children, essentially leaving them to fend for themselves. Miss Gumble was only surprised that they had all turned out remarkably well. She smiled at Phoebe.

  “If I were you, I’d go down and have a jolly good breakfast before we start work. I always find that food is the best thing if you’ve had a shock. Food and hot, sweet tea. They work wonders.”

  Phoebe undid her pigtails and started to brush her hair. “I wonder who he was, poor man.”

  “I expect it was some kind of night-time training exercise that went wrong,” Miss Gumble said. “You know, commando stuff.”

  “So many horrid things seem to be happening, don’t they?” Phoebe said while she tugged at a stubborn tangle in her corn-coloured hair. “Alfie said he saw a dead baby lying in the street and a woman whose clothes had been blown off her.”

  “Poor Alfie,” Miss Gumble said. “He was sent here to get away from the distressing sights of the war, and now the war has followed him.”

  She took the brush from Phoebe. “Give me your hair ribbon. You can’t go downstairs looking like Alice in Wonderland.”

  Phoebe turned obediently and allowed her governess to tie back her hair. “Gumbie,” she said. “How long do you think the war will go on? For a long time?”

  “I hope so,” Miss Gumble replied.

  Phoebe spun around, shocked. “You want the war to go on?”

  “I do. Because if it ends quickly, it will mean that the Germans have conquered.”

  “Conquered? You mean come into England?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you think that might happen?”

  “I think it’s all too possible, Phoebe. We’ll do our best, of course. Mr. Churchill said that we would fight them on the beaches and in our back gardens, but I wonder how many people actually would when it came to it?”

  “My father would,” Phoebe said.

  “Yes, I expect he would,” Miss Gumble replied, “but there are plenty of people who wouldn’t put up a fight. We’ve all grown tired of war already, and if it goes on much longer . . . well, we’ll welcome anyone who can return life to normal.”

  She tied the girl’s hair ribbon. “Go on. Go down before your father eats all the good stuff.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Farleigh, the breakfast room

  May 1941

  Phoebe actually liked this dining room better than the cavernous oak-panelled room where they had taken their meals before the war. This had been a former music room, painted light blue with gilded trim, and tall French windows looked out over the lake. Sunlight was streaming in. It felt warm and safe because Phoebe was still cold. She had looked in vain for scrambled eggs and just served herself a plate of kedgeree when her father came in, followed by the English setters who were jumping around him excitedly.

  “I hope you’ve left something for me, young lady,” he said, striding over to the sideboard. “Would you blasted animals go away and leave me in peace? You’ll not get any bacon, you know. There’s a war on.”

  “I thought you’d had breakfast.” Phoebe took a generous mouthful of rice. It was now, unfortunately, almost cold, but the bits of kipper made it taste all right.

  “I was interrupted in the middle of mine, if you remember.” Lord Westerham took the silver lid off the chafing dish. “Ah, good. There is still plenty. I suppose nobody else is up yet?”

  “Dido is. She wanted me to show her the body.”

  “That young woman is going to come to a sticky end if she’s not careful.” He looked up as Lady Esme came in, holding an envelope in her hand. “Hear that, Esme? Your idiot daughter wanted to see the body of a man who fell into our field.” He took his place at the head of the table, and the dogs sat expectantly beside him.

  Lady Esme looked only vaguely surprised. “I thought I heard something of the kind when I was having my morning tea,” she said. “Well, I suppose she could be curious. I suppose I was at her age. Whose body was it?”

  “Some damned army chappie, although the colonel doesn’t see how it can be one of his. Bit fishy if you ask me.”

  “Mummy, I found the body,” Phoebe said.

  Lady Westerham had now taken a piece of toast and sat beside her husband. “Did you, dear? That must have been exciting for you.”

  Phoebe glanced at her. Gumbie was perceptive enough to know that it had shocked Phoebe, but not her mother, who was now calmly opening the envelope. “Oh, it’s a letter from Clemmie Churchill,” she said, showing enthusiasm for the first time. “I was expecting to hear from her about the garden party at Chartwell next month.”

  “Garden party?” Lord Westerham bellowed. “Doesn’t Clemmie Churchill know there’s a war on?”

  “Of course she does, but Winston misses Chartwell and needs cheering up, so she arranged this little garden party for him at the home he misses so much,” she said. “Be quiet and let me read, Roddy.”

  Her eyes scanned the page. “Poor thing,” she said.

  “I hardly think that being wife of the prime minister can be described as a poor thing,” Lord Westerham muttered between bites of breakfast.

  “She says that Winston is horribly overworked, gets almost no sleep, and in consequence is always bad-te
mpered.”

  Lord Westerham snorted. “Winston has always been bad-tempered, ever since I’ve known him. The moment anything doesn’t go the way he wants it to, he explodes. I should imagine losing a war would not be kind to anyone’s temper.”

  Lady Esme was still reading. “You know how he loves Chartwell. I’d invite them to stay with us, but . . .”

  “Esme, we’re packed in like sardines as it is,” Lord Westerham said. “You can’t invite the prime minister of England to bunk up in the maid’s quarters.” The thought of this made him chuckle.

  “Don’t be silly, dear,” Lady Westerham said calmly, not looking up from her letter. “Oh no,” she exclaimed as she read on. “How disappointing.”

  Lord Westerham raised an eyebrow.

  “I told you he has to come down here anyway to attend that ceremony at Biggin Hill Aerodrome next month, honouring those brave lads who were killed in the Battle of Britain. Clemmie had wanted me to help her with the garden party at Chartwell, but Winston got word of it and has put his foot down. No parties in wartime, he says. In these times of economy we have to set an example and not open up the house for one weekend. Isn’t that just like him?”

  “Nasty Americanism, the word ‘weekend,’” Lord Westerham remarked. Although he had known Churchill for many years, he still hadn’t quite forgiven him for his American mother.

  “Do be quiet and stop interrupting, Roddy.” Lady Westerham frowned at him across the table. “Oh, this is a splendid idea. Listen, Roddy. She wonders if they might come here for tea on the lawn after the ceremony. It would be a lovely surprise for Winston to be with the old neighbours, she says.”

  “The prime minister, here to tea? What do you plan to feed them? Dandelions? Are they going to bring their own ration cards?” Lord Westerham demanded.

  “Don’t be difficult, Roddy. You know you’d love to see the Churchills again. And we do have kitchen gardens. The strawberries should be ripe, and there would be cucumbers and cress for sandwiches. We’ll manage somehow. So I’ll write back, and tell her it’s a splendid idea, shall I?”