In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Goodness. What kind of job is he offering—deportment classes for the WAACs and Wrens?”

Trixie had laughed. “Nothing like that. I gather it’s something rather hush-hush. He asked me if I could be trusted to keep my mouth shut and never gossip.”

“Golly.” Pamela looked surprised.

Trixie leaned closer. “He seems to think that we are brought up to do the right thing. Hence, will not let the side down and give away secrets. He even asked me whether I drink a lot.” She laughed. “I gather people are apt to spill too many beans when drunk.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“That I’d only just come out before the war, and since rationing, I hadn’t really had a chance to prove how well I hold my liquor.”

Pamela laughed, too, then her face grew serious again. “I wonder what he could possibly want us for? Sending us as spies into Germany?”

“He did ask if I spoke German. Actually, he said, ‘Did I have the German,’ which I first took to mean a German chap. I’m afraid I broke out in a fit of giggles. I told him we’d both been to finishing school in Switzerland and that you were a whiz at languages. He seemed really interested in you, by the way. Really perked up when I said I knew you.”

“Golly,” Pamela said again. “I don’t think I can see myself as a spy, vamping German officers. Can you?”

“No, my sweet. I can’t see you vamping Germans. You always were too pure. I, on the other hand, might be quite good at it. Unfortunately, my German is spoken with a decidedly English accent. They’d detect me as a phoney in an instant. But I don’t think it’s spying. This chap also asked how good I was at crossword puzzles.”

“What a strange thing to ask,” Pamela said.

Trixie leaned even closer until she was whispering in Pamela’s ear. “I rather think it may be something to do with breaking codes and things.”

And so it had proved to be. The two girls had taken the train from Euston Station to Bletchley Junction, an hour north of London. It was almost dark when they arrived. The station and the town were both unprepossessing. A pall of dust from the local brickworks hung over the air. There was nobody to meet the train, and they carried their own suitcases up a long path beside the railway line until they came to a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.

“Crikey.” This time even Trixie was alarmed. “It certainly doesn’t look very inviting, does it?”

“We don’t have to do this,” Pamela said.

They stared at each other, each willing the other to bolt.

“We can at least find out what they want us to do and then say ‘no thank you very much but I’d rather be a land girl and raise pigs.’”

This put them both in better spirits.

“Come on. Let’s face the music.” Trixie nudged her friend, and they walked up to the main gate. The RAF guard on duty in the concrete sentry box had their names on his clipboard, and they were directed to the main house, where they were to report to Commander Travis. Nobody offered to carry their bags, which more than anything told Pamela that they were now in a very different world from the one she was used to. The driveway passed rows of long drab-looking huts before the main house came into view. It had been built by a nouveau riche family at the height of Victorian excess and was a sprawling mixture of styles with fancy brickwork, gables and oriental pillars, and a conservatory sticking out of one end. New arrivals from lower down the social scale were often impressed, but to girls raised in stately homes, it produced the opposite effect.

“What a monstrosity!” Trixie exclaimed, laughing. “Lavatory gothic, wouldn’t you say?”

“But the view’s pretty,” Pamela said. “Look—there’s a lake, and a copse, and fields. I wonder if there are horses and one can go riding.”

“It’s not a house party, darling,” Trixie said. “We’re here to work. Come on. Let’s get it over with and find out what we’re in for.”

They entered the main house and found themselves in the sort of impressive interior they were used to—ornately carved ceilings, panelled walls, stained-glass windows, and thick carpets. A young woman carrying a sheaf of papers came out of a side door and didn’t seem surprised to see them. “Oh, I suppose you’re the latest lot of debs,” she said, regarding Trixie’s mink collar with disdain. “Commander Travis is upstairs. Second door on the right.”

“Hardly the warmest welcome,” Trixie whispered as they left their suitcases and ascended a rather grand carved-oak staircase.

“Do you think we’re making an awful mistake?” Pamma whispered.

“A bit late to turn back now.” Trixie squeezed her hand, then stepped forward to knock on a polished oak door. Commander Travis, the deputy director, looked at them with clear scepticism.

“This is no joyride, young ladies. In fact, it’s bloody hard work. But I hope you’ll find it’s rewarding work. You’ll be doing your part to stop the enemy—just as important a job as our boys in the service are doing. And the first thing we stress here is absolute secrecy. You will be required to sign the Official Secrets Act. After that you are not permitted to discuss your work with anyone outside your unit. Not even with each other. Not even with your parents or boyfriends. Is that clear?”

The girls nodded, then Pamela got up the courage to ask, “Exactly what will our work be? We’ve been told nothing so far.”

He held up a hand. “First things first, young lady.” He produced two sheets of paper and two fountain pens. “Official Secrets Act. Read this and sign here, please.” He tapped a finger on the paper.

“So you’re saying that we have to promise never to divulge what goes on here before we know what goes on here?” Trixie asked.

Commander Travis laughed. “You’ve got spirit. I like that. But I’m afraid once you came in through that gate, you became a security risk to the country. And I assure you that your work here will be a damned sight more interesting and rewarding than other jobs you could do.”

Trixie looked at Pamela, shrugged, and said, “Why not? What have we got to lose?” She took the pen and signed. Pamela followed suit. Later, when she was alone, she discovered that she was to be sent to Hut 3 to translate decoded German messages. Pamela didn’t know what Trixie was doing, as they were only allowed to share information with members of their own hut, but she knew that Trixie was annoyed that she hadn’t been given a more exacting and glamorous job. “Filing and typing in the index room. Can you imagine anything more boring?” she had said. “While one gathers, the men in the huts have all the fun working on strange machines. I’d never have come if I’d known I’d be doing boring, menial stuff. How about you? Is your job going to be menial, too?”