The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Ah well, that’s easily explained. Her brother, Ralph,’ he pronounced it Rafe, ‘my great-uncle, was a fighter pilot in a Spitfire squadron.’

  ‘I see. I didn’t know even that.’ Lucy felt a wave of disappointment. It was likely then, that the young man in the portrait was Evelyn’s brother. Somehow, already in her own mind, he was her lover, a source of mystery and romance, just as in her own mind there was now no real doubt as to the picture’s provenance. Evelyn’s story had caught her imagination in a way it had failed to before. At the beginning it had been of more academic interest, now, since she had seen the young man with his hand on her shoulder, and since seeing her studio and her home, Evelyn had become real to her.

  She still hadn’t mentioned the portrait to Michael, she realised. The fact that she owned a possible Lucas original was crucial; it had been the reason behind the decision to research Evelyn’s life, to find out where the picture fitted into her oeuvre, to date it and, since she had uncovered him, to identify the young man with his hand so affectionately on her shoulder.

  ‘Did she live here during the war?’ Lucy sat down uninvited on the arm of the sofa by the window. She felt more comfortable with her host now, more relaxed. His initial suspicion of her seemed to have lessened.

  He shook his head. ‘She still lived at home with her parents during the war. Her father was a farmer over near Goodwood. She inherited the farm after they died, then she sold up and bought this place. I can give you the address of the farm if you like, then you can go and pester them.’ His smile compensated slightly for the harshness of the words. He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation of dismay. ‘I’m sorry. I do have to get on. I’m expecting someone. If you would like to give me your address and contact details I will get in touch with some suggestions about where you could start your research if I think of anything.’

  ‘So, you don’t mind my doing it?’ She was disappointed at the sudden change of mood after he had seemed to be mellowing towards her, but at the same time elated that he appeared to be agreeing to help her with the project. She reached into her bag to find the gallery’s card. ‘You’ll find my e-mail and phone number there.’

  ‘And you are?’ He was examining the card.

  ‘Lucy Standish. I told you.’ Twice to be precise.

  He grinned, acknowledging the slight tetchiness of her tone. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t take it in.’

  And then she was outside and he had shut the door behind her.

  Walking slowly back up the lane she noticed a car parked in the lay-by behind her own. A woman climbed out, locked it and turned towards her. They approached one another, exchanged the rather awkward smiles of strangers in a situation where they cannot avoid acknowledging each other, and passed. The woman was tall, slim and elegant in a pale silk shift dress. There was a large designer tote on her arm. Her car, Lucy couldn’t help noticing as she pulled out her car keys was a BMW Z4. She couldn’t resist a glance behind her. The woman was climbing the steps to Rosebank Cottage.

  So there was someone in his life after all.

  3

  August 6th 1940

  ‘Evie?’ Ralph found his sister in the dairy. At twenty-one, he was two years older than Evelyn and had always enjoyed his role as her big brother. ‘I’ve asked my station commander and he says he can fix it for you to go and sketch over at Westhampnett. I know it’s not Tangmere as you asked, but it’s a satellite field and only a couple of miles away. He reckons if you come to Tangmere people might ask why a squit of a girl like you was there. There are too many big brass there with it being the local sector control. He suggested that Westhampnett might be less conspicuous and a bit safer as a place to draw. There is a Hurricane squadron based there.’

  ‘I don’t want a safer place, Rafie!’ She glared at him.

  ‘I’m only obeying orders!’ He held up his hands in mock surrender.

  ‘I know.’ She swallowed her indignation and dropping the empty bucket she was holding threw her arms round his neck. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you for arranging it!’

  ‘Get off!’ He pushed her away good-naturedly. ‘You smell of cow. Don’t say anything to Dad. I’m not sure he would approve and I know he will worry. You’ll have to find an excuse to leave the farm for the afternoon.’

  ‘That will be easy.’ She was glowing with excitement, her golden-blond hair mostly hidden by the scarf knotted round her head. ‘I’ll think of something. There are loads of things I need to collect in Chichester. I can do that first to justify using the petrol. It will give me an excuse to be out for a bit. Once I know where to go I can bike over there.’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘How’s it going? We see the enemy planes, watch the fights. There are so many of them, Rafie. I can’t bear to think of you up there. Dad was listening to the wireless last night –’

  ‘I’ve got a few hours off, Evie.’ Ralph spoke sharply. ‘Leave it. I don’t need the official commentary.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He shook his head. She could see the exhaustion in his face now she looked more closely, the strain in his eyes. As always when she felt a strong emotion she found her fingers itching to pick up a pencil; it had always been her way of dealing with things, even when she was a small child. Sternly she pushed the longing aside.

  ‘I’ve finished here. I’ll go and wash. Come into the kitchen and we’ll see where Mum is.’ She stacked the dropped bucket by the door and headed out into the yard. Tearing off her scarf she shook out her hair in the sunshine. ‘I’ve had a letter from an art student friend, Sarah Besant,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘They are talking about evacuating the Royal College of Art for the duration. They are tired of having their windows blown out! She thinks they are going to go up to the Lake District.’

  Ralph gave a sharp laugh. ‘That will shake up the locals a bit, won’t it?’

  ‘Students and locals, both.’ Evie smiled.

  He glanced at her fondly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back and finish the course? I had thought it meant everything to you, getting into the RCA.’

  She folded her arms. ‘I’m needed here. I can always go back after the war.’

  He sighed. She was needed on the farm because he wasn’t there. It was that simple. But he couldn’t be in two places at once. He was no longer a farmer, he was a pilot now, first and foremost. His father had resumed the running of the farm and he needed Evie to help him. Even so, Ralph couldn’t bear to think of her stuck here when she could be back in the college, studying the painting she loved so much.

  ‘Mum and Dad would feel much better if you were out of it all. If they are going to evacuate the college it would be so much safer,’ he persisted.

  ‘No, Rafie. You are not going to change my mind. It wouldn’t feel right, leaving Daddy running the farm alone. I can paint as well as helping him. I’ll find a way.’ She glanced up. He followed her gaze and for a moment neither spoke. Small white summer clouds dotted the clear blue of the empty sky.

  Ralph had joined up in 1938, much to his father’s disgust. His only son had turned down the opportunity to go to university after he took his Highers and had instead immersed himself in the farm, but suddenly he was turning his back on his destiny for the sake of a bit of excitement in the RAF. Father and son had not always seen eye to eye – Dudley preferred the old ways on the farm – if it was good enough for your grandfather it is good enough for us – and Ralph wanted to study new theories and import new machinery and so, yet again, they were at loggerheads. Then war was declared and Dudley’s view changed overnight. Suddenly he was proud of his son and silently he took back the reins of the farm after clapping Ralph on the back. It was all Ralph needed to know his father supported him. The two men had called a truce.

  ‘I need to get back,’ he said suddenly. He bent and kissed his sister on the top of her head. ‘Don’t worry the parents. I’ll see them tomorrow, God willing.’ He grinned. They had both had the same thought. A beautiful peaceful afternoon. It was to
o good to last. It was only a question of time before the distant drone of engines heralded the next wave of enemy aircraft appearing from the south.

  28th June, late afternoon

  Michael Marston was in a thoughtful mood when Charlotte Ponsonby arrived at Rosebank Cottage. Her sudden phone call the night before, when she found she had two unexpected days off, and his spontaneous agreement to stay at Rosebank so they could spend them together was the reason he had thrown Dolly and therefore Lucy into disaray. After their initial hug Charlotte followed him through the house and out into the garden.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me who your visitor was?’

  He roused himself from his reverie. ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman I saw leaving here not ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh, her.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, her. Who was she, Mike?’ She herself was as far as she knew Mike’s only girlfriend, his official partner to dates and parties, included automatically by his friends in conversation and future plans, but still she felt insecure; there was a reserve on Mike’s side which she couldn’t quite work out. Was it his natural way with women or was it just her? Was he as yet undecided? Had he in his own mind still to make a commitment? His next question did not reassure her.

  ‘Why so interested?’

  ‘Because I am.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘No! Of course not. Hardly.’ She gave a little snort as she tossed her head. Her hair swung in a glossy curtain round her face and for a moment hid her expression. She had narrow intense eyes and sharp features which were undeniably beautiful in their bone structure but her face held a certain hardness of which she was acutely conscious. It made her smile too much.

  ‘Actually, she is quite attractive, if you like that sort of thing.’ Mike grinned as he lowered himself onto the rustic seat on the lawn and held out his hand to pull her down beside him. ‘She is an interesting person. Her husband was killed in a car crash three months ago.’ He paused, frowning slightly, wondering how on earth anyone could possibly cope with something like that. ‘She wants to write a book about Evie.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘And is that good?’ She surveyed his face carefully.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sat forward on the bench, his hands hanging loosely between his knees. He closed his eyes against the sunlight and sighed, leaning back at last against the rough lichen-covered bench back.

  ‘Well, she is really famous, isn’t she? I am surprised no one has done it before,’ Charlotte said cautiously.

  ‘I suppose it was bound to happen one day. But she was always reluctant to talk about the past. I remember my parents saying they knew so little, even Pops, for goodness’ sake. Broad brushstrokes, that’s all.’ Mike gave a snort of laughter at his choice of words.

  Charlotte smiled. She kicked off her wedge-heeled sandals and leaned into him. ‘We’re a couple of idiots sitting here in our office uniform,’ she whispered. ‘Shall we go and slip into something more comfortable?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment. She gave him a sideways glance, wondering if he’d heard what she said.

  ‘If she starts poking round we won’t be able to stop her,’ he said eventually. ‘There is no knowing what can of worms she might dig up.’

  ‘Why should there be a can of worms?’ Charlotte was getting tired of this conversation already. She jumped to her feet and reached for his hand. ‘In fact, surely the more worms the better. It would make it all more exciting. Make her pictures more valuable.’

  He looked up at her. He liked her hair free of the severe knot in which she kept it restrained during the working day. ‘OK. I’m coming.’ Reluctantly he stood up and allowed himself to be towed back towards the cottage.

  Upstairs she looked round the small bedroom with its quaint windows and chintz curtains. Rosebank needed a clean blast of modernity and a damn good builder. There wasn’t even a shower, for God’s sake. She could hear the bath running and the slam of cupboards. Mike always forgot where he had put the bath gel; and everything else, for that matter. The trouble with this place was that it was nothing more than a weekend cottage. It was inconvenient, small and uncomfortable. It needed a clean sweep and then a designer with a good eye for modern comforts. With a clever conversion and a large extension it would make a nice home.

  She hadn’t known Mike that long and their relationship was mostly based in London where his garden flat in Bloomsbury met her every criterion of comfort and convenience, but there was a small part of her which was beginning to think about a future with him which was definitely longer term than any other she had so far experienced. Which brought her back to her niggling worry about the depth of his feelings for her. Had he ever thought about marriage? They had never discussed it, but supposing, just supposing they tied the knot, what then?

  Mike was an advertising executive in a medium-sized but well regarded company with a broad portfolio of accounts. He was clever and attractive, confident and talented but in some areas of his life he was reserved. He enjoyed his own company and although he clearly enjoyed hers she wondered sometimes if he was one hundred per cent dedicated to her; or for that matter to his job and to London. She returned to her reverie about the future. Commuting was out of the question, it was from her point of view just too far, but once there were children she for one would be more than happy to spend at least part of each week in the country. Husband in town; wife in the country. Recipe for disaster, she knew that. But a garden, a local playgroup, good schools. It would make sense. It was a lifestyle some of her friends were opting for and she had to admit she was beguiled.

  She tiptoed over to the large chest of drawers which dominated the room, perched as it was incongruously on the uneven floorboards, and she pulled open the top drawer. Surprise! It was stuffed full of dusty books. It was years since Evie Lucas had died and the house was still full of her stuff like some goddamn shrine. Well, now there was a solution. She pictured her brief meeting in the lane with Mike’s afternoon visitor. A tall slim woman, slightly sallow of complexion with dark straight hair; good features, large eyes – Charlotte always noticed other women’s eyes – beautiful even, but not his type. Why not let her sort all this mess out?

  When she and Mike had first met and she had realised he had a famous grandmother with a painting in the Tate Gallery Charlotte had excitedly imagined a house full of paintings worth millions. When, wide-eyed, she had said as much to Mike he had roared with laughter. ‘If it was true I’d be a rich man! Sadly there are no paintings left. God knows where they all went. I suspect Evie sold some. I assume she was quite hard up in her old age. That often happened, didn’t it? Artists were poor in their lifetime; only later was their stuff valuable. And to be honest I don’t think she has ever been that popular as a painter. The others, the ones in the cottage, were left to my cousin.’

  Charlotte found herself wandering round the room fingering the furnishings and picking up ornaments, deliberately putting them down in different places, well aware that next time Dolly came in she would return them to their original arrangements, exactly as Evie had left them years before. Bloody Evie! This could be such a pretty cottage without her malign influence hanging over everything. Ideally they should take everything out into the garden and burn it. Mike would never agree, of course.

  She looked at the various bits of furniture. Perhaps instead she could persuade Mike to store it in the studio, to allow them to go and buy some really beautiful modern bits, choosing them together, changing the whole feel of the place. That would be a start. Who knew? Maybe that would be enough. He would begin to see the place as theirs rather than Evie’s. She smiled. Maybe it was time to begin dropping hints that dusty chintz and threadbare rugs were not the way they wanted to start life together.

  ‘Mike!’ she called now. ‘Mike, I’ve had an idea.’ She went through to the bathroom and perched on the edge of the old chipped roll-top bath. Part of her made a mental note to find out about re-enamelling as
she bent to drop a kiss on Mike’s forehead as he lay, knees bent almost to his chin, eyes closed.

  ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea. Why don’t we do some sorting out? I’ll help you. Go through the house and put all Evie’s stuff out in the studio. Then you can get your widow woman to sort through it all. It will give her whatever it is she wants and give you some space to call your own. This is such a small house!’

  She paused, holding her breath, trailing a finger through the foam on the bath water, then as the silence became intolerable she bent to kiss him on the mouth. With a shout of laughter he grabbed her and pulled her into the bath on top of him, slopping water all over the floor.

  It was a long time later as they lay naked on the bed, watching the light leach out of the evening that he answered her question.

  ‘You know, that might be a good idea. I do feel a bit overpowered by Evie when I’m here. It is still so much her house,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She can keep the studio. That seems fair. But you are right. She is swamping me. Why don’t I ring Lucy Standish next weekend and tell her she can start as soon as she likes. If she is here during the week when we are in town we needn’t see her or get in each other’s hair.’

  It was only later he wondered what Dolly Davis would think of the plan.

  August 10th 1940

  Enemy planes had been attacking since dawn. As Ralph’s squadron scrambled for the third time in quick succession he felt his head throbbing with the strain. His stomach lurched as it always did with a lethal cocktail of excitement, adrenaline and good old-fashioned nerves. The ground crews had prepared the aircraft in record time, checking for damage, refuelling, rearming, restarting the engines ready to go. His own rigger and fitter were there, the men who kept his Spitfire flying. He acknowledged their smiles, their thumbs up; there was nothing for him to do but grab his Mae West and helmet, hop up onto the wing, slide into the seat, buckle up, and thrust the throttle forward as the planes swiftly taxied out, turned one after the other into wind, thundering across the airfield and up into the sky. He adored this moment, the feel of the joystick in his hands, the exhilaration of flying the small, fast, single-seater fighter, hearing the throaty roar of the powerful Rolls Royce Merlin engine. As always he felt a sudden expansive rush of joy as the wheels folded neatly into place and locked and the thrill as one after another the planes climbed swiftly up and away.