‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly, ‘but, as you say, she has left a strong presence here. One would have to be very insensitive not to feel it.’
‘She loved this place. It feels a bit like a betrayal to be moving her stuff out, if I’m honest.’
‘That’s how Mrs Davis feels. But I can understand your fiancée wanting to –’
‘She’s not my fiancée,’ he interrupted sharply.
‘Sorry. Partner, then. Whatever.’ She changed the subject hurriedly. ‘It is helpful for me to have it all out there, then I can sort through it more easily.’ She hesitated. ‘I gather from Mrs Davis that any diaries there may have been were inherited by your cousin?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t think Evie kept any diaries.’
She looked puzzled. ‘I must have misunderstood. No matter. There seem to be a great many letters from her friends. I am sure I can find material there. She was obviously a hoarder!’ She smiled.
‘Indeed.’ He stood up suddenly. ‘Shall we go to the studio and take a look?’
She followed him into the lush garden with its kaleidoscope of flowers, the grass perhaps a little too long now. It showed a trail of damp footprints behind them and she felt her feet grow wet in her sandals. Did he have a gardener, she wondered, or did he do it himself at weekends? She felt a pang of guilt. Their precious little garden behind the gallery was overgrown. It looked unloved. Neither she nor Robin had the time to look after it any more.
Mike produced a key and opened the door to the studio. He went in and looked round. ‘You seem to have tidied up. Or was that Dolly?’
‘Me!’ Lucy moved over to the table. ‘I needed space to work and make notes. There is a tremendous amount of stuff here. Even her clothes.’ She moved over to a couple of large cardboard boxes. ‘Shoes. Hats. Handbags.’
‘Ah.’ For a moment he looked uncomfortable. ‘Charlotte may have misunderstood when I said we should put her papers out here. She seems to have brought everything.’
‘It’s a small house,’ Lucy said sympathetically. ‘I’m sure you both need the space. I’ll go through it all and then perhaps you can decide what should be kept. For the archive,’ she added hastily, afraid she might have overstepped the mark.
‘Good idea.’ He glanced round helplessly. ‘There seems to be an awful lot more stuff than I expected. How on earth are you going to find time to go through everything?’
‘With great difficulty if I can only come once or twice a week.’ She glanced up at him frankly.
He shook his head. ‘I can see that. Perhaps we can find a way of circumventing Dolly’s surveillance.’
For a moment she was speechless. ‘Does she give the orders round here then?’ she said at last.
He screwed up his face quizzically. ‘Pretty much. I rely on her such a lot. You can see why. I’m away most of the time and she has been coming here for more than forty years. The house and garden wouldn’t survive without her.
‘I see.’ Lucy sighed. ‘Sorry. It’s not my business anyway. It won’t be hard obviously to sort out the paperwork from the other stuff.’ She gave a reluctant smile. ‘Then I’ll try and roughly put it into some kind of chronological order. I hope she won’t mind me using a computer?’
‘Now. Now.’ The reprimand was gentle. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. We are going to help you as much as we can.’
She felt very small suddenly. ‘Sorry. It’s frustration. I can’t wait to start.’
‘Then why not start now? I won’t get in your way. Perhaps we can adjourn to the pub at lunchtime to compare notes?’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this but I’m afraid there is still much more in the house.’
She made a face. ‘It is her whole life, Michael. May I call you Michael? Mrs Davis, Dolly, is always so formal. But as long as there is room in the studio we can go on bringing it over here. It is all stacking away quite neatly.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I take it you have no reservations about all this. You haven’t changed your mind about me working here?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve got anything to hide. If I had the slightest inkling that there was I wouldn’t let you within a mile of it all. Please don’t let Dolly put you off. And it’s Mike. Please.’
She watched as he strode back across the lawn towards the shed in the far corner. Ah, her question about lawn mowing was about to be answered. She saw him bend to pick up a red fuel can from just inside the door. He shook it experimentally, nodded as though satisfied there was enough fuel for his enterprise and then dragged the mower out into the sunshine.
Leaving the door open to let in the sunlight she turned back to the boxes. Almost at once she struck gold. A small battered attaché case had been pushed into one of the large cardboard cartons, together with several shabby leather handbags. Lucy was about to push the whole lot to one side when she saw the locks on the case. One of them had flipped open. She pulled the case out of the box and set it on the table. The other lock was stiff but after some tugging it reluctantly sprang back as well, releasing a musty smell of old leather. Inside the lid there were several suede pockets, ragged now and full of small holes as though they had been nibbled by some insect, one full of unused envelopes, the others stuffed with sheets of paper closely covered in small scrawled writing, much crossed out and rewritten. Pulling out a handful she stared down at them. Was this Evie’s handwriting? She set the sheets down on the table and selected one, trying to decipher the words. It has come to my notice that … then a bit that was crossed out. Lucy squinted at it … you have been less than honest, then another bit more clear this time. How could you do this to me? Lucy hooked her foot around the leg of the stool behind her, pulling it closer and she sat down, her eyes glued to the sheet of paper. It was the rough draft of a letter. Carefully she read it through. There was much in the same vein – recriminations, anger, frustration – the strongest passages crossed and recrossed out, softened, reworded. She turned over the last sheet. Nothing. She sorted through all the sheets. Of this particular letter there was no beginning and no ending. To her enormous frustration there was no way of telling who it had been addressed to or the date.
The other fragments of paper she pulled out were varied and torn but some, to her great delight, were actually about Evie’s painting.
‘Yes!’ Lucy murmured. This was what she wanted. She glanced over her shoulder towards the door. Mike was moving steadily behind the mower in the distance, partially hidden behind a couple of ancient apple trees. Her first instinct had been to call him and show him what she had found but something made her pause. In spite of what he had said she still wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced that he was wholly on side about the biography. If I had the slightest inkling that there was anything to hide I wouldn’t let you within a mile. The words echoed in her head for a moment. There was a warning there; a threat even. If she uncovered more personal stuff was he likely to confiscate it or worse, burn it? She had heard of families reacting like that before. She hesitated, tempted to stuff the contentious pages into her bag. No, that would be unforgivable, stealing. But perhaps just for now she would quietly put them safely to one side and wait to see what else turned up.
It was after one o’clock when Mike stuck his head round the door. ‘Would this be a good moment to stroll up to the pub?’ He stepped into the studio and fished in his pocket for a piece of paper. ‘Put this somewhere safe before I forget. The address of the farm where Evie was brought up. I don’t have the phone number, I’m afraid, but it is owned by some people called Chappell.’
She tucked the scrap of paper into her tote then she grabbed her purse out of the bag and followed him. They made their way up the lane towards the village. A cluster of houses, most built of flint like Rosebank, some old red brick and some timber framed, clustered around a small green, next to which was the village church. The thatched, picture-book country inn, the upper storey covered in hung tiles, was a few minutes’ walk further on up the lane.
‘So, have you found anything useful?’ He introduced her to the couple who ran the pub and they had ordered at the bar before finding themselves a table on the terrace at the back.
‘I’m still sorting stuff out.’ Lucy sat down in the shade of a pergola covered with yet more roses. ‘It seems to me she kept every single bill and bank statement and receipt she ever had.’
He laughed. ‘That will make for a singularly dull biography.’
‘It will if that’s all I can find.’ She reached up to her dark glasses tucked on top of her head and slid them down onto her nose. ‘I hope you have lots of anecdotes you can tell me to fill out the gaps between her visits to the bank. Gossip, scandal, family rows. That sort of thing.’
She was watching him from behind the glasses and she saw him look away suddenly. He was quite handsome, she decided, in an unorthodox kind of way. ‘All families have secrets,’ she went on gently, ‘and sometimes there is no reason for them to be secret any more. Times passes. The people involved have died.’ She paused hopefully, taking a sip from her wine glass.
Mike sat back in his rustic chair with a sigh. Beneath him the wood creaked in sympathy. ‘I think there were family rows. The trouble is they would have been when I was too young to understand them and once I had my own life, you know how kids are, I wasn’t really interested. I loved my grandmother, but I’m afraid I was more interested in me. And so was she. She was fantastically modern in her outlook. She never talked about the past.’ He looked up sharply. ‘If I’m honest, I’d rather you stuck to the subject of her painting. You know she went to the Royal College of Art before she became a war artist? Now that is a topic people would find intriguing. She never completed the course because of the war. Instead she worked on the family farm. That is how she gained access to the airfields. Through her brother, Ralph, sketching between her stints milking cows.’
August 27th 1940
It had been a peaceful day compared to the last two; Tony had sat longer than usual over his lunch listening to the general discussion in the Mess about the reason for the lull. Were the Germans licking their wounds or were they planning an even more lethal raid? The consensus seemed to be with the latter view but in the meantime some of the men were planning an evening around supper at The Dolphin in Chichester. Tony found his thoughts wandering. To Evie. Again. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. That kiss, three days before, so spontaneous, so electrifying, had burned its way into his very being. This had never happened to him before. He was used to girls falling at his feet, metaphorically at least, and her chippy reaction to him had fascinated him. She was sparky, intriguing, vivacious. Nothing like anyone he had ever met before and he wanted to see her again, badly.
‘You coming down to The Dolphin tonight, Tony?’ One of his friends clapped him on the shoulder.
He shook his head. ‘There is someone I want to see.’
There was an appreciative groan across the room. ‘I thought so. The laddie is smitten!’ A voice called from the sofa by the window. ‘Money on the fact that it is our little artist!’
Tony grinned. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘State secret.’
‘You’ll be wanting to buy Esmeralda then.’ Another voice. David Brownlow. From whom he had borrowed the car.
He still hadn’t made up his mind about the little Morris, but suddenly it made sense.
‘A fiver, I think you said?’
‘Six was the deal.’
Tony grimaced. ‘You want my shirt as well?’
‘Go on. You’ve got a rich daddy.’ The banter was good-natured. The men were climbing to their feet. Time to go out to the Flight hut. ‘The lady will love it.’
Tony smiled. ‘The lady loves me!’
Another general groan. ‘Don’t count your chickens,’ David advised gravely. ‘Even you can’t have wooed her so quickly.’ He reached into his pocket for the car key and dangled it in front of Tony’s nose. ‘Let’s see the colour of your money.’
Tony reached into the pocket of his battledress. ‘I trust there is petrol in it?’
It was David’s turn to look shifty. ‘Enough to get you there. Wherever there is!’ He let out a whoop of laughter. ‘I might have to ask you for a lift into Chi tonight, of course. On your way to the little lady’s farm.’
They flew two patrols that morning; the skies were empty. When Tony set off for the farm he was in high good spirits, a bunch of flowers on the seat beside him. Evie hadn’t been down to the airfield that day but it never occurred to him that she wouldn’t be at home either. Rachel was walking across the yard, a jug of milk in her hand when he drove in and drew to a halt by the stable wall.
‘I’m sorry, Tony. She’s not here. She’s gone with her father to Southampton.’ Rachel waved an inquisitive fly away from her jug. ‘She wanted to do some sketching over there and grabbed the chance of the lift.’ She waited, smiling at him, seeing the boy’s face fall. There was nothing for it. Tony had to turn the car and go back to the airfield.
September 1st 1940
Eddie had a letter in his hand. He caught Evie’s wrist and pulled her across to the kitchen table. ‘Sit.’
Taken by surprise, she sat. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve had a letter from Sir Kenneth Clark’s office.’
‘About me?’ Her eyes sparkled.
He nodded. ‘The War Artists Advisory Committee wants to see more of your work. But –’ he raised his hand as she jumped up ecstatically, ‘it has to be the kind of work that they are approving for women artists.’
She sat down again with an angry pout. ‘I am not going to paint women in aprons.’
‘They don’t like the thought of you painting on an airfield, especially one that may be bombed and strafed regularly. It is too close to the action. There are male artists painting the flyboys and that is enough. I explained that you live near the airfield and technically are in just as much danger at home, and that you go to Westhampnett with your brother and are chaperoned and in no danger whatsoever, but –’
‘You said what?’ Now she was blazing with anger. ‘How dare you!’
‘It’s true, Evie. Well, more or less. They all look out for you, you know they do.’ He folded his arms. ‘It’s up to you. I can’t do any more.’ For a moment they glared at each other, then at last she looked away. ‘Don’t they want to see any more pictures of the planes and pilots then?’
He chewed his lip for a moment. ‘I think it’s worth trying again with a new portfolio. We were stupid; we should have got you to sign the pictures with your initials. Then the issue of you being a woman might not have come up at all or not until it was too late and they had accepted you. I think the best chance now is to win them over with your sheer brilliance.’ He grinned at her. ‘So, sweetheart, have you anything new to show me?’ He stood up and wandered over to the dresser where her sketchbook lay. Picking it up he opened it and began to turn the pages. ‘You’ve torn some out.’
‘So?’ She was still fuming.
‘So, you can’t afford to waste paper. Have you anything upstairs in the studio?’ He glanced up at her. ‘Evie, you can‘t afford to slack. If you want to be taken seriously, you have to work.’
‘I have worked!’
‘Show me then.’ He strode towards the staircase.
On the easel was a half-finished painting. Eddie studied it in silence for several seconds.
‘It’s good isn’t it?’ she said, standing behind him.
‘Who is it?’ He stepped closer, examining it more closely. The figure in the RAF battledress was standing in the middle of the airfield, a Spitfire pulled up on the grass in the distance, his helmet and goggles under his arm, the boyish grin and windswept hair immediately engaging and carefree.
‘Tony Anderson. He’s with the squadron at Westhampnett.’ Her mother had told her of his visit, of the wilting flowers on the seat in the car. His wistful remark about his parents had touched her deeply; she hadn’t been able to get it out of her head and almost with
out intending to do it she had begun the portrait for his mother. She thought back to his kiss and felt a jolt of excitement at the memory. She had hoped he would repeat his visit but there had been no sign of him.
‘It is good, you’re right.’ Eddie moved away from the painting. ‘Excellent, that can go in the portfolio. It’s not an action painting, and it is a good portrait with lots of warmth and enthusiasm. It would appeal to them.’
‘No.’ Evie folded her arms and stood in front of the painting. ‘This one is not for sale.’
‘What do you mean?’ Eddie frowned at her.
‘What I say. It is not for sale and it is not for the portfolio.’
‘Everything you paint is for sale, Evie.’ Eddie’s voice was suddenly harsh. ‘That is our agreement.’
‘That is not our agreement, Eddie. We have no formal agreement.’ She glared at him. ‘This picture is for Tony’s parents. My gift.’
She held his gaze for several seconds and it was Eddie who looked away first. ‘I’m astonished you think you can afford to be so generous,’ he said coldly. ‘Both with your time and the materials. Which I obtained for you, I may add. If you are giving it away then you will have to reimburse me for the paint and canvas.’
Evie’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘I don’t believe I heard you say that,’ she hissed at him. ‘Of all the callous, hardhearted, mean-spirited –’
‘That is enough, Evie,’ he shouted. ‘This is not a game!’
‘No,’ she said, ‘It’s not.’ Her voice was bleak. She turned to walk out of the room.
He sighed. ‘No, come back, Evie. I’m sorry. You are right. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course you can give the picture away. It is just that we can’t afford to squander materials. But you know that.’ He hurried after her and caught her in his arms. ‘Sweetheart. Wait. Don’t be cross. Forgive me.’
She gave him a weak smile. ‘Of course I forgive you. I’ll paint lots more pictures, I promise.’
He followed her downstairs to the kitchen. Rachel had just come in from feeding the hens and she had a bowl of eggs in her hand. ‘Can I give you some, Eddie? I think your mother said you don’t have hens any more.’ She glanced from one to the other. ‘Is everything all right?’
The Darkest Hour Page 8