Rosebank Cottage was bleak in the rain. Inserting the key into the lock and letting herself into the hall, Lucy stood for a moment looking round.
‘Hello?’ she called nervously. ‘Is there anyone there?’
She had half expected Dolly to be there but the house was empty. The lights were off, the doors and windows shut, the only sign of life a fly buzzing angrily against a window pane.
She walked into the kitchen. The silence was broken by the sound of a tap dripping slowly into the sink. Lucy stepped forward and turned it off with a shiver. It felt as though someone had just that minute walked out of the room. The atmosphere was tense, the room alive. She touched the kettle gently, anticipating it to be warm. It was stone cold. It wasn’t Dolly she was expecting to find here, she realised suddenly. It was the former owner of the cottage.
‘Evie?’ She spoke out loud, questioning, waiting for an answer. There was none. And yet she had the feeling that Evie was there, somewhere, waiting to be summoned.
She went back through into the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up. The steps were narrow and uneven, polished oak, turning sharply halfway up so that she couldn‘t see the top. She took a deep breath and set her foot on the bottom step, wincing as it let out an agonised creak.
There were two small bedrooms opening off the landing at the top and a bathroom. She hesitated again, feeling intrusive, even a little prurient as she peered first into one room and then into the next. But then Mike had told her she could use the bathroom and there was nothing to see in the two bedrooms which spoke of the present-day occupants. The rooms were neat and tidy, impersonal. She wondered if that was because Evie’s belongings were now stacked up in the studio and she felt a wave of sadness for having been the cause of her exile from her own home. She stood in the slightly larger of the two bedrooms and looked round. It was several seconds before, cautiously, she went over to the chest of drawers and pulled the top drawer open a crack. It was empty, as was the drawer below it. They smelled faintly musty. Obviously they had been recently emptied.
Lucy turned and looked at the pictures on the walls and felt an immediate pang of disappointment. There was nothing here by Evie herself. She peered at each in turn. There was one by the door, two on the opposite wall and a cluster of small prints near the window. She peered at them closely, noticing the fade marks on the wallpaper beneath them. They didn’t match. There had been other pictures here but they had been moved and not all that long ago. Was this the mysterious Christopher’s handiwork? If so he had obviously been very thorough. The pictures which had gone had been very small. She groaned quietly. She was going to have to ask Mike about his cousin and see if he would give her his address. There were obviously going to be pictures in his custody which had never been in the public domain at all and which would be crucial to include in a complete survey of Evie’s work.
There was a creak on the staircase and she spun round.
‘Hello?’ she called nervously. She was overwhelmed with guilt again, horrified to have been caught poking round the house even though she had every right to be there. She tiptoed to the doorway and peered out. There was no one there. She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. From here she couldn’t see the bottom because of the bend in the flight. The house was silent again.
‘Is there anyone there,’ she called. The sound of her voice was overloud and intrusive in the silence. There was no reply. Cautiously she set foot on the top step. Slowly she began to descend, wincing at the creaks and groans from the staircase beneath her. The cottage was empty.
She worked for two hours in the studio, then paused to make herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She had amassed a pile of papers and notebooks and was beginning to get a feel of what had gone on. Christopher – or whoever had done the preliminary sweep of Evie’s belongings in the past – had, at least at first glance, taken everything that was obviously of potential value, that much was clear. As far as she could see, there were no sketchbooks or paintings, no drawings or notebooks with what she would describe as painterly annotations, no small sketches, scraps or doodles. But there were other things which were of value, at least to her. Notes, more letter fragments and letters from other people including some from dealers, referring to paintings she had never heard of, sometimes with quite detailed descriptions. She began to put the papers into a series of cardboard files and to these she added those she had brought back from the gallery. She would take a few back each time to scan them so that she had the complete sequence on her computer at home. After a while she stopped and straightened her back, staring round. She had barely scratched the surface of the work to be done but at the same time she had achieved enough to feel she had made a proper start. Tomorrow she would attack the pile of boxes beside the far wall.
As she was tidying up, switching off the lights, she heard the sound of footsteps on the path outside. She paused, holding her breath, looking towards the door. The studio was silent. From somewhere in the distance she heard a blackbird’s harsh alarm note echoing through the garden. On tiptoe she moved towards the door and took hold of the handle. She waited for a few seconds, listening, then she pulled open the door. There was no one there. Behind her, a jar of brushes, caught by the sudden draught, rocked for a moment and fell to the floor with a crash.
September 6th 1940
Ralph was standing in the kitchen looking from his father to his mother and back. ‘We need to tell her. Eddie is cheating her out of a lot of money.’
He pulled up a chair and sitting down at the scrubbed deal table leaned forward earnestly on his elbows.
Dudley sat down opposite him. The dogs, Jez and Sal, threw themselves down at his feet. ‘And how exactly do you know that, son?’
Ralph felt a quick surge of his old antagonism towards his father. Always the need to doubt him, to disbelieve. ‘I was in Chi. I walked down Westgate and I saw a couple of her pictures in the window of a little gallery there. The price on them was astronomic. Far more than he is giving her.’
Rachel was leaning with her back to the sink. ‘How do we know what he is giving her?’
‘She told me. She was so pleased. He gave her two quid for her picture of the barn with the roses growing over it. It is there, in the window priced at five guineas.’
Dudley snorted. ‘I always thought he was sharp enough to cut himself, that one.’ He sighed.
‘He has to make a turn on them, and so does the shop,’ Rachel put in.
‘That much?’ Ralph looked at his mother in indignation. ‘I would have gone in and talked to them about it but the place was closed. I will go though, another time, and find out just what is going on with Eddie. I don’t want my baby sister being made a fool of. Where is she, anyway?’
‘She biked down to the airfield. Eddie was complaining that she wasn’t producing enough for her portfolio for the War Artists Committee. You know how much she wants to be recognised by them.’ Rachel paused thoughtfully. ‘There weren’t any pictures of the airfield in the shop, were there?’
Ralph shook his head. ‘Just farm scenes. Chocolate box stuff.’
‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’
‘I don’t think she would be allowed to sell pictures of the airfield,’ Ralph said thoughtfully. ‘She’s not even supposed to be there. Eddie seems convinced it’s OK, and that he can convince the WAAC that she would be a credible witness, but they are not keen at all on women doing this sort of thing. They are supposed to be painting other women, not dogfights in the sky.’
Rachel sighed. ‘She has set her sights on this. I don’t think we can stop her. And she won’t argue with Eddie. She doesn’t want to put her chances of being accepted at risk. He does seem to have influence in a lot of places. I wish he didn’t, but I don’t think we should interfere. She’ll sort it out.’
Ralph pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll speak to her when I have had the chance to go back and talk to them. Don’t worry,’ he added as his mother opened
her mouth to argue. ‘I will be tactful. Besides, I don’t think Eddie is quite as high in favour as he once was. Our Evie has her eye on a new beau.’ He smiled.
Dudley let out a guffaw of laughter. ‘That blond Scots boy? I saw her ogling him the other day.‘
‘I’m not surprised,’ Rachel said with a smile. ‘He’s a real charmer.’ She went over and lifted the kettle off the hob. Carrying it back to the tap she half filled it and returned it to the stove. ‘I wouldn’t be sorry to see her distance herself a bit from Eddie but at the same time she needs to be careful. He could destroy her chances of a career in art with a snap of his fingers. He’s only got to say something detrimental to the War Artists Advisory Committee, or in one of those reviews of his, or even to the local galleries, and it would all be over for her. I know she is talented, and one day I am sure she would make her way in the art world, but at the moment she is young and inexperienced and she doesn’t know people, at least not the way he does. As long as he thinks she respects him and is fond of him he will be a good friend to her.’
‘Do you know what you are saying, Rachel!’ Dudley burst out. ‘Listen to yourself! Give her credit for a little pride. You seem to be telling her to sell herself to the man.’
Rachel tightened her lips. ‘I am saying nothing of the sort. I am just worrying that she might spoil her chances of real success.’ She turned to her son, a touch of heightened colour in her cheeks. ‘How long have you got, Ralph? Do you want some tea?’
‘Go on then.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘I have to be back soon enough. A cuppa with my mum and dad gets priority over Jerry and his attacks any day.’ He pretended not to see when Rachel turned away to hide her face. ‘They are giving Portsmouth a walloping at the moment but I am sure the boys can manage without me for a bit.’ He saw his father’s raised eyebrow. ‘OK, I’ve been given a few hours off. We are getting leave in short bursts at the moment. Don’t worry. I’m not playing hooky.’ He paused. He would have to leave time for another visit though, a visit to a pretty young WAAF called Sylvie who he had met at a dance in Bognor. But time enough for Sylvie once he had drunk his cup of tea. He knew enough about his mother to realise if he mentioned a girlfriend he wouldn’t get out of the door without the third degree. He sighed. ‘You do realise I might get posted to another station one of these days, don’t you?’ he said to her gently. ‘It was incredibly lucky my squadron getting posted to Tangmere. It could just as easily have been to any other station in England.’
Rachel nodded. ‘We’ll make the most of it while you’re here,’ she whispered. She cleared her throat and, turning away, walked stiffly across the kitchen. ‘I’ve some fruit cake here in the pantry. I think you deserve a bit as it’s tea-time.’ There was a moment’s silence as she clattered about out of sight. When she reappeared with a plate in her hand, her eyes were suspiciously bright.
Evie had spent the morning sketching the Nissen huts and the ground crew. The squadron had taken off before she arrived and, touching down swiftly to refuel and rearm, had taken off again without her having the chance to see Tony. She had concentrated on her job, sketching furiously, making notes, planning a series of paintings which she could work on in her studio at home. The flight commander of B flight had invited her into the Officers’ Mess for a snack lunch and the chance to admire the new china someone had given them to add to the furniture which had been donated to make life more comfortable. She had accepted in the hope that Tony would appear at some point, but he had, she was told at last, landed at Tangmere with a leak in a fuel line after catching some shrapnel in the fuselage of his plane.
She didn’t see him until late that afternoon when he arrived at the farm with a bandage on his arm.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said cheerily when Evie flew out to meet him in the yard. ‘A splinter, that’s all.’
She flung her arms round his neck and he let out a yell. ‘Ow! Careful!’
‘Sorry, sorry!’ She backed away horrified. ‘Did I hurt you? Oh, Tony, I’m sorry.’
His face was white. ‘No, I’m fine.’ He managed a grin. ‘Patched up by a local body snatcher. I’m healing already. But I’m not allowed to fly for a couple of days in case I prang the old bus. So, I am all yours.’
Evie gazed at him. ‘My parents are up in the top field stooking the last of the barley. They won’t be home till dark. I should be going up there too.’ She smiled at him then she took his hand. ‘Let’s go inside and I’ll find you some beer. Then we could go upstairs if you like.’
He caught her hand. ‘Can we go for a walk first? Just stroll about. Do you mind?’
She gazed at him, taken aback. ‘You don’t want a beer?’
He smiled, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous twinkle. ‘Of course I do. And I want to be alone with you. You know I do. I just want to walk and talk first. It’s all been a bit too exciting, the last few days.’ He drew breath as though to say something else and changed his mind. ‘If we were to –’ he waved his good arm in the air as though unable to find the words to describe what was in his mind, ‘you know, make love,’ he paused again, then took a deep breath. ‘I respect your parents, Evie. And you. I don’t want us to, you know, do anything which would upset things. It’s too important we get this right.’
She grinned. ‘You old romantic! Nothing we do is going to upset things, Tony. I know I am young, but I was an art student,’ she said gently. ‘I was living in London before the war.’
For a moment he looked taken aback, then his face creased into its usual irrepressible grin. ‘That was then,’ he said. He leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘Come on.’ He took her hand and pulled her towards the door.
They walked across the yard, down past the duck pond and then up the track towards the hillside where their flock of Southdown sheep were quietly grazing in the sunshine. Beyond, the South Downs stretched out from the farm east and west, whilst to the south the flat lands of Sussex spread out towards the English Channel. The farm lay in a fold of gentle hills and wooded slopes, the soft grasses spangled with wild flowers, the stubble of the fields lying gold in the afternoon sun. It was an idyllic setting, the setting Evie painted with such love in her pictures of England in happier times, England before the war. The England she no longer wanted to show.
‘Right.’ Tony stopped, faced her and put out his hand. ‘Let’s start from the beginning again. If we are going to marry, we have to be introduced properly, as if our parents were here. Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucas. Can I tell you something about myself?’
She giggled. Holding out her hand, she shook his. ‘Pleased to meet you too. Tell me everything.’
‘I am twenty-one years old, three-quarters of the way through my law degree at Edinburgh University. If I get out of this war alive,’ he took a deep breath and went on, ‘I want to go back and finish it. It was my dream, to be a lawyer. It still is.’ He was silent for a moment. Evie said nothing. She was studying his face.
‘I am the only child of Alistair and Betty Anderson who live near Wigtown in the south-west of Scotland. They are farmers a bit like your parents except they own mountainous land instead of downs. We have a lovely stone farmhouse which has been in our family for several generations,’ he went on slowly, ‘and they are heartbroken that I didn’t want to be a farmer, but they have encouraged me to follow my heart.’ He paused and took another deep breath. ‘If I am going to be a lawyer I would have to go back to Scotland after the war, so you would have to come and live with me in Edinburgh.’ He paused again. ‘But you would love my parents, I know you would, and they would love you. We will go and see them often.’
‘Tony, wait.’ She put her finger against his lips to silence him. ‘This is all getting a bit serious.’
‘I am serious.’ They reached a gate in the hedge and turned through it onto the grassy shoulder of the Down, skirting a hanger of hazel trees clinging to the steeper slopes and following a sheep track towards the summit, sewn with harebells and cat’s-ears. He reached ou
t for her hand so he could pull her behind him. ‘Come on. I want to see the view from the top.’
They made love in a shallow hollow, sheltered from the wind, serenaded by the song of a skylark far overhead. Afterwards Evie lay on her back, her arm across her eyes, sleepy and content, inhaling the smell of the soft grass while Tony sat up staring into the distance. The sound of the binder, carried on the wind from the distance, where her parents were working in the barley field far below them, was clattery but monotonous, lulling them both in the gentle warmth. They kissed long and gently then they made love again, and it was only the sound of the distant throb of aircraft engines high in the south which made them draw apart and sit up. Evie reached for her blouse and pulled it on with a shiver. ‘The first raid this afternoon.’
Tony dressed hurriedly and shaking his head sat down again beside her. ‘I wish I was down at the airfield. I hate not being part of it all.’
‘They’ll manage without you, just this once.’ She put her arm round his shoulders, avoiding his injured arm. ‘I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Tony Anderson.’
He laughed. ‘I should hope so after what we’ve been doing.’
He picked a small blue flower out of the grass and threaded it into her hair. ‘I shall buy you a ring.’
‘A flower will do.’ She reached across and kissed his lips. ‘Do you know what it is? It’s called milkwort. It is an emblem of eternal love.’
‘Not really?’
She smiled. ‘No, not really. But it is for me. I shall press it and treasure it forever.’ She fell silent as the planes approached, the specks in the sky growing larger in tight formation.
‘Stukas and Messerschmitts. Where are our boys? What are they waiting for?’ He rose to his knees.
Evie pulled him down. ‘Careful. They might see us!’
He gave a humourless laugh. ‘I think they have their eye on rather larger targets than a couple of small people in a field. Like Southampton. Ah,’ he gave a satisfied exclamation as a formation of planes appeared high in the east. ‘At last.’ He narrowed his eyes in the glare. ‘Is that our boys or are they from Tangmere? Both probably. There. More of them. At last!’
The Darkest Hour Page 11