The squadrons peeling off high over the wood had split, one section taking on the bombers heading west, and the others cutting in amongst the escorting fighters. In seconds the sky was a mass of diving and wheeling planes, the sound of engines screaming through the silence of the afternoon.
They sat side by side watching in awed fascination at the battle being fought over their heads. ‘The Battle of Britain,’ Tony said at last, his voice full of awe. ‘Did you hear Churchill’s speech on the wireless when he said that? It is in full swing and I am missing it!’
‘You are not missing it, Tony. You have a ringside seat,’ Evie said at last. ‘Think of it as research. You are watching their manoeuvring and their tactics so that you will know how to react when you are up there too.’
They both felt the visceral excitement and the breathless tension of the encounter going on over their heads. And then as suddenly as it had started it was over. The German planes one by one turned and headed south, two trailing black smoke, one spinning at last out of sight in the far distance, presumably plunging into the sea. Two of the Spitfires followed the stragglers, harrying to the last, the others, probably out of ammunition and rapidly running out of fuel, were returning to base. For a long minute the sky was empty, then a pair of swallows swooped low over the field.
Evie turned to Tony and snuggled into his arms. ‘You will soon be back in action,’ she said reassuringly. Her whole spirit was crying out in denial. She didn’t want him to go, she wanted him to stay safe here with her on the ground, but she knew she couldn’t keep him with her; he was not the sort of man to be tamed. She stood up at last and held out her hand to pull him to his feet. ‘Let’s go back to the farmhouse,’ she whispered.
8
Tuesday 16th July
Dolly Davis was standing at her kitchen window at home, the drying up cloth in her hand, staring into space. In ten minutes she would need to leave her small terraced cottage in Midhurst to walk up to the bus stop at the end of the street, ready for the long tour of local villages which would at last drop her off near Rosebank Cottage.
She had been thinking hard all night and was still turning her dilemma over in her mind. Did she trust Lucy Standish? Obviously Mr Mike did. He had told her on the telephone that he had given Mrs Standish a key to the house and to the studio and had told her she could come any day she chose, every day if she wished. He had made it very plain that she, Dolly, was not to interfere or question anything the woman did and was to give her every bit of help she could. To that effect Dolly had written down some dates and facts for Lucy, sitting down the night before with an exercise book and carefully making a list in her best writing of all the dates she could remember, starting with the date Evie had bought Rosebank Cottage. She was to write down the names and addresses of anyone she thought could help with researching the book and any details of the family she knew. Mr Mike said he was going to do the same, but he knew she probably had the key to so much more knowledge about Evie than he did. She knew he was flattering her; she wasn’t born yesterday. But on the other hand he obviously genuinely wanted her co-operation.
She had written down the names of Evie’s parents and grandparents, the name of the street where she had lived in London before she came to Rosebank, she couldn’t remember the number, the names of several of Evie’s friends, the ones who used to come and visit her. She no longer knew their addresses, if she ever did, but it was something to put on the list. She omitted the address of Christopher Marston. It was up to Mr Mike if he wanted to tell her about that side of the family.
At last she had put aside the notebook and stood up. Painfully she made her way up the narrow staircase, cursing her rheumatism, and she walked into the small second bedroom at the top of the stairs. Since her husband, Ronald, had died she had gratefully expanded her life into this second room which had been his for so long. He had suffered privately, as he did everything, from the pain of his long illness and died quietly one night seven years ago. She had not found him, still and peaceful in his bed, till morning when he was already cold.
She had waited a year, that was only decent, then she had sorted all his belongings into bags for the charity shops or for the bin men and moved some of her own things into the room, taking time to lay it out as she liked it with a comfy chair, a table and her small electric sewing machine and cupboards and a light so she could sew in there in her own domain. In one of the cupboards was a large cardboard box. She hauled it out and sat down with it on her knee.
As soon as she had realised what Christopher Marston was up to, clearing all Evie’s personal stuff out of Rosebank, she had saved what she could. It hadn’t been much, the diaries, hidden in the chest of drawers in Evie’s bedroom, two small sketchbooks and the old log book which had lain under the diaries. She had glanced at the log book and frowned in disappointment. She had thought it would be Ralph’s but it belonged to some man she had never heard of. Nevertheless she tucked it into the box with the rest and that same night, quietly, after Christopher and his wife had left, their car stuffed with everything of value in the house, she carried it up the lane and lugged it home on the bus.
She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. What to do? She didn’t want to ask Mr Mike. He would be furious with her for taking it all in the first place but she was unrepentant about that. She did it for Evie. Instinctively she had known that Evie would hate to have anyone, never mind her difficult and rude grandson, poring over her diaries.
She glanced at her watch and pulled off her apron. Time to go. She would think about what to do during the day and make a judgement then.
Lucy was already at work when Dolly arrived at the cottage at exactly nine a.m. The old lady frowned a little, but glancing quickly round she was satisfied that Lucy hadn’t touched anything or messed up the kitchen. She opened the door to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out her polish and dusters. At ten thirty she would go over to the studio and take her a cup of coffee. Until then it was up to Lucy. If she had the manners to come in and say good morning that would be a mark in her favour.
Lucy had pushed open the door of the studio with some trepidation when she arrived that morning after a sleepless night. She stood in the doorway and stared at the scattered brushes on the floor. When the jar fell she had not waited to pick them up. She had slammed the studio door and locked it. When she climbed into the car she was astonished to find that her hands were shaking.
Taking a deep breath she put down her bags and walked over to pick up the scattered contents of the jar. She put it back on the table and pushed it firmly to the centre, well away from the edge, then she glanced nervously round the room. Everything was as she had left it last night. Or was it? She looked at the pile of boxes against the wall. Had they been rearranged? She frowned. Perhaps Dolly had arrived early. Walking over to the wall she stooped and picked up the top box. She didn’t remember seeing it before. Her heart thumping she put it down on the table and pulled open the flaps at the top. Within moments she was completely absorbed. Amongst the shabby cardboard files she found two or three that contained flimsy carbon copies of Evie’s letters. They were smudged and faded and occasionally so faint as to be illegible. Obviously Evie went on using each sheet of carbon paper long after it was too worn to be of much use, but there was enough there to show that these were the letters she wrote to galleries and exhibition organisers about showing her work. Lucy felt a shot of adrenaline run through her as she saw the names of various paintings listed again and again, one or two of which she recognised, several which she did not. This must be an inventory of her basic exhibits, the ones she sent off round the country on tour. At the top of each letter was the name and address of the place to which they were going. She found a sequence of dates spanning some five years of Evie’s main exhibitions. Perhaps elsewhere in the studio she would find the catalogues themselves. Dolly was forgotten. This was like striking gold.
An hour later Dolly arrived with a tea tray. Today there was one cup. ‘I don’t wa
nt to interrupt or get in your way,’ the old lady said coolly.
Lucy looked up then she glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. She should have gone over to the cottage to say good morning. Reluctantly she pushed the files to one side. ‘You are not interrupting, I promise. You haven’t brought a cup for yourself. Can I fetch one so we can have coffee together?’
Dolly looked at her suspiciously. ‘I assumed you hadn’t come in because you wanted to be left alone.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It was me, not wanting to get in your way. I thought you must be so used to having the place to yourself that I would be under your feet, but I would love to talk to you, when you have some time. I so much want to hear your reminiscences about Evie. You and Mike are the only people I’ve met who remember her, and you both knew her so well.’ She was cursing herself for putting Dolly’s back up again. She slipped off her stool and stood up with a smile. ‘Can I fetch that cup? There is enough in this cafetière for two and it smells so gorgeous.’
Dolly hesitated then she nodded. ‘No, you stay here. I’ll fetch it.’
When she came back she brought a plate of biscuits.
By the time she left that evening Lucy had filled several pages of her notebook with anecdotes and she was clutching Dolly’s exercise book, but she did not know about the box of diaries. The old woman was still hedging her bets.
September 9th 1940
On September 7th Churchill believed that invasion was imminent. High Command at last used the codeword, ‘Cromwell’ and service personnel were issued with side arms and live ammunition. Roads in the south were blocked and guards on the south coast were reinforced. All temporary leave had been stopped. Ralph telephoned home once or twice to reassure his mother, but patrols were constant and the pilots were becoming increasingly exhausted. There was no word from Tony.
Since she was a child Evie had kept her diary under her mattress. She did not think her mother would snoop in her bedroom but she was not taking any chances, and especially not now with the new glorious secret which had overwhelmed her every waking second. She was in love, deeply and overwhelmingly in love. She could not get the thought of Tony out of her head. Everything she did on the farm, every moment she was awake she was thinking about him and at night she dreamed of him as well. And now, overwhelmed with worry, she hadn’t seen him to speak to for three days even though she had biked down to Westhampnett early and spent the whole day loitering round the airfield under the pretence of making sketches. No, not pretence. She was sketching but she had been distracted every few minutes by the possibility that he would appear. He had been declared fit to fly by the local doctor and was once again on operational standby. The squadrons were in constant action, flying out on sortie after sortie. Their lunchbreak never happened and tea was being made for them out in the dispersal huts with the WVS ladies taking their van over to them as they waited for refuelling. She saw Tony in the distance twice and each time he grinned at her and waved, but he was with the other pilots and she knew better than to interrupt or draw attention to herself.
It was nearly six o’clock when Eddie drove down to the airfield, left his car by the gate and strolled in past the guard.
‘Evie?’ He stood beside her and looked over her shoulder at her sketch. It was rudimentary, concentrating on Tony, one face standing out amongst several others who were mere outlines. He made no comment. ‘Your mother asked me to come and fetch you,’ he said after a moment. She had not looked up to greet him ‘You are late for milking and she said you hadn’t done any of your chores today. She is worried.’
Evie scowled. ‘I’ll come back when I’ve finished this.’
‘No, now, Evie. It’s late.’ Eddie saw the guard from the perimeter gate heading his way and groaned. ‘Now they are going to tell me off for coming in here. The security is appalling on this airfield. I should make a complaint to higher authorities. Only that would stop you coming down here too.’
Evie looked up at the implied threat. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I don’t want to.’ He sighed. There was no point in putting her back up even further by mentioning his feelings about her visits down here to sketch Tony. ‘Come on, Evie.’
‘I didn’t realise the time. I’ll collect my bike.’
‘Leave it. It will be perfectly safe. I’ll run you back to save time.’
‘No!’ Evie snapped. ‘I’ll come when I’ve finished.’ She didn’t want to speak to Eddie. She didn’t want to see Eddie. She wished she had never made love to him. If it wasn’t for his role in furthering her career, she would tell him to go away and never come back. Whatever she had felt for him in the past was nothing compared to what she felt for Tony. Her whole body yearned for the young airman in a way she had never experienced before. She was overwhelmed with longing. In contrast the thought of getting into the car with Eddie was suddenly repugnant to her.
Eddie leaned across her and took the sketchbook and pencil out of her hand. ‘You will come now, Evie. I promised your mother.’ He frowned at her as she rounded on him.
‘No!’
He held up his hand before she could protest, his temper barely in check. ‘Have you any idea just how worried she gets when you are down here? You are in danger every second you are here. The Germans aim for the airfields, you know. I am amazed the CO lets you come here at all. Your mother is frantic about your safety. She doesn’t say anything because she knows you want to do your bit for the war effort, but you owe it to her to come home when you say you will. It is bad enough for her to have to worry about Ralph all day every day, up there.’ He gestured towards the clouds where a dozen or so planes were circling ever higher, small black dots heading suddenly towards the horizon as a message from ground control sent them on the right vector to encounter the enemy.
She slumped back onto her seat on the old oil drum which had become her favoured perch. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
He smiled at her ‘No, well, you have now. So let’s get back and put her out of her misery at least as far as you are concerned, OK?’
Wednesday 17th July
Dolly had given Lucy the address of the Lucas farm and the following afternoon Lucy drove the half dozen or so miles to the village of Chilverly, taut with anticipation. Pausing in the village to squint at her road map she turned the car up a narrow lane on the far side of the village and drove the few hundred yards to the gate at the end. There she parked and climbed out. Box Wood Farm. Evie’s parents’ farm, the home Evie had known for so much of the early years of her life. And Ralph’s home too. She shivered. She stood for a moment on the gravelled driveway studying the front of the building, aware of a sudden lump in her throat. It was a lovely traditional farmhouse, lying in the golden sunshine in a gentle basin in the Downs, the upper storeys white-painted and timber-framed, the ground floor a soft terracotta, built with ancient lichen-stained bricks. It had been separated from its land many years earlier, Mike had mentioned, and now boasted only an acre of beautiful gardens and an orchard, but, beyond the gardens, the downland fields were still populated with sheep as they must have been in Evie’s day, the short-cropped grasses interspersed here and there with patches of woodland. The front of the house was curtained with wisteria and the door decorated with urns full of geraniums and variegated ivies. Overhead swallows were threading the air with high-pitched twitterings as they swooped overhead much as they had done in Evie’s day.
The door opened and a tall, thin woman appeared on the steps. ‘Lucy Standish?’
Lucy took a deep breath and smiled. She walked forward, hand outstretched. ‘Mrs Chappell? Thank you so much for agreeing to let me come.’
Elizabeth Chappell was older than she had first appeared, nearer seventy than fifty, Lucy guessed, but her fine bones and English rose complexion gave her a glow of youth which Lucy doubted she would lose even in her eighties or nineties. She followed her through into a large elegant kitchen and stared round.
Elizabeth smiled. ‘
A farmhouse kitchen, which it really was when we bought the house. The place was a tip. We didn’t buy it from Evelyn Lucas of course. There had been at least two other owners in the intervening years, but I like to think she would recognise it again now.‘
Lucy looked round at the butler’s sink, the dark green, four-oven Aga, the handmade cabinets, and secretly doubted if Evie would have recognised it at all. She knew Evie’s kitchen at Rosebank Cottage and she didn’t think this elegance was Evie’s thing. But then it would have been Evie’s mother’s kitchen in those days and she didn’t know anything about Rachel. Not yet. There was no mention of her in the letters so far, no clues as to what Rachel was like at all. She had only discovered Evie’s parents’ names from an offhand remark of Mike’s and then in Dolly’s helpful little list.
It was rather like being shown round by a house agent. Elizabeth Chappell gave her the whole tour, room by room, finishing at last in the attic.
‘I understand this was Evelyn’s studio,’ she said as they went in. It had been laid out as a children’s playroom, complete with a model railway on the floor. ‘The grandchildren,’ Elizabeth said over her shoulder. ‘They live in London but they love coming down here. It keeps them amused all day.’
Lucy smiled. ‘I can imagine. It looks very inviting.’
Where was Evie? Where were the echoes, the memories, the hints of the room’s artistic past? The beams were still there but the walls between the stud framing of the roof were a pale blue, the floor had been sanded and sealed to a golden tan and the windows and skylights had new wooden frames with locks on their elegant ironwork latches.
The Darkest Hour Page 12