‘A hoax?’ Elizabeth stared at her and after a few seconds she began to laugh. It was a shaky, half-hearted laugh but nevertheless it was real. ‘You mean you thought it was Dennis, trying to drive me insane? Shades of Fanny by Gaslight. He and his girlfriend trying to get rid of me so they can pursue their sordid little affair in peace? I wish it was, in a way. No, Dennis wouldn’t do that. He knows I know about the girl and he knows I would give him a divorce if that is what he would like. He is free to indulge in whatever he wants. The truth is he wouldn’t want to marry her. I am his get-out-free card. He uses me as an excuse to refuse her and keep her hanging on. In exchange I get the house. It is a mutually convenient arrangement. He wouldn’t want me to go.’
‘You get the house, but it’s a haunted house.’
‘She doesn’t hurt me. And I never see her.’ Elizabeth sounded stronger suddenly as though the challenge of the real-life woman was enough to give her the strength to face out any ghostly challenge.
Lucy perched nervously on the edge of the sofa. ‘You are a very brave woman.’
‘So are you, my dear. You were prepared to take on a hypothetical murderous husband, with the option being that it is a deranged spectre. I am impressed.’
For a moment they smiled at each other.
‘I have a ghost of my own. In the gallery.’ It slipped out before Lucy had time to think. ‘He doesn’t make a sound. He just stands looking at me.’ She managed to stop herself revealing who the ghost was. Maybe in time, but not now. Not here. That would be unfair to Elizabeth and maybe upset Rachel all over again. Now, all she wanted to do was go home as soon as possible and ponder the extraordinary happenings of the day.
‘So, you are a bit of an expert on ghosts,’ Elizabeth nodded. Her face was wan.
‘Far from it.’ Lucy lapsed into silence again. ‘I don’t like to go and leave you here after this,’ she said at last.
Elizabeth smiled. ‘My dear, Rachel and I have been living together for twenty years perfectly amicably. Don’t worry about me. I feel scared at the time, but then it is over and I know that when she has gone there is nothing left to fear. There is just a feeling of cleansing, like after a thunderstorm. She is just a woman like me. A mother who is still in terrible pain. I understand that. She has cried again and she has accepted what happened again and she can rest again.’ She hesitated. ‘If we talk about the family in future perhaps we can meet in town and discuss it there so as not to upset her. I thought maybe I could ask around the village for you. See if there is anyone alive who remembers the stories about the war years. It would give me something to do.’
They left it like that. Elizabeth had Lucy’s mobile number. They would be in touch. As she left, Lucy glanced at Elizabeth’s car, parked outside on the gravelled drive, as she left. An unusual choice for a woman like Elizabeth, she thought as she climbed into her own dusty and battered hatchback, or was this souped-up bright red convertible Mini a further sign of her husband’s guilt?
As she drove away from the house down the narrow lane Lucy glanced into the rear view mirror. Was that a figure leaning on the gate? After they had kissed, strangers who had become if not friends then at least allies and exchanged a wry handclasp by way of farewell, Elizabeth had closed the front door behind her and Lucy had heard her footsteps as she walked slowly away towards the kitchen.
If there was a figure there, perhaps it was Rachel staring out into the lonely dusk waiting in vain for her son to come home.
9
September 12th 1940
Rachel followed Evie upstairs as her daughter raced ahead of her and slammed the door of the studio in her face.
‘Evie! Evelyn! Open this door at once!’ Rachel banged on it with her fist as Evie thrust the bolt home on the other side. ‘Evie, what is happening? What is wrong?’
There was no reply though Rachel could hear the sound of sobbing.
‘Evie.’ She was more persuasive this time, her voice gentle. ‘Please, darling. Let me in. If something has happened maybe I can help.’ She subsided on the top step of the stairs, trying to regain her breath.
Evie had come into the kitchen that evening closely followed by Eddie. Rachel could see at once that they had had a quarrel. Evie’s face was taut with anger, her eyes full of tears. She had thrown her bag down on the kitchen table with considerable force and raced for the door. Her only comment as she ran for the stairs was, ‘Ask him!’
With a sigh Rachel climbed to her feet and made her way downstairs again. Eddie was standing in the kitchen looking out into the yard. Dudley, followed by the two dogs, had just brought Bella, their old black cart horse, in from the fields and had unharnessed her from the binder. One of the two land girls they had been allocated, Patsy, was stroking the horse’s nose and laughing as Dudley made some comment as he pulled the traces free. She led the horse forward clear of the shafts and began to unbuckle the harness. The sound of the generator in the shed drowned out their conversation.
‘Eddie?’ Rachel said. Eddie’s shoulders were rigid, and when he turned his face was white with anger. ‘What has happened?’
‘I went to the airfield to fetch her. Again!’ He emphasised the word bitterly. ‘She was drawing, of course, but not what I had told her.’
Rachel frowned. ‘Does she have to draw what you tell her?’
‘If she wants to sell her work, if she wants to be accepted by the War Artists Advisory Committee, yes she does.’
‘And what was she drawing?’ She had already guessed the answer.
‘That boy Tony. Again and again. On every page.’ His tone was repressive.
Rachel glanced down at the sketchbook lying on the table. She stepped forward and opened it. On the first page was a watercolour sketch of the old farmhouse on the edge of the airfield that the officers were using as their Mess. She turned over. There was nothing else in the book. The next few pages had been torn out.
Quietly Rachel closed the book. ‘You tore up her drawings?’ It wasn’t really a question.
Eddie didn’t answer.
‘Eddie, look at me please when I am talking to you,’ she said sharply.
He turned round at last and she was shaken by the fury she saw in his face. ‘She has to be stopped,’ he said at last. ‘They were worthless anyway.’ His voice was tight. ‘Nothing more than doodles.’
‘I see.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You did know that his parents live in Scotland. He is their only son. He asked her to do some drawings for them so they had something to remember him by if he is killed.’ She managed to keep her voice steady with difficulty. Evie was drawing this boy for his parents, but as far as she knew she had never painted Ralph for her. Never even sketched him.
‘She has already painted a portrait of him for his parents,’ Eddie said so quietly that his words were barely audible. ‘I said I would arrange to have it delivered to them.’
‘But she still draws him,’ Rachel said. She turned away and went over to the sideboard. Her basket lay there with her shopping still packed from her visit to the shop in the village. The weekly ration of bacon, butter and sugar. They were so lucky living on a farm; milk, eggs, vegetables were plentiful and soon they would make their own butter and cheese again. Methodically she started to unpack. ‘I know it’s hard, Eddie, but you must remember how young she is. This is no more than a passing infatuation. Wait. She will come to her senses.’ Privately she could understand perfectly why Evie would prefer the handsome young RAF officer with his charm and his humour and his glamour.
‘No, she won’t. She has told me she wants nothing to do with me any more.’ Eddie rammed his fists into his pockets. ‘Oh, she wants me to help her place her paintings, of course she does. But she can never love me. “Sorry, Eddie, but it was never really like that between us, was it?’ He mimicked her voice with cruel coldness.
Obviously Evie’s infatuation was so strong she found it impossible to hide it. Rachel felt a moment’s sympathy for Eddie. She didn’t doubt that in h
is own way he was every bit as hurt and jealous as any other man would be. She just hoped that the money Evie was making for him would safeguard his interest in her art. That way they could at least keep a working relationship.
Over the last few days she had been thinking a lot about her daughter, who had sacrificed so much to come home and live on the farm. History had repeated itself in uncanny fashion, but Evie’s reaction to the circumstances was very different from her own. She too had been an art student; she too had exciting memories. She had had lovers long ago, and she was realistic about the time Evie had spent at college in London. Dudley had never known of course. Old-fashioned, strait-laced, possessive, he had assumed his wife would be a virgin and idolised her from the first day of their marriage. In due time he had idolised his little girl as well, as all fathers did. Or should, she corrected herself, lost in her thoughts. He would not be so sanguine if he suspected that Evie had had boyfriends before. And it would never have occurred to him that Evie had slept with anyone, be it a fellow student, Eddie or Tony. He trusted her absolutely. To him she was as pure as the driven snow. If he ever found out otherwise she doubted if any of them would weather the storm that would ensue and she doubted if the young man in question would survive. She sighed with a sad retrospective glance back at the excited, optimistic, talented Rachel of the past. She was never quite sure why she had come back to Sussex, turned her back on the excitement of London and the world of art, accepted the proposal of a solid down-to-earth farmer and settled into the role of a farmer’s wife. It had had something to do with the death of her brother of course and the need to reassure her parents that their surviving child would be safe. She had never allowed herself time for regrets, but when Evie made the choice to follow her dream of going to art college Rachel had been uncharacteristically firm in overruling Dudley’s initial opposition to the scheme. Her daughter would succeed where she hadn’t.
‘So, what should I do?’
She realised suddenly that Eddie was talking to her.
‘Leave her alone for a bit, Eddie.’ Rachel managed a sympathetic smile. ‘It may not last. She’s been overwhelmed a bit by the glamour of the boys down there. They are heroes at the moment, don’t forget.’ She saw him wince and could have kicked herself. A man with damaged eyesight and a boring job in the Ministry of Information could not be regarded as glamorous. ‘She will come back to her senses. I’m sure she will.’
Eddie nodded. He rammed his hands into his pockets and walked slowly towards the door. She watched him go without a word. What else could she say? She glanced back at the defaced sketchbook and sighed. Poor children. What a world they were all having to live in.
As if on cue she heard a plane fly overhead, closely followed by two others. Was Ralph up there even now, defending his country? Or Tony? She gave a sad smile. She could easily grow to love Tony and she was sure that Dudley could as well. But how would that help Evie, caught as she was between the man she loved and the man who could secure her a career in the world of art she so adored, a man who, if her instincts were right, could be dangerous.
Wednesday 17th July
It was late when Lucy got home from Box Wood Farm. She let herself into the gallery and closed the door quietly behind her, listening. There was no sound. The room was dark save for the spotlit bird on the dais in the window. She tiptoed across to the foot of the stairs and paused, looking up. The flat upstairs was in darkness. Taking a deep breath she switched on the lights and put her foot on the bottom step.
The flat was as she had left it that morning save that there was a note from Robin on the kitchen worktop informing her that he had made two sales, he had asked someone to come in the following weekend with some paintings they wanted to sell, and he made a note of the telephone number of a local artist who wanted to discuss holding an exhibition in the autumn. After those bits of good news he reminded her to keep her chin up and signed off with three kisses. She smiled, cheered as much by his scrawled optimism as by the news it contained, and glanced at the studio door. She did not go in.
As soon as she climbed into bed she found herself reliving the anguish she had felt and heard at Box Wood Farm, thinking about Elizabeth and wondering if Ralph, like his mother, would be called back by the mention of his name. The harder she tried to put him out of her head, the more insistent his memory became. On the way back from the farm, still stunned by the events of the evening, she realised she had forgotten to visit the church at Chilverly. Not forgotten actually, just not found time for it. Not found time to go and look at Ralph’s memorial. Not wanted to. Maybe. ‘If I go tomorrow, will you let me sleep?’ she murmured into the pillow.
She left the following morning half an hour before Robin was due. Heading east through the centre of Chichester she drove through a light mist of warm rain towards the airfield at Westhampnett and up past Goodwood on the road which presumably Evie had taken to and from the farm when she was sketching the airfield. It was a pretty route, taking her through woods past the racecourse and then across the Downs, climbing steeply then heading down again with stunning views across the valley, towards Chilverly. St Margaret’s was a lovely old Norman church, nestling in a small churchyard thickly sewn with lichen-covered gravestones. Under the gentle summer rain it smelled of grass and roses and wet moss.
The ancient oak door was locked. It was a moment before she spotted the note on the board in the porch directing her to a house in the village if she wanted the key. She wandered up the village street through the rain rather hoping she would not run into Elizabeth again; she wanted some space to assimilate everything that had happened the day before.
She collected the key from an elderly woman in a row of almshouses near the pub and, promising to lock up and return it when she had finished, made her way slowly back down the quiet street. The cottages and houses which lined it were all old and mostly in perfect condition. The whole place seemed oddly quiet and she found herself wondering if this was a commuter area, or maybe a haven for holiday cottage owners. Perhaps these people like Mike Marston spent most of their lives in London leaving a ghost community behind them to struggle on during the week.
The door of the church creaked as she pushed it open. She closed it behind her and stood looking round in the dim light filtering through the windows. It was a small narrow building with no side aisles or pews. A few lines of chairs had been arranged haphazardly on either side of the aisle and if their number was anything to go by there was a very small congregation. There were no guide books or postcards on the table near the door and only a box of slightly mildewed hymn books on the one remaining pew, against the wall, at the back. In spite of this, perhaps because of it, the church felt overwhelmingly peaceful and she found herself slowly relaxing as she wandered towards the back and began to look at the memorial stones and brasses on the walls.
The whole history of the community was here. As far as she could see, the earliest memorial, a carving on a stone tablet, dated from the late fifteenth century. Most of them were from the nineteenth. It was several minutes before she found Ralph. She stood looking up at the simple stone slab on the wall for a long time.
In loving memory
of
Ralph James Lucas
1919-1940
who gave his life for his country
greater love hath no man
Evie would have come here. Evie would have stood on this precise spot, gazing at her brother’s memorial with tears in her eyes. Evie would have come here for his funeral, and probably for her own wedding. This place was part of her history and her life.
As Lucy stood staring up at the memorial, lost in thought, she heard the door open behind her but she took no notice. Whoever had come in did not approach her and she barely heard the soft footsteps making their way up the aisle towards the chancel.
She only realised there were tears on her cheeks when she heard someone clear their throat immediately behind her. ‘A very brave young man.’ The man’s voice was soft and tactfull
y noncommittal. ‘Was he a relative of yours?’
She turned and found herself face to face with the vicar, a man in his late sixties, she guessed, with a thatch of white hair and brilliant green eyes. He wore his dog collar with a dark blue sweater and jeans which strangely seemed to suit him very well.
‘No he’s not a relative,’ Lucy answered. She took a deep breath, trying to rid herself of the terrible sadness which had swept over her, and to remember why she was here. ‘Were you here when the Lucases lived in the village?’
He gave an unexpected hoot of laughter. ‘Good Lord no. I may have white hair but I’m not that old.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry. That was crass but I’ve been here only eighteen months. I am only just beginning to feel my way round all the ins and outs of this place. The house where the Lucases lived was up a lane off the Goodwood road. The couple who live there now are not part of my flock sadly.’ He glanced round. ‘As you can see not many people are, though I’m working on it.’ He paused. ‘Are you from round here?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I live in Chichester. I’m working on a biography of Ralph’s sister, Evelyn.’ She glanced at the memorial again and then back at the vicar to see if there was any sign of recognition at the name. There wasn’t. ‘She was a war artist and went on to be quite well known in her day. Sadly there isn’t that much biographical information around so I am trying to find as much as I can from scratch. I went to Box Wood Farm yesterday and met Mrs Chappell. She very kindly showed me round. Evie Lucas was born there and lived there until she married.’ She paused. Was that true? She didn’t even know that much for certain. ‘The family had been there for generations, I gather, but when her parents died and Evie inherited the place she sold it without ever coming back here to live.’
The Darkest Hour Page 14