The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘His usual type?’ Lucy echoed. ‘Oh Lord,’ she gave an embarrassed giggle, ‘I think we are talking at cross purposes. Please, can I start again? I have never met Christopher. I don’t know him at all. I am a friend of his cousin, Mike. I am so sorry; I don’t know your name.’ She paused, hoping desperately that the woman would fill in the information, but her words were greeted with silence and Lucy suspected suddenly that Christopher’s wife was as embarrassed as she was herself. ‘I am writing a biography of their grandmother, Evelyn. ‘

  Slowly the woman raised her hands to her face and rubbed them slowly over her cheeks.

  ‘I am so sorry. I –’ She broke off and turned away. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ She took a deep breath and faced Lucy again. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Lucy Standish.’

  ‘Christopher hasn’t mentioned you. He and Mike don’t see much of each other these days.’ She gave Lucy a long frank look and then seemed to make up her mind. ‘You had better come in. Christopher is away for the weekend.’

  She ushered Lucy in and closed the door behind her.

  Lucy stood staring round. The hall was wood-panelled, the stone floor covered by a large Persian rug. Two oak chairs stood on either side of a small table near the foot of the staircase, but what she was looking at were the two paintings hung facing each other on the walls. They were unmistakably Evelyn Lucases and they were paintings she didn’t recognise from any catalogue. She paused in front of one of them. It was one of Evie’s later works, modernist, bright, full of the colours of summer.

  She realised suddenly that Christopher’s wife had stopped and was watching her. ‘I like that one,’ she said. ‘It’s one of my favourites. It lights up the hall.’

  The painting opposite it was darker, a depiction of tangled branches and tortured cloud. Following Lucy’s gaze as she turned to study it the woman shuddered. ‘And I hate that one. I think it must have been painted when she was feeling very miserable.’

  Lucy nodded. They could certainly agree on that point. She followed the woman through a door at the end of the hall, pleased to see sunlight pouring through the windows on that side of the house.

  ‘I’m Frances, by the way.’ Christopher’s wife waved her towards a seat beside one of the windows. The room was comfortably but formally furnished with old oriental rugs on the ancient floorboards and expensive-looking matching armchairs and sofas casually arranged around a glass-topped coffee table stacked with magazines. The curtains were draped in pale green brocade which picked out the background colour of the fabric on the chairs. She sat down opposite Lucy, leaning forward anxiously.

  ‘When you arrived you said that Christopher might have got the wrong idea about you,’ she said. ‘Why did you say that?’

  Lucy was silent for a moment, wondering how frank she could be with this woman who clearly had issues with her husband’s fidelity if nothing else. ‘I am not sure myself,’ she said at last. ‘I gather he contacted Mike and told him to warn me off. I think he must have heard about my project from Elizabeth Chappell who lives in Box Wood Farm where Evie’s parents lived. I went to see her recently. I want to know why he should object to me writing about Evie. I need his help. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea about me or my motives. I have a genuine interest in women war artists and I have been given a grant to pursue my research.’

  Frances dropped her gaze to her own hands which were clasped in her lap. ‘You will never get him to help you with a book about Evie,’ she said after a long pause. She looked up at Lucy, her face suddenly compassionate. ‘I am sorry. I’m not sure myself what went on in the family but I think there were some terrible rows. The brothers didn’t get on. Christopher’s father and Michael’s – Evie’s sons – they couldn’t stand each other. But,’ she stopped for a moment, ‘that doesn’t explain why Chris would object. You say Mike knows all about it?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘He is giving me as much help as he can, but I understand that Christopher inherited all her diaries and working notes. I would dearly love to be able to read them.’

  Frances’s mouth turned down. It was an enormously eloquent expression which made Lucy’s heart sink. ‘I shouldn’t think he would let you do that,’ Frances went on. ‘As I said, I don’t know what lies behind his suspicions but he is very possessive about his grandmother.’

  Lucy sighed.

  ‘I would show them to you if I knew where they were, but I think he put them in the bank,’ Frances went on. ‘He probably thinks they will be worth a fortune one day.’

  ‘Then you would think he would foster any publicity which might accrue through my book,’ Lucy said bitterly.

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ Frances leaned forward. ‘Have you got a camera?’ She looked suddenly eager.

  Lucy nodded. ‘In my bag.’

  ‘You could take some pictures of the paintings at least. Would that help? He’d kill me if he found out, but he won’t, will he? Or at least, if he does it won’t be for a long time. If you promise not to tell him, I’ll take the dog in the garden for half an hour or so. We’ll enjoy the sunshine and you can whizz round and take some snaps. Her pictures are all downstairs except for a couple of small ones in our bedroom. That’s on the right at the top of the stairs.’

  Lucy stared at her. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want you to get into trouble.’

  Frances gave a grim smile. ‘Maybe this is payback time. Christopher is a bully and a cheat. Don’t quote me. One of these days I will pluck up enough courage to leave him. Doing something subversive like this will give me a few moments of intense pleasure.’ Standing up, she called the dog and walked towards the French windows. Letting herself out, she strode across the lawn without a backward glance.

  Lucy watched her for a moment, then she dived into her bag and brought out her small digital camera. Her hands were shaking with excitement.

  There were six paintings in the room in which they had been sitting. She had been surreptitiously looking at them as they talked. Two large oils, a pair of small watercolours between the windows, and two gouache landscapes. She made her way back into the hall and studied the two large paintings there, then went on into the dining room which had a row of silverpoint etchings on one wall and two unframed oils on the opposite side of the room. There were more paintings in a second sitting room and two in the breakfast room which led off the large kitchen. Climbing the stairs, she found three more on the landing as well as the two Frances had mentioned in their bedroom. She paused for a moment there to look round at the neat formal room. It was elegant but impersonal. This was not a room where people left things lying about. There were no clothes on view, no books by the bed, no make-up scattered on the antique dressing table. She wondered if anyone slept there at all. She glanced into some of the other rooms but Frances was right, there was no sign of any more paintings.

  That made about thirty, she reckoned. She could feel the excitement building inside her. That was twice as many as all the so-far recorded Lucases. There must be more. Portfolios, sketchbooks, notebooks. Perhaps they were with the diaries in the bank. But this was an amazing start. None of the paintings had attributions or titles on them, but Evie’s style was so distinct she had no difficulty identifying them. Several were signed – she could see the famous scrawl – but the others might have labels or inscriptions on the back. She glanced at the two in the bedroom where she stood, longingly wondering if she had time to lift one off the wall and examine it more closely. It was more than half an hour since Frances had gone out. She went over to the door and listened for a moment. There was no sound from downstairs. Hurrying back to the wall, she lifted down one of the paintings and turned it over. There was a label on the back. In Evie’s writing it said, This picture is for Dolly, Thanks for taking care of me so selflessly over the years. Lucy stared at it. So Christopher knew the paintings were for Dolly. He had had no excuse for taking them. Disgusted, she laid the picture on the bed and took a close-up photo of the instructio
n, then she carefully replaced the picture on its hook.

  She heard a scrabbling sound from downstairs – the dog’s claws on the stone floor of the hall – and she headed towards the door. Frances had walked back into the drawing room.

  ‘Thank you so much –’ Lucy began.

  Frances raised her hand. ‘I know nothing about it,’ she said firmly. ‘Please. Forget it. Now go, please. Christopher will be back soon.’

  ‘But I thought you said –’

  ‘I lied. I didn’t know who you were.’ Frances suddenly looked frightened.

  Lucy nodded. She hurriedly slipped the camera back into her bag. ‘I’ll go at once. I’m sorry.’

  Frances nodded. ‘Yes, go. Now. Please don’t come again. I won’t recognise you if you do.’

  Lucy bit back a protest. ‘Of course. I understand. I am really grateful for everything.’ She backed away towards the door, suddenly nervous that Christopher would appear from nowhere. There was no sign of anyone however as she made for the front door. Frances had not followed her so after a moment’s hesitation and a final longing glance around the hall she let herself out and made her way quickly down the drive.

  As she began to walk up the lane towards her car a large black Audi turned in to the gate behind her. It slowed to a halt and the driver lowered the window to stare after her, before driving on between the gate posts and up towards the house.

  October 5th 1940

  Ralph walked slowly towards the gallery and stopped, peering in the window. It was hard to see through the strips of anti-blast tape but there was a statuette on a table in the middle of the room and paintings all around the walls. His interest had been caught by the oil painting standing on an easel in the window. It was one of Evie’s. And this time the gallery was open.

  David Fuller, the owner, looked up from his desk, saw the RAF uniform and, visibly disappointed, gave him a less than enthusiastic nod. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Ralph smiled. ‘I see you have correctly guessed I am not a customer.’

  Fuller stood up looking slightly abashed. He was an elderly man, balding with grey eyes and round wire-framed spectacles. ‘I am sorry. One should never make assumptions. You might be an art collector.’

  Ralph shook his head. ‘No, you are right. I am not an art collector. But I am the brother of an artist. Evelyn Lucas to be exact.’

  Fuller’s face lit up. ‘In which case you are more than welcome. Did you see her wonderful painting in the window? And there are some smaller ones over here.’ He was already heading towards the far wall, indicating a group of pictures near the French doors at the back of the room. ‘I had been hoping Evie would find the time to come in and see us.’ The man was, Ralph now saw, in his late seventies at least. His eyes were twinkling with enthusiasm. ‘I know the dear girl has been picked for the War Artists and I am so pleased for her. That of course is why her pictures command such a good price although she is so young. If Sir Kenneth Clark thinks she is good, then that is recommendation enough for the people of Chichester.’

  Ralph had stopped in front of the line of small watercolours and stared at the price stickers. The bastard! Eddie was even now taking her for a ride. ‘How much is the one in the window?’ he asked.

  His warm smile had visibly charmed the old gentleman. ‘That is expensive. Ten guineas,’ David Fuller said. ‘But worth every penny. I do hope she is pleased with the amount she is making.’

  Ralph was still getting over the shock of the price. ‘And you think you will get that much?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Of course. We got more for her picture of the birds in the harbour at Bosham but that was a larger composition and birds are always a popular subject. Didn’t she tell you?’ He looked anxious suddenly, obviously wondering if he had betrayed her confidence.

  ‘She probably did.’ Ralph managed a grin. ‘I’ve been a bit busy. I’m sure you can imagine. I promised her I would look in here and I haven’t had the chance up to now, or at least not when you were open but finally I have a day’s leave so I thought I would call in.’ He was finding it hard to keep his smile in place. Eddie was a lying, thieving bastard! How much money had he conned Evie out of, exactly? He must take them all for a bunch of ignorant fools, watching Evie come in from milking, patronising her, encouraging her, seeing off poor old Tony. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hide his fury much longer. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I must go,’ he said, managing another rueful smile. ‘I’m on my way to see my parents and I promised my mother I would be home in time for a meal and I am on the slow ride today.’ They both looked at the window where Ralph had left his borrowed bike defiantly leaning against the glass. His Morgan was back on the aerodrome with a puncture.

  Outside he took a deep breath and he stood gazing up at the cathedral spire, trying to calm his anger. Next time he saw Eddie it would be very hard not to lose his temper.

  Monday 5th August

  ‘Huw!’ Lucy was sitting by the table in her small upstairs sitting room. Beside her was Evie’s diary, lying open beside the telephone. She had sat staring at the looped writing veering across the page for several minutes before reaching for her phone. ‘I have discovered the connection between Ralph and this place. He did come here. It was an art gallery during the war. They sold Evie’s paintings here. Isn’t that the most incredible coincidence?’

  Rafie had a day’s leave today and Mummy made us a rabbit casserole. She was so looking forward to seeing him but it was all spoilt when he came in absolutely furious. He had been to the gallery in Chi and said that Eddie was still robbing me. They are charging a great deal of money for my paintings and Eddie hasn’t passed it on to me. I have never seen R so angry. He said he was sorry for spoiling our day – Mummy and D were upset too – but he had to tell me. I don’t know what to do. If I make Eddie too angry he will stop helping me get commissions.

  ‘I wanted to tell you as soon as I read it,’ Lucy went on. ‘It explains why he is here, why he is haunting this place.’

  ‘That is an amazing coincidence,’ Huw said thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure it is the same gallery?’

  ‘Fuller. She mentions the name Fuller. I thought I remembered it and looked it up in the file. When we applied to turn this into an art gallery we were able to say it had been one before, during the war. It was a tea shop when we came here. I remembered the names. David and Vera Fuller; they were there in the papers we were sent when we bought it.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘That could explain a lot, Lucy. It gives you another connection, although I have to say I still think the painting is the trigger point here.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘So you don’t think it is important?’ She could hear the disappointment in her own voice.

  ‘I do, yes. As you say, it establishes a physical link. But there must be more to it than that. There must be a strong emotional reason for him haunting the place. I still think it is more likely to do with the painting you have. You haven’t seen him again, I take it?’

  Lucy shook her head then remembered she was on the phone. ‘No. Nothing,’ she said out loud. She hesitated, then took the plunge. ‘Well, yes, actually. I had a dreadful nightmare. It was so real. It was about Larry, my husband, and his car crash. I wanted to ring you, but then I thought it wasn’t anything to do with Ralph. But I think it was in some way.’ She could hear herself talking faster and faster. ‘It was as if the two were connected. But they’re not. They can’t be. I can’t get the crash out of my head. These dreams go on and on, but this was the worst I’ve had.’

  ‘Would you like me to come over so we can talk about it?’ He sounded gentle now.

  Trying to calm herself, she gave a wry little smile. His counselling side had kicked in. He was obviously good at it. ‘I don’t want to take up your time. It’s not as though I am one of your parishioners.’

  ‘No, but in a sense Ralph is.’ She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘I don’t actually need you to be a parishioner, Lucy. If you need someone to t
alk to, then I will come.’

  She hadn’t realised he meant straightaway. Only an hour later he was seated opposite her and Evie’s diary was lying open between them.

  ‘I don’t always come at once,’ he said when she commented on his speedy service. ‘I am often so busy I think the Lord made the days at least a hundred per cent too short just to test us, but today you were lucky I am in flying vicar mode.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m impressed.’

  Picking up the diary, he closed it and held it for a moment with both hands, his eyes shut. Her smile died on her lips as she watched him and she found herself feeling uncomfortable, sensing something was happening from which she was excluded, something she didn’t, couldn’t understand. She wanted to ask what he was doing, to take the book away from him, to turn and glance over her shoulder in case he was summoning Ralph back from the past but she didn’t dare move. She hardly dared breathe. When at last he opened his eyes and put the book down she went on sitting without moving or speaking for several seconds. Then at last she took a deep breath.

  ‘Were you praying?’

  He smiled. ‘In a way. I was waiting for a sense of the woman who wrote it.’

  ‘And did you get it?’ Her question was so quick and so needy she was embarrassed.

  He nodded slowly. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He rested his hand back on the book, his palm flat. He was, she noticed for the first time, wearing a gold wedding ring. ‘When she wrote this she was young, emotional, full of excitement and full of dread. I suspect you can tell that by reading what she has written, but I feel she turned to her diary when she was in trouble. I sense that years later she would take out this same diary and clutch it to her breast like a talisman, not opening it, not reading it, just holding it as though it contained the essence of something very precious which had been lost to her.’