The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘You may well ask!’ Juliette shook her head. ‘No. Johnny left his share of everything to Mike. It was Christopher who came up with a codicil to Evie’s original will saying she left everything to Johnny for his lifetime but then his effects should be divided between the grandsons. It was in a letter she had given him apparently. Personally I was in grave doubt that it was even legal but Mike wouldn’t contest it.’

  ‘And it cut out George?’

  ‘George had his father’s money. Still does.’

  ‘And where does George live?’ Lucy leaned down to her bag, which was lying on the paving stones under the wrought-iron table. ‘Do you mind if I write some of this down? It is all getting a bit confusing. I am bound to forget the details.’

  ‘You can always come over and check, dear,’ Juliette said comfortably. ‘And Mike knows it all. I don’t know why he hasn’t told you the whole grisly story.’

  ‘He’s quite reserved about Evie,’ Lucy said thoughtfully. ‘But perhaps it’s my fault. I was so focused on finding out about her painting, which after all is the centre of my research; he may have thought I wasn’t interested in the personal stuff.’

  ‘Typical man!’ Juliette grinned. ‘I would have thought you would want to know all the shocking bits. I certainly would.’

  There was a pause. Lucy smiled. ‘Did Johnny talk about his uncle Ralph at all?’ she asked. ‘He would never have known him but –’

  ‘He was haunted by his memory,’ Juliette said. ‘Ralph’s whole story hung over the family.’

  Lucy felt herself go pale. ‘Haunted? It’s a strong word.’

  Juliette nodded. ‘And I meant it. Literally.’ She reached for her glass again.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Lucy said carefully. Her heart had started hammering under her ribs.

  ‘Johnny used to have nightmares about him. They started when he was small, apparently. I blame his grandmother. Rachel was obsessed with Ralph’s death. You know about that? He was shot down in the Battle of Britain. Right at the end. The whole family was devastated. Johnny started dreaming about him, then he said he used to see him. It can’t have been healthy living in that house with his grandparents when they were so obsessed with Ralph’s death. He was sure Ralph wanted to tell him something. It went on all his life, right up to the end. A few days before Johnny died – he was in the hospice in Chichester – he said to me that at last he would be able to speak to Ralph properly, face to face, and find out what it was he wanted to say to him.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘Presumably he knows by now.’ She sighed. ‘Right. Back to George: now there’s a character. He loathed his father in spite of the fact that Edward left him so much money. He’s hung on to it, though. Never even offered Johnny a loan when we were in pretty dire straits and I don’t think he’s given any to Christopher either, not that he’s ever needed any.’ She poured them both another drink from the jug and waved away an inquisitive wasp. ‘George has been a widower for years and years now. His wife, Marjory, died of cancer. He runs an antique shop in Kensington. Very posh and very upmarket, selling goodies to rich people with pots of money and no taste of their own.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘Don’t I sound a jealous cow. Scrub that last remark.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Would he be prepared to speak to me, do you suppose?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He doesn’t speak to us. Which is maybe what this quarrel is about? I can’t believe Johnny upset him in any way, he just wasn’t like that, but they didn’t get on, there is no getting away from that fact.’ She sighed and took a sip from her glass. After a moment’s silence she leaned back again and, pushing her sunglasses up onto her forehead she fixed Lucy with an intense gaze. ‘What is it?’ she asked gently.

  Lucy was startled. She didn’t realise her momentary abstraction was that obvious. She was trying to decide whether to tell Julliette about her own experience of Ralph. And if she did, was she going to admit that she had one of Evie’s pictures and that she hadn’t told Mike about it.

  October 16th 1940

  ‘I’ve brought a present for you.’ Eddie held out a small parcel to Evie with a strangely bashful smile. ‘I know I’ve been driving you hard, sweetheart, and I’m sorry. It is because I care about you. I so want you to be a success. You deserve to be a success.’

  She took the parcel from him with a sigh. ‘Thank you.’

  They were standing in the kitchen at Box Wood Farm drinking tea. Evie had been out walking the fields with her parents and the man from the War Agricultural Committee. It was his job to suggest which extra fields they could plough for crops now that the last of their beef cattle had gone.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Eddie picked up his cup and took a deep gulp of tea.

  Evie sighed. ‘Of course.’ She unknotted the string and carefully unfolded the paper. Inside was a lace-trimmed silk petticoat. Evie held it up, feeling the soft coldness of the material slide through her work-roughened fingers with delight in spite of herself.

  ‘I thought you deserved a treat.’ He smiled. ‘I think it will fit you. Shall we go upstairs and try it on?’

  Her eyes met his. She dropped the petticoat onto the table. ‘Eddie, it’s kind of you. But I can‘t accept it. Where did you get it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He looked affronted.

  ‘It’s black market, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is a present for the girl I love!’ He pushed it towards her again. ‘Them as asks no questions!’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Be a good girl, Evie. Just enjoy it.’ Suddenly he was impatient again. ‘Who’s going to see it under your dress? It’s our secret. Petticoats aren’t rationed, for goodness’ sake. Not yet anyway!’ He glanced heavenward. ‘Wear it for the next dance in the village hall. Then maybe someone will see a flash of lace as I swing you on my arm.’ He smiled. ‘But they won’t know where it came from, will they! Now, what about another cup of tea before I go?‘

  When he left she took the petticoat upstairs to her bedroom and, just for a moment, held it up against her dungarees in front of her mirror, then with an exclamation of anger she bundled it up and pushed it into the bottom drawer of her chest of drawers. She had not allowed him to come upstairs with her; she had vowed never to let him touch her again. She pulled out her diary and sat down on the bed with it. Inside the front cover she had tucked a small photo of Tony, Tony who didn’t want to see her any more. She sighed, staring at him for several seconds, and almost unwillingly brought it up and pressed it against her lips, then slowly she tore the photo in two.

  That night Tony was sitting on his bed in the small bedroom he shared with another flying officer in Woodcote Farmhouse, the old building they were using as the Officers’ Mess at Westhampnett. He was filling in his log book.

  Patrol. Shot Enemy aircraft into water. Sitting target. Couldn’t miss. Plane sank as we flew back to base. Action 30 miles out to sea.

  ‘Coming up to The Unicorn for a pint?’ Bill West stuck his head round the door. Downstairs someone had put on a record of Glenn Miller and a blast of music followed him into the room.

  Tony looked up. He nodded and screwing the cap on his fountain pen he put it down and tossed the log book onto the locker beside his bed. He doubted if Evie would be there, but after all, that was where he had first met her properly and there was always a chance she might go for a drink with Ralph. He bit his lip. He was missing her terribly, but the message had come through loud and clear. Evie did not want to see him any more. Ralph had told him so and Evie’s father had sent him a short curt note to that effect. Even without that, Evie’s silence would have told him more clearly than anything anyone could have said that their affair was over.

  He had had a letter from his mother that morning full of excitement about the girl he had met and fallen for and now he was going to have to write back to her and tell her it was all off. He shook his head unhappily. He might as well go out for a pint.

  Wednesday 7th August

  ‘Good to see you, Chris.’ Mike led the way
into the sitting room at Rosebank and gestured his cousin towards a chair. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Did she tell you she came round?’ Christopher ignored the chair and strode towards the window. He turned and stood with his back to it. He was a short good-looking man with square features and neatly cut dark brown hair. His phone call an hour before had been curt, to put it mildly. ‘Did she tell you she talked her way into the house, terrified Frances and took unauthorised photographs of the paintings?’

  Mike sat down on the sofa and leaned back, crossing his legs, trying for a relaxed look. ‘Lucy told me she went over to your house and that you were out,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘She said she spoke to Frances. She didn’t mention taking any photographs.’ Mike stirred uneasily. ‘Did Frances say she was terrified? That seems odd. Lucy doesn’t seem to me the type to terrify anyone.’

  ‘Presumably because you have agreed to her demands and told her everything she wants to know. As Frances did in the end. I had to force it out of her. She wasn’t going to tell me about the photos, that was going to be a secret, apparently! I can always tell when she’s keeping something from me.’ He glared at his cousin.

  Mike inclined his head thoughtfully. Poor Frances. He didn’t say it out loud. ‘I have told Lucy as much as I feel is relevant to her book. But then I don’t know of anything about Evie which should be a huge secret. If there is something there, Chris, I think you had better tell me what it is. So far I can see there’s nothing wrong with Lucy writing a biography. I would have thought it could do nothing but good to raise Evie’s profile. She was a great painter and she hasn’t had the recognition she deserves.’

  Glancing at Christopher he was shocked to see he had gone very white. His lips narrowed, he was radiating fury. ‘Do you want people knocking on the door day and night demanding to see the house where she lived? Do you want people shouting that they have the right to rifle through your cupboards, looking for her belongings?’ Christopher asked angrily.

  ‘There is little chance of them finding anything here,’ Mike reproved gently, ‘you appear to have taken everything there was.’

  ‘She left it all to me!’ A patch of red appeared on the back Christopher’s neck. ‘I took nothing that her will didn’t entitle me to. And I don’t want people knocking on my door, especially spurious academics, trying to make a fast buck out of the family.’ His voice was rising.

  Mike smiled. ‘Lucy is not a spurious academic,’ he said. ‘Her credentials are first class, as was one of her degrees.’ He was managing to keep his voice level with difficulty. ‘You still haven’t told me any good reason to veto a biography, Chris. Your inconvenience, because you happen to hold the lion’s share of her paintings, is just not good enough.’ He levered himself off the sofa, unable to sit still a moment longer. ‘What is it you’re trying to hide?’ He narrowed his eyes, studying Christopher’s face.

  ‘I am trying to protect the family.’

  ‘From what?’ Mike kept his voice even with extreme difficulty. ‘Prowling academics! That just doesn’t convince me. I’m sorry. If there is something there which warrants this attitude, Chris, you need to tell me what it is because as things stand you are not making any sense!’

  ‘What do you know about the Box Wood portrait?’ Christopher asked abruptly. He sat down suddenly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, hands cupped under his chin. He held Mike’s gaze with ferocious intensity.

  Mike eyed him cautiously ‘I’m not sure I know which one that is.’

  ‘It’s the one Laurence Standish bought at an auction in Brighton in February.’

  ‘Laurence Standish?’ Mike echoed, puzzled. Then he frowned. ‘You mean –’

  ‘I mean, Lucy Standish’s husband.’

  There was a long silence. ‘She hasn’t mentioned it, has she?’ Christopher said at last.

  Mike shook his head.

  ‘I understand it was destroyed in the car crash which killed him,’ Christopher added after a moment.

  ‘Lucy told you this?’ Mike asked, bewildered.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Mrs Standish.’

  ‘So she told Frances?’

  Christopher shook his head adamantly. ‘I heard it from someone in London who had spoken to the expert Standish was going to consult about the picture. He was going to make an offer for it once it had been authenticated.’ He gave an icy smile. ‘So, your oh-so-honest and above board academic hasn’t been altogether open with you, Mike. How strange. I thought she had told you everything.’

  Taken aback, Mike was silent for a long moment, then at last he sat down again opposite his cousin. ‘If the picture was destroyed in her husband’s car crash it is perhaps hardly surprising that she hasn’t mentioned it. It must be part of an agonising memory.’

  ‘Certainly in the cash department. If it was authentic, and I think there can have been little doubt about that because I have Evie’s description of it, it was probably worth tens if not hundreds of thousands. I wonder if it was insured.’

  Mike let out a disgusted groan. ‘Is money all you can think about?’

  ‘In this context, yes. I don’t know these people but they were on the make. She still is. Believe me, Michael, before you make a complete fool of yourself!’

  ‘No!’ Mike gathered his wits at last. ‘No, Lucy wouldn’t lie to me. I don’t believe you. I trust her.’

  ‘More fool you.’ Christopher stood up, shaking his head. ‘Well, I’ve warned you. And you had better tell her, if you are determined to go on associating with her after what I’ve told you, that I shall be speaking to my solicitor about her actions on my property. She will be hearing from him.’

  14

  October 17th 1940

  ‘He’ll be all right.’ Rachel looked at Evie, sitting opposite her at the kitchen table. Her words were as much to reassure herself as her daughter.

  Evie gave a wan smile. ‘I prayed today. I asked God to look after them.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t even go down to the airfield.’

  ‘You’re thinking about Tony?’

  Evie stared at her. ‘Of course I’m thinking about Tony! About Rafie too, of course, but Tony is so alone …’ Her tears brimmed again.

  Rachel studied her face sadly. ‘I’m so sorry it didn’t work out, my darling.’

  Evie clenched her fists. She compressed her lips into a miserable scowl to hold in the sobs. ‘He didn’t love me. I thought he did. I believed him.’

  Rachel shook her head slowly. ‘He loved you, Evie. Anyone could see that. But those boys are under intolerable strain. Perhaps he just couldn’t cope with it all. Later, when it’s all over,’ she paused for a moment, trying to master her own voice, ‘maybe then he will come back.’ She heaved a deep sigh. ‘We have other things to worry about, Evie. If the Germans come –’

  ‘They won’t! The Air Force won’t let them!’ Evie let out a wail.

  Rachel shrugged her shoulders. ‘There are so many of them, Evie, and so few of our boys.’ She reached over and put her hands over her daughter’s. ‘Pray. That is all we can do. And you can paint and I can do what I can on the farm and everyone out there is doing the same. Your father, Eddie, all of them, willing our boys on.’

  Sunday 11th August

  Mike walked into the Standish Gallery just after midday and stood staring round at the exhibits. After a few minutes Robin pushed back the chair on which he had been sitting at the desk at the back of the room and wandered towards him. ‘Can I help you, or would you rather look round uninterrupted?’

  Mike jumped. He had been staring at a painting of the cathedral, lost in thought. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the short, amiably smiling figure who had approached him.

  ‘I actually came in on the off chance that Lucy was here,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘She’ll be back later this afternoon.’ Robin studied the newcomer for a moment.

  ‘I heard she had a painting by Evelyn Lucas he
re,’ Mike said after another pause. ‘Or at least I believe she did some time ago. I was told it had been destroyed in a car crash. Is that right?’

  Robin tensed. His hazel eyes narrowed behind his glasses. ‘Lucy’s husband died in the car crash,’ he said cautiously. ‘As to whether there was a painting in the car, I wouldn’t know. Are you a friend of Lucy’s?’ His voice had an edge to it now.

  Mike nodded. ‘I’m Michael Marston. She has been working with me over at Evelyn’s studio. Perhaps she has mentioned it?’

  ‘Of course she has mentioned it.’ Robin continued to stare at him thoughtfully. ‘I don’t understand your enquiry. Why haven’t you asked Lucy about this?’

  Mike shook his head wearily. ‘I have only just heard about the painting. I don’t know why she hasn’t told me that it existed.’

  ‘Then perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps it never did.’ Robin’s voice was sharp. ‘May I suggest you come back this afternoon if you want to speak to her?’

  Mike hesitated for a fraction of a second then he nodded. ‘I’ll do that. I’m sure there has been a misunderstanding somewhere down the line.’ He turned towards the door.

  Robin stood at the window and watched him walk slowly down the street. Only when he was out of sight did he go back to the desk and pick up the phone. ‘Lucy, ducky, I think we may have a problem.’

  Lucy dived into the gallery door ten minutes later and ran upstairs. ‘Robin?’ She was panting. ‘Did he say who had told him?’

  Robin was waiting for her in the kitchen. He shook his head. ‘You didn’t tell me you still hadn’t told him about the picture,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I might have put my big foot in it.’

  She gave a quick anxious smile. ‘I have been feeling guilty about that but it just never seemed to be the right moment. With all these accusations flying around that I am in this just to make money it seemed wrong to waltz up to him and say by the way I have a large oil painting which is probably worth a bomb if it’s verified.’ She paused. ‘But who has told him the picture was in the car with Larry? I don’t understand that. Who else knows about it except for you and me?’