The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  Evie pushed between the two men and ran down towards her. Not waiting she elbowed her way past her mother and ran into the kitchen where Dudley was sitting at the table, his hand pressed to his chest. He was sweating profusely. Evie hardly noticed him. She ran past, on out into the yard.

  Tony tore downstairs after her, not seeing Dudley at all, and only stopped when he reached his car. There was no sign of her. He gazed round. ‘Evie!’ he called. ‘Evie, darling, where are you?’

  Eddie had not followed them; there was no sign of him.

  Tony made his way towards the dairy and peered in. It was empty, as was the barn next to it. He stood in the yard and stared around in confusion. ‘Evie,’ he called again. ‘My darling, please. Where are you?’

  There was no reply.

  He waited for several minutes by the gate then dejectedly he went to the car and climbed in, sitting staring unmoving through the windscreen before climbing out again and bending forlornly to the starting handle.

  Evie heard the engine fire up from the stable. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. Distraught, she put her arms round the neck of the old horse, who was stoically munching her hay, and sobbed into the animal’s sturdy neck as though her heart would break.

  In the house Dudley took a deep breath and reached for his handkerchief, trying to stop his hands from shaking. It was Eddie who stood over him with soothing words and went to fetch a glass of water.

  Tuesday 20th August

  The painting, still in its crate, had been put in Huw’s little private chapel. ‘This is one of the spare rooms really,’ Maggie said with an indulgent smile, ‘the smallest, but he’s fixed it up beautifully. I come and sit in here sometimes, to think and pray.’ She pushed the door open and ushered Lucy in. Lucy and the portrait might be back under the same roof, but here, with Maggie and Huw to protect her, it didn’t seem to matter.

  The altar was a small table in the corner with a cross standing on it and a sturdy candle much decorated with drops and whorls of melted wax. On the wall behind it there was a reproduction of Duccio’s Madonna and Child with Angels. There were two low chairs facing it, and leaning against the wall behind them, the crate. Lucy’s eyes went straight to it. She shivered.

  ‘It’s strange that such a personal thing, such a lovely thing in so many ways, can suddenly become so threatening.’

  ‘It’s not threatening in itself, Lucy. All we have to do is detach whatever – whoever – it is who is clinging to it.’ Maggie went and sat down on one of the chairs and after a moment’s hesitation Lucy sat beside her. Bright sunshine was pouring through the window and she could see the branches of the apple tree on the lawn moving gently in the breeze outside. The little room felt very peaceful and safe.

  Lucy glanced sideways at Maggie. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in God.’

  ‘No, my dear. I believe in God, otherwise, as I told your friend Phil, I doubt if Huw and I could get on. It’s just the Church I find hard to stomach. Too much structure, too much concentration on good works. Too many meetings and rules. Don’t get me wrong, good works and meetings and rules are all good in their place but I think they can sometimes get in the way of the spiritual stuff. People forget that is what it is all about. So I worship out in the wind and rain and sunshine. My cathedral is under the trees.’ She grinned. ‘Sorry, does that shock you? It sounds very pagan, but Huw understands. I think sometimes he secretly agrees. And my way of worship allows me to believe in all things in heaven and earth like it says in the Creed. If I see a ghost it is part of the way things work. I don’t have to call for the deliverance men or wait for a psychiatrist, I trust my instincts. Ghosts are a natural part of the way things work. Roger the cat finds them natural just as robins and rabbits are natural.’ She smiled. ‘But things go wrong in nature. All is not peaceful all the time. I am not naïve. I can see that. Ralph Lucas has been trapped by some problem which is or was worrying him so much he has to try and resolve it on this earth and it is hard for us to communicate with him as he is working now from a different –’ she paused trying to choose the right word – ‘a different format, if you like.’

  ‘I saw him in his Spitfire,’ Lucy said after a moment. ‘After I met Charlotte at Rosebank Cottage I went to the airfield where Tony was stationed and I saw a Spitfire fly over very low. They said it couldn’t have been a Spitfire. There were none flying that day.’

  ‘But you feel it was Ralph?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘Somehow I knew it wasn’t Tony.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m becoming obsessed with the family, aren’t I!’

  ‘Isn’t that part of the job of a biographer? Through Evie, you’ve formed a link with them.’

  ‘And the other entity?’ Lucy asked softly.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe him too. He too has a problem. His is different, but only from our perspective. From his, it must be as urgent as Ralph’s.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not pretending this is all serendipity, Lucy. I know there is something potentially dangerous going on here and I’m not so conceited that I can be sure I can cope with it alone. I need Huw and his prayers. He is a powerful man with a strong connection – a hotline, if you like – to God. Prayer is good. It is powerful. I pray. And so should you.’ She looked at Lucy shrewdly. ‘God didn’t answer your prayers and bring back your husband, Lucy. That doesn’t mean God doesn’t exist, my dear. It means, almost certainly that your Larry has moved on. Not everyone is trapped here by sudden death. Sometimes, yes, but some souls have a clear vision –’

  ‘I loved him much more than he loved me,’ Lucy interrupted suddenly. ‘I am beginning to be more realistic and honest with myself now. He wasn’t sentimental. He would have thought “Lucy can cope”.’

  Maggie was silent.

  ‘He would have looked forward, not back. You’re right.’ There were tears in Lucy’s eyes. Her mind was a turmoil of grief for Larry, fear for herself and a growing determination that she was not going to be beaten by all the problems which were being thrown at her.

  Maggie squeezed her arm gently. ‘Your husband bequeathed you quite a challenge with the painting, my dear, and I think he is now confident that you can cope with it, so, what are you going to do next?’

  They both turned to look at the crate.

  Lucy took a deep breath. ‘I have to be able to go back to Westgate,’ she said after a moment. ‘I can’t let this bastard, whoever he is, ghost, or Christopher Marston, get the better of me.’ She gave a small grimace. ‘What with that and being chased out of Evie’s studio as well by Mike’s girlfriend I’m not doing very well at the moment. My confidence has taken a bit of a knock, to put it mildly. But this is something I have to face. I can’t leave it all to you and Huw. For my own peace of mind I have to get out and fight.’

  ‘That’s very brave.’ Maggie grinned at her. ‘Have you spoken to Mike about his girlfriend yet?’

  She nodded. ‘But I was angry.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘And he hasn’t rung me back. I wasn’t sure I would still be welcome before. Now I might have blown it completely. Perhaps he won’t let me go there again. He might be like Christopher and ban me from the whole project.’ She grimaced unhappily. ‘But I am not going to give up. I have to know what happened. I have to! I live and sleep Evie now. I can’t get her out of my head. I need to know what happened to them all. Not just for the book but because I need to know what happened and how it all ended. I have to know. It might be more sensible to sell the painting, give up the grant and forget the whole project but I can’t. I won’t.’ She gave Maggie an apologetic smile. ‘I owe it to Evie.’ She paused again. ‘I do have another line of enquiry. George Marston. Evie’s younger son is still alive. I am going to go and see him if he’ll let me. Perhaps he can explain the mystery behind all this.’

  November 23rd 1940

  ‘Listen to me, Evie!’ Ralph caught her arm as he used to when they were children. ‘Shut up and listen for once in your life!’

  They were walking
up on the Downs behind the farm, far away from listening ears. The sky above them was quiet, clouds massing in the distance, a tension in the air which came not from the imminent threat of yet more planes but from the knowledge that there hadn’t been any sign of the enemy for several days.

  ‘I want to know what has been going on. Is Dad ill? He looks as though he’s at death’s door. Has Tony been up here? And Eddie?’

  Evie nodded. ‘They were both here. Mummy says Daddy’s heart is giving him trouble. She seems to think it would kill him if Tony came up here again.’

  Ralph stared at her incredulously. ‘I had no idea there was anything wrong with him.’

  ‘No.’ She groped in the pocket of her dungarees for a hanky.

  ‘Oh God, Evie, what a mess.’

  ‘Tony came up here, Ralph, when Eddie was here to talk about the paintings. They had a terrible row. Eddie was unspeakably awful.’ She raised her eyes to his and he saw how pale and thin she had become. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  Ralph shoved his hands into his pockets. He let out a soundless whistle and slowly shook his head. ‘The trouble is this is not just about you and Tony any more, is it, Sis, there are others involved. Besides Daddy, I mean. My CO, for a start. And Tony’s. I was asked to have a chat with Tony about all this.’ He glanced at her sideways. The sight of the misery on her face decided him. What was the point of making things worse by telling her that someone might be trying to hurt Tony, someone who was supposed to be their ally? He wandered on, a few paces in front of her. Was Eddie the culprit? Everything pointed to him. He was jealous and angry and had resented Tony from the start, but would he really be in a position to get someone to try and kill his rival? Almost as the thought crossed his mind he realised it was perfectly possible. Eddie had contacts everywhere. He was a fixer and he was not someone who would allow himself to be crossed. Ralph stopped, staring down across the stubble fields below them. All their fields would be under cultivation next spring. There would be no more grazing sheep, only a cow for milk and the old horse in the orchard and the pigs. His poor father, no longer the master of the farm, not only in hock to Eddie, but obeying orders from the government, ploughing up ancient meadows to feed the nation. No wonder he was ill.

  Evie caught up with him. ‘What shall I do, Ralph?’

  ‘Nothing for now. Let Tony do his job and,’ he turned to face her and gripped her upper arms, forcing her to face him, ‘watch out for Eddie, Sis. Don’t antagonise him but don’t let him get too close either. Concentrate on your painting. That is your bit for the war effort, and important, and it is your life.’ He paused, holding her gaze.

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Plenty of time after the war to think about Tony. It will be over soon and anyway you needn’t worry about him. He’ll make it. He’s a survivor.’ He wished he felt as certain as he sounded. ‘You mustn’t distract him, Evie. None of us can afford to be distracted. One lapse of concentration for even a second could be the difference between life and death.’

  She looked appalled. ‘You are saying I am putting his life at risk?’

  He nodded. ‘Let him go. Just for now. Just for a while.’

  When he had gone she climbed wearily to her studio and stood looking round the room. She loved it up here with the low sun slanting through the skylight. It was peaceful in here and safe. She must never let Eddie come up here again. He spoiled the atmosphere with his eagle eyes darting round the place, cataloguing the paintings and sketches in his mind, checking what she was doing against some list he carried in his head. She walked over to her easel. The canvas depicted a scene of desolation and destruction, the predominant colours greys and browns and black. In the foreground she had painted a mother carrying a baby in her arms. They were both swathed in a blue shawl, the colour standing out, drawing in the eye, the baby reaching out towards his mother’s face in total trust, the shawl a safe warm place, apart from the rest of the scene. In the background she had sketched in the faces of three ARP wardens watching her anxiously as they dispensed blankets and tea to the shadowy figures around them. Evie shook her head slowly. She hadn’t realised she had drawn a Madonna and Child. Without conscious thought she picked up her palette knife and reached for a tube of paint. In minutes she was immersed in the painting, oblivious to everything around her, filling in a sea of faces, depicting their horror and their fear, showing that fear lessening as they focused on the wonder of the little group at the centre of the picture, showing the terror and stress dissolving in the faces close to the central scene to be replaced by a look of wonder and joy.

  She painted on until it was too dark to see properly and at last she put down her palette with a sigh. She stood back staring at the picture, unaware that she was resting her hand gently on her stomach in the age-old gesture of a woman protecting her unborn child.

  Tuesday 20th August

  Charlotte’s brief phone conversation with Mike earlier that evening had been very unsatisfactory. He had mentioned that he was with his mother, which she supposed was some sort of a relief as she had been terribly afraid he was with Lucy. She rather rashly retorted that in that case she might as well not have come down to Rosebank, and that in fact she might as well stay in London for the rest of the summer, and to her dismay he had agreed. ‘I know you’ve got a busy schedule, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘It might be easier than racing up and down to Sussex. Just for a few weeks, anyway.’ She hadn’t been sure if that was an effort at reconciliation. Somehow it didn’t feel like it.

  What about their meetings, at the cottage, and the romantic meals to follow? What had happened to them? Why had he gone to see his mother again? She wondered if bloody Lucy had rung Juliette and told her everything. Of course she had!

  Wednesday 21st August

  Rosebank Cottage was in darkness when Lucy arrived. There were no lights on in the front room or upstairs, as far as she could see. Almost certainly Mike had gone back to London. She had driven past the place where he usually left his car and it was empty, as was the verge at the top of the lane where Charlotte parked. She parked there herself, tucking her car in close to the hedge, then retraced her steps down the lane. She opened the gate and climbed the steps to the front door, and then, her nerve failing as she reached into her pocket for the key, she ducked around the side, over the steep front garden with its rockery and flowers and onto the back lawn. A glance at the cottage showed no lights there either.

  She had been too restless to sleep after supper at the vicarage; instead of going to bed she had gone out and climbed into the car, heading almost automatically back towards Rosebank. It was nearly midnight when she got here and the whole village was in darkness as she drove across the small green, past the church and turned down the lane. The pull of this place was too strong to resist. Evie’s very soul was here, waiting for her. Whatever terrors the research held, the draw of Evie was greater. She refused to think about Mike. Charlotte seemed to think she liked him, which was ridiculous. As if she would be so disloyal to Larry. The woman also seemed to think Mike liked her. Not very likely now, although once or twice – for a moment she relived the occasions they had touched hands. Had there been a spark there? No. Nothing more than the shock of two people accidentally brushing against one another in a crowded space.

  She followed the path across the grass to the studio and unlocked it, pushing open the door and peering in. She was reluctant to turn on the lights but there was no alternative. She clicked on the central lamp which hung low over the table and glanced round. Nothing had changed, as far as she could see. The piles of books and papers were as she had left them, the boxes and suitcases stacked against the far wall. With a sigh of relief she closed the door behind her and walked over to the table. There were various things she had meant to take away, a box of receipts and bills from the battered desk, an old leather satchel which she had discovered in one of the suitcases, some envelope files which she had found stacked on a high shelf over the window. If she could take those with her s
he could work on them without coming back to the studio for a while, and avoid the risk of another meeting with Mike or Charlotte. It was as she began to collect things together she noticed another box on the floor in the corner. In it were some more notebooks – maybe diaries – written in Evie’s hand. Where had they come from? Dolly must have found them somewhere and put them in the studio for her. She picked the box up and began to glance through its contents, her heart hammering with excitement as she saw more and more items in Evie’s distinctive untidy handwriting. Underneath them was a wad of newspaper cuttings held together by a rusty paperclip. She held them up to the light and saw they were articles and reviews of exhibitions all written by Edward Marston. Not surprising, come to think of it, considering his interest in art and all his contacts in the art world.

  A noise behind her as she stacked the books and papers on the table made her freeze. For several seconds she didn’t move then slowly she turned towards the door. Nothing had moved in the studio. The door was still closed. She glanced at the nearest window. It was so black outside all she could see was the reflection of the room behind her. Hastily she shoved everything she needed into the large canvas shopping bag she had brought with her and put it by the door. Again she looked round. Was there anything else she would need? She could feel herself getting more and more nervous as she seized another couple of cases at random. She doubted if she could carry any more. Tidying the chair back into place and checking that nothing had obviously been moved she made her way back to the door and, turning out the light, silently pulled it open.

  Light was streaming out across the grass from the kitchen window. Lucy caught her breath. Mike must have come back. Or both of them. Silently lugging the bag and cases outside, she closed the door as quietly as she could and turned the key. The patch of light from the window reached almost to her feet as she crept down the side of the lawn, aware that her footsteps would be clearly visible in the heavy dew. She reached the pergola and peered round to the front of the cottage. The windows there were lit now as well and she could see a car pulled up close to the gate. She thought she recognised the outline of Mike’s Discovery, but she couldn’t be sure in the play of shadows beyond the hedge. Why didn’t they pull the curtains? It was impossible to get out of the garden without using the front path. She piled the bag and cases near the apple tree in the deepest shadow and waited. She was not prepared to have him catch her creeping about like a thief, and if Charlotte was with him that would be worse. She froze suddenly. She was parked in Charlotte’s usual place at the top of the lane. They could not have failed to see her car and surely they must have seen the light in the studio.