The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  She shivered, her wet feet growing colder as she waited, pondering the wisdom of trying to climb down the rockery and over the fence to drop into the lane. Almost as she decided she would have to do it someone in the house drew the curtains across the front window and a minute or so later the bedroom light went on, to be muted almost at once in its turn by the curtains. She gave a sigh of relief. Reclaiming her bags she tiptoed over the wet grass to the path and ran down it, letting herself out of the gate and turning up the lane as fast as she could. As far as she could see there was no sign of Charlotte’s car, but she only relaxed when she had reached her own, thrown the bags in the boot and climbed into the front. In seconds she had started the engine and pulled away from the hedge.

  It was nearly two in the morning when at last she drew in behind Huw’s car at the vicarage and let herself into the hall. They had left the light on for her and Roger the cat was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs studying her with a look of faint disapproval. She lugged the bags in and as quietly as she could made her way up to her bedroom.

  It was only when she was sitting on the edge of her bed that she took out her mobile and saw that it was switched off. When she turned it on she saw there was a message from Mike: Stop skulking and come in for a coffee. He had sent it at twelve forty-five when she was standing under his apple tree.

  November 25th 1940

  Tony had heard nothing from Evie since their meeting up at the farm, nothing about her since his CO had called him into his office. Now he had summoned him again. ‘That incident we discussed. Evie’s father.’ Don looked at him closely. ‘Dudley Lucas has been checked out. No problem there. All right? He was merely looking out for his daughter. And please, old boy, no more midnight trysts!’

  An orderly put his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt. A Flight at readiness in five minutes!’

  So, what had Dudley been up to? Tony put it out of his mind as much as he could. Talking about Evie had brought his unhappiness back. Pretending that Dudley had been looking out for Evie only made the whole episode worse.

  The patrol went up to more than thirty thousand feet. At that height the planes were bitterly cold and the windscreens froze. The pilots were on the lookout for unidentified planes but they saw nothing and returned to base with hands and feet so cold they could barely walk when they climbed from the cockpits.

  Tony returned to the Mess to find an envelope lying on his bed. His batman, by now used to his role in the clandestine affair, must have put it there earlier. Sitting down he tore it open.

  Darling Tony,

  I am missing you so much. Daddy is ill and he is so cross about you coming up here we can’t risk you doing it again, but please don’t give up on me. I love you so. I will see if Ralph can arrange for us to meet somewhere else soon.

  With all my love,

  Evie. xxxxxxxxxx

  Tony sat staring at the letter then he lifted it and pressed it against his lips. He was sure he could smell Evie’s distinctive scent of flowers and oil paint. He smiled fondly. Tomorrow he would see if he could raise Ralph on the telephone, or even drive over to Tangmere to see him. There had to be some way he and Evie could get together, some way he could persuade Ralph to help him in spite of everything.

  In the event, though, he didn’t get the chance. They flew almost constant patrols over the next few days and Tony and his room-mate Peter found themselves too tired to do more than throw themselves on their beds in the evenings, drifting to sleep to the sound of Benny Goodman and Ella Fitzgerald wafting up the stairs from the almost deserted front room, which served them as bar and sitting room, where only one or two hardy souls stayed up late, winding and rewinding the gramophone.

  20

  Friday 23rd August

  Lucy walked slowly down Kensington Church Street on the opposite side to the shop. George Marston’s gallery was very smart, Gothic windows in place of a full-size display window, the wooden frames painted black with gold lettering and scrolled decoration. Now that she was so close her nerve was failing her but George was the key to so much of Evie’s story. It had been a deliberate decision not to ring first. On current form the Marston family were far too touchy for her to give him a chance to fend her off before she even put a foot over the threshold. Better to arrive unannounced and hope he would let her in.

  Taking a deep breath she crossed the road, dodging between taxis and bicycles, and approached the door. It was locked. There was nothing unusual in that. She glanced through the window but could see nothing beyond the rather funereal arrangement of dried flowers on a pedestal in the centre of the staging. It was then she saw the note affixed inside the window glass. By appointment only. There followed a phone number. She grabbed her mobile and entered the number, waiting for it to ring before she had time to change her mind.

  The voice that answered was male, alert and perfectly civil. For a split second Lucy wondered if she should lie to him and pretend to be interested in buying something from his shop. No. Being devious had brought her nothing but trouble with Mike. This time she would be upfront about why she was there.

  ‘This is Lucy Standish,’ she said. ‘I wondered if it would be possible to talk to you? I am sorry at the short notice, but I am in London, standing outside your shop. I would really appreciate the chance to chat about Evelyn Lucas.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Evelyn?’ he repeated at last. ‘You mean my mother?’

  ‘Yes, your mother.’ Strangely it did not sound as though he knew what she was talking about. She wondered briefly if he was ill, as Christopher had said; perhaps not quite in possession of his wits. Or perhaps after all Christopher hadn’t warned his father against her.

  ‘Come in.’

  Before she had a chance to think further the door in front of her buzzed open and, taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the shop. Juliette had been right. It was very up-market, very expensive and in very good taste. For several seconds she stood staring round, taking in the quality of the furniture and paintings. Nothing here would cost less than five thousand pounds, she reckoned. A bit different from the dear old Standish Gallery.

  A door opened at the rear of the shop and George Marston appeared. She would have recognised him even if she had not been speaking to him. He had the same build and colouring as his son. His hair was nearly white and his eyes very different, softer behind their glasses, a paler shade of grey, but apart from that the way he held himself, his build, his mouth were alike. Even the voice was similar in timbre. ‘Please come through to the back,’ he said courteously after he had shaken hands with her.

  She followed him through a curtained doorway into a bright, comfortable office which opened onto a small courtyard, and he gestured her towards a chair. ‘So, tell me,’ he said as he settled himself opposite her. ‘What is it you want to know about my mother?’

  Lucy hesitated. ‘I assumed that Christopher would have mentioned me to you,’ she said at last.

  ‘My son, Christopher?’ There was a hint of bewilderment in his eyes now.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m afraid Christopher and I do not talk very often these days,’ he said after a moment and there was a distinct note of regret in his voice. ‘We inhabit such contrasting worlds. He is a City man and they have very different values to those I appreciate. I’m a bit old-fashioned.’ He smiled.

  Lucy found she was warming to him. ‘Then I will start at the beginning,’ she said.

  He allowed her to talk without interruption until her story was told. She did not mention the ghosts or her painting or her visit to Frances, or the extent of Christopher’s opposition to her involvement with his family, but otherwise she left nothing out.

  When she stopped there was a long silence during which she watched George anxiously, feeling her nervousness increasing by the moment. He seemed lost in some distant world of his own and it was several minutes before he levered himself out of his chair.

  ‘A small sherry is called for, I think,’
he said. He walked across to a rosewood side table where a beautiful cut-glass decanter stood on a lacquer tray with several small glasses. He poured them each a thimbleful and passed one to her. ‘I do actually have several of my mother’s paintings,’ he said when he had taken a sip and savoured it for a moment. ‘I would be delighted to show them to you. I think it is quite definitely time that Mama was given her due recognition. She has always had a following amongst the cognoscenti, of course, but she did not enjoy the idea of fame. She was an intensely private person, Christopher is right about that.’

  ‘But you don’t object – you don’t think she would object – to a book about her?’

  ‘I think she would be very pleased.’ He smiled at her over the rim of the glass. ‘So, you have won the approval of Dolly, have you?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘It took time.’

  ‘I can imagine. I was very fond of Dolly. She looked after my mother for a long time and was the most intensely loyal person I think I have ever met.’

  ‘But you haven’t kept in touch with her?’

  Just for a second she saw the shutters come down behind his eyes. He shook his head. ‘After Mama died –’ There was a long pause. ‘I didn’t care to go to Rosebank Cottage again. It wasn’t the same without her.’

  ‘Were you sad that Mike inherited it?’ she asked cautiously. She didn’t want to jeopardise her relationship with this man.

  He was staring into the distance now. ‘I never knew Mike. Not really. I expect someone has told you that his father and I did not get on. That was not my choice, but sadly it meant our families did not see much of each other.’

  ‘Would it be prying to ask why you didn’t like each other?’ Lucy took another sip of the sherry.

  ‘I think it went back to when I was born. I have given it much thought over the years.’ He was silent again and she thought for a moment he was going to expand on some theory, but he didn’t, contenting himself with: ‘Sibling rivalry, I suppose. Johnny had no time for a new little brother. I came along four years after he was born and instead of getting over it, he seemed to became more and more entrenched in his dislike of me as the years went on.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Sad. Very sad. But too late to do anything about it now. I have nothing against Michael, nothing at all, but I would not like to presume that he would welcome me into his life. I prefer to keep my distance. I am too old to cope with more rejection.’

  Lucy felt a wave of sympathy as he allowed this glimpse of loneliness to show for a moment. She changed the subject. ‘Do you remember watching your mother paint?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, yes. She never minded us going into the studio. We would sit there spellbound. Sometimes she told us stories about the subjects she was painting and once in a while Johnny or I would be allowed to hold a brush and put in one or two strokes. She used to joke that when she was famous it would fool the experts when they realised someone else had helped her with the painting. The old masters used to do that, she told us. They allowed the apprentices to fill in the boring bits of their masterpieces.’

  ‘It sounds like a happy childhood.’

  ‘It was in some ways. But not when my father was there. They didn’t get on. Mama was very unhappy a lot of the time. She locked herself away in her studio when he was there.’

  ‘That’s sad. And what about your grandparents? Do you remember them?’

  ‘I liked Dad’s parents. They farmed properly. A big farm with lots of cows.’ He smiled nostalgically. ‘Evie’s parents got rid of most of the animals during the war. There was an old horse, I remember, and various dogs and cats, and some ducks on the pond behind the byre. But the farm was down to arable then and when her dad died they leased out the land. We were living in London by then in a huge old house in Hampstead. It had a garden, which I loved. We lived with her parents before that but we were a bit much for poor old Dudley. He was quite ill at the end and we were noisy so Dad took us away to London. Mama was distraught though she tried to hide it, and Johnny and I were incredibly upset. Johnny loved his new school, though, and I suppose I got to like mine in the end.’ He gave her a grin.

  ‘So you and Johnny did get on then, when you were young?’

  He hesitated and gave her a sad shake of the head. ‘You know, when I was about four or five I remember Johnny in an especially horrible mood getting me in a corner and telling me that Mama only pretended to love me more than him – that was it, of course, the jealousy, the lack of confidence – because I was adopted. I didn’t know what it meant, but the word stayed with me and a long time later – years later – I asked her if it was true.’ He stopped, staring into space. ‘She said no, but I had a feeling she was lying.’

  Lucy wasn’t sure what to say. Nothing in this encounter had gone the way she expected but above all these were glimpses of a vulnerable and lonely man quite unlike the tyrant she had anticipated.

  ‘But your birth certificate –’

  ‘Was normal as far as I could tell. I managed to acquire a lifetime’s worth of passports with it.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Have I said too much? Probably. Please don’t quote me on this.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘An old man gabbles.’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘Not so old! Good heavens, you can only be in your sixties.’

  ‘And feel a hundred.’

  Again she found herself anxious to change the subject. ‘You said you would show me Evie’s pictures.’

  He nodded. ‘And I will. But not today, I’m afraid.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘We have talked for too long, I fear. They are at home in my house and alas I am going out this evening to the opera, which would not give us enough time to go and see them now. I will give you my home address and phone number and mobile and all that and we shall meet again soon, I hope. You must let me take you out to lunch or something, and bring your tape recorder and I will fill you in on as many anecdotes about my mother as I can remember. And if it gets up my son’s nose so much the better.’ He chuckled.

  As he showed her to the door he caught her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I am so glad you came to see me, Lucy. And please, if you think it is appropriate, will you tell Michael that I would like to be his friend? Whatever there was that didn’t gel between me and his father, it doesn’t have to be the same for us.’

  Friday 23rd August, late

  The opera had been wonderful. With a smile of contentment George fumbled for the key in his pocket and let himself into his house. Keats Grove was quiet; he loved this stroll back from the underground station during which he had the chance to unwind after a day in the shop followed by the theatre or the cinema, or like today a treat at Covent Garden with one of his colleagues from the antique world.

  Over a light supper the two men had discussed his unexpected visit from Lucy.

  ‘Do you know, I had never realised you were Evie Lucas’s son.’ Derek Hemingway leaned forward across the table, his eyes alight with interest. ‘She had a formidable talent. I always wondered what became of her.’

  The two men looked up as the waiter approached and they gave him their order. George reached for his glass and took a sip of the very passable rioja. ‘I’m surprised you have even heard of her,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose there are too few of her paintings in the public domain for her to be a household name.’

  ‘Did she not produce very much in the course of her career? I know there is one in the Tate.’

  George stared down at the table thoughtfully. ‘You are right. Why only one? Where are her other paintings? She was always painting when I was a child, as I told Lucy. The farmhouse where we were brought up was full of her paintings and then when we moved to London I remember them being stacked along the passage on the top floor. But then –’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘My parents got divorced after Granny Rachel died and she and my brother and I moved to a small cottage in Sussex. I suspect a lot of the pictures got left behind with my father. I can still remember that time. I think it was all very acrimonious. H
e kept the house, of course, and pretty much everything. My brother and I adored the new cottage though. Johnny was much older than me and he didn’t live at home any more, but I revelled in living in the country again.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s strange I don’t count myself a country boy. My whole life is antiques and paintings and London-centred but I suppose I was about fifteen then and into sport and stuff. She sent me to Lancing College and I loved it. Very churchy. That fabulous chapel. Smells and bells. I began to appreciate art there. At home, it was just Mum’s paintings. I suppose I was a bit blasé.’ He sighed. ‘The collection my mother left – most of them painted after we moved in 1960 – was bequeathed directly to my son. He always said it was because she was afraid I would sell them, but I wouldn’t have.’ There was a long silence.

  Derek waited for him to continue. He noticed George’s glass was empty and reached for the bottle. ‘Did you and your mother not get along then?’ he asked at last.

  George sighed. ‘We got along fine. Really well. Perhaps she and my dad had some sort of an agreement. My brother, Johnny, inherited all her stuff and I inherited from my father. His house, his money, a few paintings.’ He paused again. ‘But not all.’