‘I have to, Dudley. How could I not?’ Rachel climbed wearily to her feet.
‘Where is she?’
‘Upstairs in the studio.’
‘And Eddie?’
‘He went out this morning early.’ She was visibly trying to pull herself together. ‘The man who rang asked me to tell Eddie, not Evie. That seems odd.’
‘Probably thought he could break it to her.’ Dudley turned and went back into the kitchen and held his chilled hands over the stove for warmth. ‘He was a nice boy,’ he conceded roughly, ‘just not for her.’
‘Why not?’ Rachel followed him in. ‘Why was everyone so against him?’
That was a question Dudley would never answer. Since the wedding Eddie had made it clear there would be no question now of ever paying back the loan. ‘Obviously she really loved Eddie, or she wouldn’t have married him,’ he said firmly.
Rachel sighed but she said nothing.
‘Don’t tell them, Rachel. The boy has gone. It will only upset Evie and that will make Eddie angry.’ Dudley moved over to the window and looked out thoughtfully. ‘He is a very possessive man. Better for Evie if she puts Tony completely out of her head. It was a passing infatuation, no more.’
Rachel moved over to the sink and picked up the teapot. ‘I think it was a little more than that,’ she murmured to herself. Dudley didn’t hear her and she didn’t repeat what she had said.
She had walked up to the village shop, her basket on her arm, her head and shoulders swathed in a thick scarf, and returned just as Eddie came in. He had moved into Box Wood Farm on his marriage and they had taken over the larger of the two spare rooms, swapping it with the land girls, who had moved another bed into Evie’s old bedroom. Dudley saw him as he headed for the staircase and beckoned him into his office.
‘We had a call from Scotland,’ he said. He eyed his son-in-law with distaste mixed with gratitude. It was an unpleasant combination of emotions to deal with. Secretly he couldn’t understand why Evie had suddenly changed her mind and accepted Eddie’s proposal of marriage. Presumably her hurt and anger at Tony leaving her without a word had rebounded and she had thrown herself at Eddie as a sop to her own wounded pride. Well, thank God she had! The marriage had taken place by special licence – another of Eddie’s fiddles, no doubt, but it was done now and all was at peace within the farm. Without Ralph, Evie would inherit everything one day and a farm needed a strong man to run it. He was under no illusion that Eddie would turn his hand to farming himself, but he had money. He could employ a manager. Dudley moved over and closed the door behind Eddie. The pair were man and wife and that was that. He waved his son-in-law to a chair. ‘Tony Anderson has been killed,’ he said. ‘They wanted me to tell you, I suspect so you can break it to Evie. It would be dreadful if she heard somewhere else.’
He was watching Eddie’s expression. The man showed not a flicker of emotion. ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘Missing out at sea. Like Ralph.’ Dudley’s voice cracked. ‘This bloody war!’
‘Odd. On the west coast of Scotland,’ Eddie said thoughtfully. ‘Not exactly the front line.’
‘The Germans would be attacking Clydeside,’ Dudley retorted shortly. ‘Hardly a respite from the war. But as it happens, I gather he was testing a plane that had been repaired.’
Eddie took a deep breath and Dudley realised that he was trying to hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes. His distaste intensified. ‘Do you want to tell her, or shall I?’
‘I will,’ Eddie said quietly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pick the right moment. You’re right. She has to know.’
As he climbed the stairs to Evie’s studio Eddie allowed himself a small smile. He pushed the door and went in. She was standing in front of the easel, a brush in her hand, wearing her usual dungarees, her hair, for once free of its scarf, tangled around her shoulders. His eyes dropped to her stomach. She had put on a little weight. He walked over to stand behind her. She was working on another study of the women of Southampton and for a moment he was caught by the intensity of the expressions on their faces, their terror half-eclipsed by their grim determination. Almost automatically he scanned the table near her hand to see how the paints were holding out. This constant palette of brown and grey was using up her supplies of burned umber and ivory black, the darker blues, the tubes squeezed and almost empty. She didn’t look at him as she squinted closer to the canvas. ‘The light is going. I’ll have to stop soon.’
‘That is a very powerful scene,’ he said. He waited as she put down her brush and reached for a rag. ‘Evie, I have some sad news.’
She turned and looked at him at last. Her expression echoed that of the women in the picture. It was almost as though she had drawn a self-portrait. ‘What?’ she asked.
‘Tony,’ he said.
She went white. For a moment he thought she was going to collapse and he held out his hand, resting it lightly on her arm. ‘Do you want to sit down?’
She shook her head. ‘What‘s happened?’
‘I gather he was flying out over the sea. He didn’t come back.’
‘Like Ralph,’ she echoed her father’s words.
He shook his head. ‘Ralph was killed in action. I gather Tony was just test flying a plane that had been repaired.’
‘Just test flying,’ she repeated.
He nodded. She had grown very frail, he realised. She staggered a few steps away from him, turning her back, her shoulders rigid. ‘Just test flying.’ She said the words again as though unable to believe them.
She turned back and he saw the tears in her eyes. She looked stricken. ‘Can you leave me alone for a bit, Eddie?’ she said, her hand on her stomach. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’
His gaze dropped again to her midriff and suddenly he knew.
The ice-cold shaft of hatred and jealousy that sliced through him took even him by surprise. ‘You’re pregnant!’ he said softly. ‘You’re carrying his baby!’ The flash of fear which crossed her face confirmed it. ‘So, that was why you were so keen to marry me. It was nothing to do with loving me. You needed a father for his bastard!’
‘Eddie –’ She moved towards him but he stepped back.
‘You cheating, lying, little trollop!’
‘Eddie, please!’
He looked her up and down again and then turned on his heel. He walked out of the studio, slamming the door behind him and she heard his footsteps as he ran down the stairs.
He went into their bedroom and sat down on the bed. He was shaking all over, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. When she appeared some fifteen minutes later he was still sitting there. Outside it had begun to grow dark. She walked in and closed the door. The blackout wasn’t drawn and she made no attempt to turn on the light. ‘I am sorry, Eddie.’
‘So am I.’ His voice was harsh.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What can I do?’ He clenched his hands even tighter. ‘We are married. Everything that is yours is mine and that presumably includes Tony Anderson’s bastard. I presume you didn’t want your father to find out. He would have thrown you out, old-fashioned puritan that he is, and he still might, but we don’t want to risk you being disinherited, do we? After all, you will now inherit your brother’s share of this farm, which will be worth a bit when the war is over. So why don’t I just add a child to the list of assets. Your paintings, your farm and your child. I will acknowledge it as mine, but don’t expect me ever to forget that it was fathered by someone else!’
The slam of the door could be heard all over the farmhouse. Dudley glanced up from his desk and frowned but he made no move to see what had happened.
Thursday 5th September
Dolly had found the extra boxes of papers and books in one of the outhouses. Sitting at the low coffee table in the cottage Lucy had piled them in the corner, ready to take them back to the vicarage. She had enjoyed her few days staying at the cottage but at the same time, she didn’t feel safe. It was too exposed. Eve
ry time she heard a car in the lane she looked up and waited, afraid it might stop, afraid it might be Charlotte. Mike had assured her that Charlotte wouldn’t be coming back, ever, that he had taken her key, that he and she were no longer an item, no longer even speaking, but still Lucy didn’t trust the long quiet evenings. She had rung Maggie that afternoon and Maggie had begged her to come back to the vicarage, at least for a night or two. She considered the offer. It was tempting but she had sworn she would not be chased away from the gallery. In the end she compromised. She said she would drive back the next day, via the gallery in Chichester, where she would look in on Robin and make sure everything was all right. Having made the decision she was surprised at just how much of a relief it was. Her very real fear was still there, close beneath the surface, she had to acknowledge the fact.
The first thing she had taken out of the dustiest of the boxes was a fat notebook with a cardboard cover. Inside it was full of Evie’s writing – great blocks of writing, very small, unlike her usual untidy scrawl. Lucy carried it over to the lamp, and squinting slightly, began to read.
It was a log of her paintings, each one described, dated, with a note of the place Evie had gone to make her original sketches. Biting her lip with excitement, Lucy turned the pages. There were dozens of them, page after page of detailed descriptions, the dates running from August 1940 to September 1945. Holding her breath she started at the beginning, working her way slowly in. Several had notes of how much she had sold them for, and to whom. Most of those were initialled, either WAAC, or FG, which Lucy took to mean the Fuller Gallery. Those pictures had passed through her own front door, though obviously they had sold on and presumably fairly fast. Evie must have had a steady fan base or David Fuller had had a very shrewd eye for what his customers wanted. Judging by the descriptions the pictures which went to him were more likely to be country and farm scenes and birds, whilst the War Artists were required to paint aspects of the war. Again and again there was a note about a painting of Westhampnett, Dispersal. Or Westhampnett, The Officers’ Mess at Woodcote Farm, Westhampnett, Dave and Luke, T’s fitter and rigger. Most of these were pencil sketches, or charcoal or pastel, but some were oils. And there were portraits, some named, some, frustratingly, anonymous.
Deeply engrossed, she turned another page and stared. The entry had been crossed out with a vicious scribble but it was still legible. Me and Tony at the Gate, August 1940, oil. Was that their painting, the one Larry had bought? Almost certainly. Had it been crossed out at the same time as Tony had been painted out? And what had happened to the painting after that? Evie had not kept it, nor presumably had it gone to the gallery and sold on, as it had been languishing in a sale room. Lucy studied it, willing the entry to give up its secret. She turned on further. The entries went on fairly regularly with a long gap in 1941 and another in 1944.
When she had finished glancing through the list she sat back, numb with excitement. Here was a catalogue of Evie’s paintings from the most iconic period of her life, and the list which filled in some of the gaps in her diaries. How many of these paintings and drawings still existed? She thought wistfully of George and his suggestion that she photograph his paintings. What would happen to them now she wondered? They would go to Christopher, of course, and disappear from the public domain with the rest of the items he had taken from Rosebank Cottage. She thought back over the pictures Frances had shown her. None of them dated from the war years, she was pretty sure of that, or none of the ones on display. What else he had squirrelled away? Who knew?
The discovery of this log of Evie’s work explained why she so seldom mentioned her paintings in her diaries. Obviously the two notebooks ran concurrently. Did that mean there were other logs lying around, relating to her later work? Lucy felt a kick of adrenaline under her ribs. If one had turned up here, perhaps there would be others, and for a start she could look in the box sitting on the table beside her and after that in the sheds in the garden she had never even considered searching, assuming them to be full of gardening equipment. Sitting forward on the edge of the chair she reached into the box again and began systematically to unpack it, horrified to find the stuff at the bottom wet through and mildewed. Going in search of some paper kitchen towels she spread wads of them out and laid out the notebooks and papers, not daring to open them until they had dried.
January 29th 1941
Evie sat dry-eyed in her studio in the dark. Her head was reeling, her stomach sick, all her dreams and fantasies crumbling around her. She hadn’t consciously realised she still had dreams that Tony would return or that he would phone from Scotland and beg her to come north to be with him; she hadn’t recognised that even after her wedding she had prayed that somehow he would change his mind and rescue her, but it would never happen now. She would never see him again. She was married to Eddie, who had suddenly revealed himself to be far more cruel and unkind than she had ever suspected, and she had nowhere to escape to. She put her hand on her stomach, for the first time aware that she was doing it, aware that this precious little scrap of life, hidden inside her, was all there was left of Tony Anderson.
Tears were coursing down her cheeks now as she sat hugging herself in the dark. There was no sound from outside the room. At least Eddie hadn’t followed her upstairs.
Evie!
The whisper was softer than the hiss of snow which had begun to fall outside, barely touching the glass of the windows as it drifted down into the farmyard below.
Evie!
She straightened and looked round. ‘Ralph?’ Her eyes widened in the darkness.
Evie, I’m sorry—
She stood up, suddenly afraid. ‘Ralph?’ Her voice trembled.
I’m so sorry. I let you down.
She backed across the room, her eyes scanning the shadows.
I’m so sorry …
Scrabbling for the door handle she let herself out onto the landing and ran towards the stairs. She couldn’t run down, Eddie was downstairs. Instead she headed up towards her studio.
In the distance she heard the phone ringing in the hall. With a sob she let herself into the dark room and scrabbled for the light switch. The blackouts were drawn across the skylights, the room filled suddenly with cold white light. She slammed the door and stood with her back to it, her heart thudding with fear. She had imagined it. Of course she had. And even if it was Ralph’s – she balked at the word ghost – why should she be afraid? Her beloved brother would never hurt her.
‘Ralph?’ she whispered his name out loud.
There was no reply.
She was alone the next day when the pilot came. He was riding a motorbike and swept into the farmyard in a cloud of blue smoke. Evie went to the kitchen door and looked out. For the first time in ages her fingers itched for a pencil. He was a good-looking lad, red-haired, freckle-nosed, with piercing blue-green eyes surveying her from under bushy eyebrows.
‘Evie Lucas?’ he guessed, his voice hesitant.
She nodded.
He turned and reached into one of the panniers on the back of the bike and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He faced her again. ‘I’m based at Westhampnett. We took over when 911 squadron was posted back to Scotland.’
Evie swallowed hard. She had a suspicion this must have something to do with Tony.
He met her eye as if reading her thoughts. ‘I took over Tony Anderson’s room,’ he said awkwardly. ‘The squadron left in a bit of a hurry, by all accounts, and he left his log book behind. I found it on the floor behind his locker. I was going to forward it on to him. As you know, he’d be in trouble for losing it, but then –’ He stopped.
‘Then he was killed,’ Evie prompted in a murmur.
‘One of the WAAFs knew you and he were –’ Again he stopped. ‘Close,’ he went on unhappily, ‘and she thought you might like to keep it. I’m sure no one will miss it.’ He was still clutching the parcel to his chest as though afraid to offer it to her.
For a moment Evie didn’t trust herse
lf to speak. Silently she held out her hands. He put the packet into them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Thank you.’ She managed a smile.
‘I’d better go.’ He gestured over his shoulder towards the bike. ‘The enemy are still demanding our attention.’
‘You haven’t told me your name,’ Evie called out as he turned away.
‘Josh Andrews.’ He gave her a warm smile.
She held out her hand to him. He took it and shook it hard. ‘Thank you, Josh. I will treasure it,’ she said with an effort. Somehow she held back her tears. She stood watching as he drove out of the yard then she turned back inside. She needed to hide this somewhere no one would ever find it.
24
Friday 6th September
Lucy had allowed herself one more night at Rosebank Cottage, alone with Evie’s memory. She made herself an omelette and then retreated to the small bedroom with the box of notebooks. One of the damp, mouldy items she lifted from the bottom of the box turned out to be an address book. Cautiously she prised the wet pages open. It was laden with addresses, all in an unknown hand. She frowned, staring at it intently, looking for names she recognised. There were no Lucases, no Andersons but there were three Marstons so perhaps this had belonged to Eddie. She looked up David Fuller and sure enough, there he was, his address the same as hers, the telephone number Chichester plus just three digits. She smiled. It was as though she had met a friend in this damp box of long forgotten papers. She tried to turn the page and it stuck to its neighbour, beginning to tear. Better to set it aside and wait for it to dry rather than inadvertently destroy some priceless piece of information.
Next she picked up a tooled leather folder, the pale dust of mildew hiding a faded green colouring which must have once been rich and elegant. Inside were several sheets of paper, old letter drafts, bills – Lucy gave a wry smile – always bills. She picked out a crumpled sheet of paper which had obviously been screwed up and thrown away and then presumably retrieved and flattened and restored to its place in the folder.
The Darkest Hour Page 39