The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  He heard the squadron leader’s voice crackle in his ear. ‘Squadron airborne.’

  Concentrating on his place in the formation, he gently corrected his position every now and then, relaxing slightly, allowing himself to enjoy the skill and the plane. Another crackle and this time it was Control. ‘One hundred and fifty plus bandits approaching at angels twelve, vector one twenty. Over.’

  Angels. Ralph gave a grim smile. Every thousand feet an angel. Who thought that one up? He hoped he would not one day find out. He felt his stomach tighten. Higher and higher still. Time to turn on the oxygen. Ahead he could see them now, a cloud of black dots, getting ever larger, rank on rank of them, fighter aircraft escorting the serried lines of bombers. Mainly Dornier with Messerschmitt in attendance by the look of things and here was he, one of a squadron of only twelve planes. But they could do it. They would be joined by other squadrons from other airfields and they would chase the bastards away.

  They would.

  He was feeling cold now, and icily calm.

  And then they were amongst the enemy.

  ‘Break! Break!’ The shouted order came over the RT. None of them needed telling. Forget the careful formation. From now on it was every man for himself. His thumb on the gun button, Ralph soared in pursuit of an enemy plane, aware only of his target as he threaded his way through the hundreds of speeding dodging spiralling aircraft, watching forward, port, starboard, above, below, behind.

  Far below in the farmyard Rachel Lucas paused, as she pegged out her line of washing, gazing up into the distance. She could hear the bombs exploding over towards Southampton; the ack ack guns on the ground. Watching the sky she was aware of the scream of engines, the stuttering roar of machine guns, seeing tracer bullets streak across the sky, plumes of smoke. Men were dying up there. Boys, most of them. She saw a plane peel away from the action, trailing black smoke as it plummeted down, spinning out of control. Was it one of ours or one of theirs? Too far away to see. Either way she breathed a quiet prayer for a life snuffed out as the plane buried itself in a field somewhere in the Downs.

  Please God, keep Rafie safe; don’t let him die.

  Her brother had died in another war twenty-three years before. He had died far away in France; now they were having to watch their young men die here, in the sky, over their heads. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

  The airmen soon became used to the sight of the slim fair-haired girl in her slacks and linen shirt, a sweater hung around her neck or knotted round her waist. She had appeared two or three times now, leaving her old bicycle near one of the Nissen huts on the airfield which were used as crew rooms, or leaning against the wall of the old farmhouse, now the Officers’ Mess. Leaving her gas mask dangling from the handlebars, she carried no more than a sketchbook and soft pencils and charcoal or coloured crayons to work with. She drew the planes, the ground crew, the pilots. She was friendly and exchanged some repartee with the men, but always she was drawing, not allowing herself to be distracted. The War Artists Advisory Committee was very strict about who it chose for its official team of war artists, and stricter still about women. She knew that to win her place on that coveted programme she should be painting in factories or depicting the brave men and women of the town streets and the people getting on with life under the threat of invasion; but it was the planes that fascinated her and to compete with the male artists, to get herself on the commission’s list, she had to be twice as good as they were.

  Since Ralph had got her permission to sketch at the airfield, she would repair to the farmhouse attic which she and Rafie and her father had turned into a studio for her when she had returned from art school. It gave her somewhere to paint; somewhere to be on her own and now somewhere to concentrate on her work away from the bustle of the farm. They had made a skylight which was blacked out now in the evening, but rigged up with electric lights hanging from the rafters, fed by the generator in the shed, there was just about enough light to transform her sketches into paint.

  Her canvasses from college were stacked against the wall. Portraits mainly, though some were country scenes; some influenced by contemporary heroes of hers like John Nash and Graham Sutherland, others more strongly her own clearly emerging style. And there were the birds. Her first drawings had been of birds in flight, studied over the fields of the farm, over the woods and sea and over her beloved Downs. It was when she saw her first squadron of fighter planes wheeling in tight formation above the farm looking like so many swallows swooping after insects against the intense blue of the sky that she knew she had to paint them as well.

  She was tired after the five-mile bike ride home from the airfield but that was no excuse. There was farm work to do. She ran up to the studio and left her sketchbooks there on the table before coming back down to the kitchen. Her mother was stirring a pot of soup over the range. She looked up.

  ‘It sounded as though there was a bit of activity this afternoon,’ she said with a thin smile.

  Rachel Lucas was a tall strong-boned woman with a fierce loyalty and love of her husband and two children which she hid with a layer of gruff understatement and determination. She would never admit that she was worried about Ralph, or demand he somehow get her a message after a particularly fierce aerial battle or that she had any misgivings about Evie’s excursions down to an airfield in the thick of the operations.

  ‘Eddie phoned. He’s back from London for a few days and he’s coming to supper. Your dad has started the milking.’

  Evie went over and gave her mother a light kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll go and see if he would like me to take over.’ There were only two cows in milk now, much to her relief.

  ‘Would you, dear? I know he denies it but he is finding it hard without Ralph and the men to help.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, Mummy.’ Evie reached for her overalls from the back of the door and whistled to the two dogs lying on the flags. ‘When will Eddie arrive?’

  Rachel gave a rueful smile at the casualness of the question. ‘You’ve got time to give your dad a hand.’

  Eddie Marston was tall and slightly stooped with the mannerisms of a man far older than his twenty-eight years. He had dark straight hair and grey-green eyes, magnified by wire-rimmed spectacles. His parents were neighbours of the Lucases, his father’s farm bordering theirs to the east. Eddie however had shown no interest in the farm, preferring to leave its running to his two sisters and a team of land girls. He had failed the medical to get into the forces after a childhood bout of measles had left him with poor eyesight and had been co-opted into the Ministry of Information. It was no secret that he had a soft spot for Evie, nearly ten years his junior. Her feelings for him were not so clear. She enjoyed his company and was flattered by his attention. She wasn’t sure yet whether she felt any more deeply for him but in the meantime she enjoyed flirting with him.

  Sitting next to her in the farmhouse kitchen he gazed round the table as they waited for Rachel to serve the soup, then he sprang his surprise. ‘You know I took some of your sketches into Chichester to show to that friend I mentioned?’

  Evie looked up quickly. She hadn’t wanted to part with them but Eddie could be very persuasive.

  ‘He likes them. He thinks he has a potential buyer. I have arranged to have them framed and the cost taken out of the proceeds.’

  Evie’s father narrowed his eyes slightly as he surveyed Eddie across the table. Their neighbour’s son was becoming all too frequent a visitor in the house and treating it – and them – with just too much familiarity for his taste. ‘I seem to recall Evie saying she would think about whether she wanted to sell those. Some of them were from her college portfolio if I remember right.’

  ‘Daddy, I can speak for myself!’ Evie retorted crossly.

  Eddie scooped a piece of bread from the plate on the table between them and nodded nonchalantly. ‘But remember, if you change your mind about selling them it will look bad. An introduction like this at this stage in your care
er is worth its weight in gold. She has talent, your daughter!’ He smiled at Dudley Lucas. ‘If she wants to go far in the world of art – and she could – she can’t start soon enough.’

  Rachel stood up, pushing her chair back on the flags with unnecessary force. ‘I’m sure she does. She has enough ambition does our Evie, but Dudley is right. It has to be up to her.’ The quick look she gave Eddie from under her lashes was less than friendly.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about me as though I wasn’t here!’ Evie said crossly. ‘I can make my own decisions! Yes, Eddie. Please sell them.’

  Eddie sat back in his chair with a smug smile. ‘You won’t regret it, sweetheart.’ There was a touch of triumph in his expression as he gave a sideways glance at Dudley.

  It was as he was leaving he took the chance to have a quiet word with Evie in the hall. ‘Have you got your paintings of the airfield ready yet?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m working on them.’

  ‘When can I have them?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She hesitated. ‘The thing is, the squadron CO at Westhampnett said I ought to be careful. I’m not really authorised to do this even though I have his permission. It is not quite the same.’

  ‘Like when we kiss, eh?’ Eddie put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him.

  Evie submitted without demur. In fact she quite liked it when Eddie kissed her. It felt exciting and slightly risqué. He was quite a bit older than she was and no doubt a lot more experienced. Her inexpert fumblings as an art student, even going ‘all the way’ as one lad had put it, had been profoundly disappointing and she had not had enough relationships to realise that being in the arms of someone who, though enthusiastic and energetic, was profoundly unattractive to her, did not turn the right switches. Eddie was a solid, good-looking young man. He carried himself well and, with his even features, good skin and a small neat moustache he had a sophisticated air which radiated confidence. Sometimes she wondered how he squared this with his claims to have fragile health and poor eyesight – although he wore glasses most of the time he didn’t always and even without them he seemed to miss nothing – but presumably the medics knew what they were doing and he would no doubt be an asset to whatever department he worked for in the Ministry.

  ‘Evie!’ Her father’s peremptory call made her pull away from him.

  ’See you tomorrow,’ she whispered.

  Eddie grinned. Reaching across he gave her hair a little tug. ‘Cheerio, sweetheart.’

  She watched, a speculative look in her eye, as he climbed into his smart little Wolseley and drove out of the farmyard. She knew exactly what he was up to. He wanted her in bed and even more he wanted to lay his hands on more of her drawings. Both ideas had a certain appeal. She wasn’t sure yet what she was going to do about either proposition.

  4

  Sunday 30th June

  Lucy woke suddenly and lay staring up at the ceiling, her heart thudding with fright. The dream, if there had been a dream, had gone. She groped in the foggy emptiness of her memory and found nothing there. Reaching out for the clock on the bedside table she turned it to face her. It was two forty-five a.m. The room, on the second floor, under the eaves, was hot, the night very still. Outside a car drove down the street, the rattle of tyres, the sound of the engine, dying away into the distance. With a sigh she climbed out of bed and went to the window. The street two storeys below, even here near the centre of the city, was very quiet

  She heard a creak in the room behind her and she turned round, her eyes wide in the darkness. There was nothing there. The floor-boards creaked all the time in this old building and she smiled wryly. In the silence of the night a dog barked far away somewhere towards the Bishop’s Palace Gardens.

  And suddenly she knew she was not alone in the bedroom. She was aware of a movement on the periphery of her vision. She glanced round again, holding her breath as a shadowy, almost transparent figure slowly appeared on the far side of the bed. Her mouth went dry.

  ‘Larry?’ she whispered.

  The room was very still.

  ‘Larry, darling?’

  But it wasn’t Larry. For a moment in the half-light from the landing she glimpsed a thin angular face, the grey-blue uniform of the Royal Air Force, then he was gone.

  She groped frantically for the light switches and, half-blinded as they came on, stared round wildly. ‘Idiot!’ she whispered. ‘You’re imagining things.’ Her hands, she realised, had started to shake.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she found she had started to shiver uncontrollably in spite of the warmth of the night. ‘Larry?’ Her voice broke into a sob.

  Padding down the narrow stairs from the pretty attic bedroom which she and Larry had had so much fun designing and which they had shared with such joy, she went into the first-floor kitchen at the back of the flat and turned on the lights. She stood still, confronting the studio door which was closed. The figure had been part of her dream, of course he had. She had been becoming obsessed with the identity of the young man in the portrait and had gone to sleep thinking about him, of course she had dreamed about him.

  Heading determinedly for the door before she could change her mind she pushed it open, reached up and groped for the light switches. Evie was staring at her from the easel with an expression of quizzical amusement. The young man behind her was interested only in the woman sitting on the gate so close in front of him. He had no time for anyone outside the picture.

  Lucy glanced round, almost afraid that the shadowy figure from her bedroom would be there, but the studio was empty. Her eyes drifted back to the young man with the bright blue eyes and she swallowed hard, trying to gather her wits. This boy was fair-haired, his face square, his figure stocky. The man she had seen standing in her bedroom had darker hair and eyes and he was tall and slim. She had only had time to see him for a fraction of a second, but it had been enough to see that he was not the young man in the picture. Nor was it Larry.

  She felt a sudden tremor of fear. The figure must have been part of her dream but he had seemed so real for a moment. She backed out of the studio into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. As she drank it she turned and looked back through the door into the studio. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves and, putting down the glass she cautiously retraced her steps. The studio was still empty. Evie was still looking back at her from the canvas, her eyes once more enigmatic. And hostile? Maybe. And the young man behind her? It was almost as though Evie didn’t know he was there.

  So, who was the dark-haired young man, the other man, the man in her bedroom?

  Acutely aware once more of how empty the flat was without Larry there at her side Lucy found herself suddenly overwhelmed with panic. The phone was in her hand before she could stop herself.

  ‘Robin, I’m frightened. Can you come over?’

  ‘Luce? What’s wrong?’ His voice was muffled. Sleepy.

  ‘Please.’ She was behaving irrationally. She knew it with some part of her mind, but the terror was in control.

  As soon as she had put down the phone she regretted ringing him. She had forgotten what the time was. She was being a selfish cow.

  Robin let himself in ten minutes later. ‘What is it, Luce?’ He ran up the stairs from the gallery followed by his partner, Phil.

  She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, still shivering. ‘I am such a fool. I shouldn’t have rung you.’

  ‘You said you were frightened. What happened?’ Robin put his arms round her. ‘Come on. Uncle Robin is here now.’

  ‘I had a nightmare. A stupid nightmare,’ she stammered. ‘I woke up suddenly and I thought I saw a man standing in my room. He disappeared and I thought he must have been a ghost.’ She buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. It was comforting to be near another human being; reassuring and for a moment she wanted to stay like that. It felt safe. She pulled herself together with an effort and stood back, aware that they were both staring at her.

&nbs
p; ‘Lol’s ghost?’ Robin whispered.

  She shook her head. She had confided in him once, on one of her bad days, how much she longed to see Larry again, how she was sure he would come back to her, how he would tell her what had happened and how much he still loved her. But he hadn’t.

  She saw Robin and Phil glance at each other.

  ‘I’m mad. I know I’m mad. It was a dream. It must have been. I didn’t realise what the time was. I shouldn’t have rung you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. What else are friends for?’ Robin said gently.

  ‘What did he look like, this figure?’ Phil pulled out a chair and sat down at the table near her. He leaned forward on his elbows studying her face. He was a broad-shouldered man, reassuringly well built with wavy golden hair. Sensible. Down to earth. ‘Can you remember?’ Neither he nor Robin was laughing at her.

  She explained again what had happened as Robin went over to the kettle. He switched it on and collected three mugs from the cupboard. Turning back towards them he glanced towards the studio. The door was shut.

  ‘OK,’ he said as he passed her a mug of tea. ‘Why don’t Phil and I go in and have a look, just to be sure everything is OK and put your mind at rest.’

  She gave a weak smile. ‘He was in my bedroom.’

  ‘Then we’ll look there first.’ Phil stood up.

  She had left the lights on upstairs. The room was empty, her bed in disarray but there was nothing there to frighten her. After looking round, searching the second bedroom and the bathroom they turned and trooped down to the first floor again. Then they went into the studio. In the beamed roof the areas of glass reflected back the spotlights against the black of the night outside, the painting a silent witness on its easel.