The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  Friday 16th August

  Lucy read the note twice and pushed it back gently into its envelope. Reading these personal letters still made her feel intrusive and a little guilty. She must be the first person to see them since Tony. Obviously it had reached him, so presumably he had read it. But of course she couldn’t even be sure of that. Once more at home she was sitting at the table in the front room, nibbling a piece of toast. Behind her the kitchen door was closed. In the background the Today programme was on the radio. She glanced at her watch. In thirty-five minutes she would have to open up shop. That gave her time to read some more of the log book, trying to put together a sequence from the entries she found in it. Some entries were no more than the single word ‘sortie’ or ‘patrol’, some were far more detailed, but each made up a certain portion of Tony Anderson’s day and, day by day, took him through the last weeks of the Battle of Britain. Twice he noted almost sheepishly that he had shot down an enemy plane, his earlier excited reports now toned down and world-weary. She found another note, confirming that his friend Bill West had been shot down over the English Channel and the plane had not been recovered. His belongings had been quietly cleared away and Tony’s room in the Mess was now being shared by a chap called Peter Warrender, who seemed to be a good egg. Lucy smiled at the description. Was this the page from a letter Tony had been going to send to someone, and had forgotten to post? He often seemed to slot things into his log book. She wondered what his CO, Don Irving, had thought when every month the log book had been submitted for inspection. She examined the stamp, signed and dated. Perhaps it had been hard to get time alone to write letters. She could imagine Tony sitting on his bed in the small bedroom in the Mess when the call had come to hurry off and go back on duty; or perhaps he had just caved in to total exhaustion, pushing whatever letter he was writing inside the nearest safe place before collapsing back onto the pillow.

  The trouble with the log book was that it contained nothing at all of his personal life except for these few scraps tucked so tightly in that they had become almost bound in with the other pages.

  She turned to Evie’s diary for the corresponding month. Two more commissions had been received from the WAAC. Far from being overjoyed Evie seemed almost bitter in her scribbled entry. No doubt Eddie has prevailed on them to give me this. Let them wait! Lucy grimaced. Something was obviously wrong.

  On the next page she had written:. More bribes. Sketchbook. Paints. At least he hasn’t brought me any silk knickers this time.

  Lucy laughed out loud. Presumably she was talking about Eddie and his heavy-handed efforts to encourage her to paint.

  Then came another entry.

  I was asked to go to Southampton last week to visit a factory and make sketches. While I was there the air raid warning sounded. I was in a shelter with dozens of women and children. It was hot and dusty and claustrophobic but we could feel the ground shaking round us as the bombs fell. It was horrible. When we came out the damage in the roads only two streets away was total. Houses flat. I could hear a woman screaming and screaming and screaming. It was awful. It made my stomach go all cold. I didn’t want to draw anything, it didn’t seem fair when so many people were suffering, too intrusive, too insensitive, but something made me do it. This is all I can do to help, after all. It’s silly to refuse to paint because it’s Eddie who wants me to. There are an awful lot of people at the WAAC who know more than him. If painting can help bring this war to an end in any way at all, I must do it. It is all I am fit for. I started on a big canvas today. It will be called, The End of the Street.

  Lucy sat back thoughtfully. That was one of the paintings listed in the Imperial War Museum’s catalogue so presumably it still existed. She turned to her pile of books and references then shook her head. She could check it on line and probably download a copy of the picture later when she went to the gallery.

  She reached for the log book again and then paused, looking up. Was that a sound from the kitchen? She turned in her chair and stared towards the door, holding her breath. All was silent.

  ‘Ralph?’ Her voice sounded husky as she called his name. ‘Is that you?’

  Silence.

  Outside a car drove down the street, its engine noisy, echoing between the walls of the houses. It emphasised the silence of the room. Lucy stood up. She took a deep breath, then she walked steadily into the kitchen. Crossing it she went to the studio door and pulled it open. The room was empty, tidy. Still.

  November 16th 1940

  ‘Your father is not well, Evie.’ Rachel was skimming the top off the cream in the dairy. The milk was thin these days; she didn’t know how long it would be worth carrying on with the remaining cows. ‘I know you don’t mean to, but you worry him, darling. You must try and be a bit more considerate.’

  Evie had been stacking bowls on a shelf. She turned, astonished. ‘What have I done now?’ She walked across to check the bags of curd dripping into pans on the table. ‘I am painting again. It takes some of my time. It has to!’

  ‘It’s not that, Evie. He is proud of your painting. But I told you before, it is the fact you are still spending time with Tony.’

  Evie stared at her. ‘I haven’t seen Tony for ages!’

  ‘Oh!’ Rachel looked genuinely surprised. ‘I thought –’

  ‘You thought wrong! He hasn’t even phoned me.’ Evie turned away but not before Rachel saw the hurt on her face. ‘Eddie thinks he’s taking some other woman to dances. That should please you and Daddy!’

  ‘I see.’ Rachel’s cheeks coloured slightly. Her interception of Tony’s calls had left her feeling guilty, but anything was better than Dudley’s rage at the mention of the boy’s name. ‘I’m sorry, Evie. I know it’s hard, but your father seemed so angry about him I thought he must have been up here again.’ She picked up the cream jug. In the doorway she turned. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He won’t go and see the doctor,’ she said sadly. ‘He is exhausted and angry and short-tempered with everyone. He gets these pains –’ She put her hand on her heart.

  Evie stared after her as her mother walked back across the yard and disappeared into the kitchen.

  That was as near as her mother had ever come to admitting how stressful life was now at the farm.

  ‘The CO wants to see you, old son.’ Peter Warrender, his new room mate, put his head in to their bedroom where Tony was lying on his bed, dozing. They had spent an exhausting few days on almost constant alert, with patrol after patrol in the face of increasingly heavy enemy attacks on Portsmouth.

  Tony opened his eyes. ‘Can’t a chap have forty winks in peace?’

  ‘Nope. At the double, there.’

  Tony groaned. He levered himself off the bed. ‘Will you get a beer lined up for me at the bar? If I am to be skinned alive I will need it and if I fail to survive you can drink it for me. Where is he, in the office?’

  Peter nodded and disappeared from view.

  Don Irving was seated at a desk covered in papers and forms, a heap of log books to one side, an overflowing ashtray by the telephone. The room was full of cigarette smoke.

  He looked up as Tony entered and waved him to a chair. He looked very serious. ‘How are things, Tony?’

  Tony moved uneasily in the seat. ‘All right?’ It was a question rather than an answer.

  ‘In all aspects of your life?’

  Tony frowned. ‘What have I done?’

  Don grinned. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’ He leaned forward on his elbows, his chin cupped on the back of his hands, studying Tony’s face. ‘Is there anything worrying you? More girlfriend trouble? I’ve noticed Evie Lucas hasn’t been coming down to the base. I’m glad she’s stayed away. As you know, she’s been getting some unwanted attention from the powers that be.’ He paused, then seeing Tony colour slightly went on, ‘This is not normally any of my business, old boy, but if it impacts on the safety of one of my pilots then it is. I’ve been tipped the wink that maybe someone out there is out to hurt you.�
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  Tony’s mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t understand!’

  ‘No, neither do I exactly, but I’ve been told to warn you that there may be someone, somewhere, who does not wish you well. It would be good if you were to have eyes in the back of your head, which I would expect anyway if you value your scraggy neck!’ He grinned again. ‘If this is something to do with Evie ,’ he added, ‘it’s a rotten shame, but better just leave it for a bit, eh?’

  ‘Are you saying her father –’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  Tony chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Maybe there is something I should tell you. I’ve been wondering, to be honest, if I should tell someone.’ He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably as though already feeling a presence behind him. ‘Dudley Lucas caught me going up to the farm a few days back. It was after midnight.’ He looked down as he saw his CO’s expression. ‘It was before A flight was put on early standby. My flying wouldn’t have suffered. The thing is, he was outside, fully dressed, with a scarf pulled up over his face and, well, I think he was up to something.’ Tony scowled. ‘I kept telling myself that after all he is a farmer. He was probably out delivering a calf or something, but it just didn’t feel right. He was being,’ he hesitated, ‘furtive. You don’t think,’ again he stopped uncomfortably, ‘you don’t think he’s a spy, do you?’

  ‘And trying to kill you to cover up the fact that you saw him?’ Don ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Kill me?’ Tony stood up. ‘You’ve been trying to tell me someone is trying to kill me?’

  ‘Well, you already know the entire Luftwaffe is, but yes, I suppose I am saying that.’ Don came round his desk and perched on the corner of it. ‘This is a bit beyond me, Tony. Normally I would say this is all imagination, but as someone else has alerted us to this, I can’t ignore it. An argument over a girl is one thing, but now after what you’ve told me.’ He sighed. ‘I think I will have to go to someone else about this. It is potentially very serious.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Tony was growing ever more agitated. ‘If someone is trying to kill me –’

  ‘If someone is spying for the enemy,’ Don corrected gently. He whistled through his teeth. ‘All right.’ He was suddenly resolute. ‘I will talk to the powers that be, and in the meantime, be careful. There is no suggestion that anyone on our squadron is involved in this, but when you are taking part in a general mêlée, with planes from other bases, watch your tail even before you get near the bandits.’

  Tony headed for the door. He stopped and turned. ‘You will tell me if you find out anything?’

  Don nodded. He waited for Tony to close the door behind him, then he reached for his telephone.

  18

  Sunday 18th August, early

  To Lucy’s relief there was no sign of anyone in the cottage. The garden was deserted, the only sound the excited gossip of the family of swallows sitting in a line on the telephone wire. She still hadn’t seen Mike since their meeting in the gallery and she had arrived full of trepidation.

  The envelope full of old letters had been slotted into the back of a tattered volume on Renaissance art. Lucy wasn’t sure what had made her pull the book out, but a cascade of cuttings had dropped around her feet as she did so, and with them this torn, crumpled envelope.

  Her heart beating with excitement she carried the whole lot to the table and pulled up her stool. She had arrived at Rosebank Cottage as the morning sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud and the studio was shadowy as she let herself in.

  One by one she pulled the letters from their hiding place and carefully unfolding them, laid them out before her.

  The first, dated October 1940, was from the War Artists Advisory Committee, signed by E. M. O’Rourke Dickey, who if Lucy recalled correctly was the secretary, offering the sum of twenty guineas for three of Evie’s paintings: The Market Never Closes; Southampton Defies Danger; and Girls Pull Together. There was no clue as to what the paintings depicted, though Lucy felt the titles were probably self-explanatory. She didn’t recognise any of them.

  The next letter on flimsy airmail paper was from someone who signed themselves P. Dated March 1941 it was obviously one of her friends from the Royal College, now evacuated to Cumbria. Evie darling, you would love it here. The hills are so dramatic and the light is almost perverse in its intensity, but oh the boredom! We have nothing to do but paint!!! I think some of the chaps are planning a party though. Things could improve.

  This was like striking gold. These letters were part of a commentary on Evie’s painting life. Lucy drew the next one closer and caught her breath excitedly. She recognised the writing from his log book.

  My darling I hardly dare write to you. Everyone and everything seems to be against us. Please tell me you don’t feel the same. I miss you so much. I have spoken to your mother twice on the phone and she said you weren’t there, but you never rang back.

  I wonder if your dad ever told you I had a run-in with him one night and he sent me away. I think I put my foot in it seeing him outside at that hour but I could hardly pretend I was there for a casual walk. I am going to post this before we take off this morning and hope you get to it before anyone else in your house. You can always write to me c/o the Mess at WH. Don’t mention to anyone that I’ve been in touch. I love you so –

  Lucy turned the page but that was all. Nothing else. The second page was missing.

  She read it again, a lump in her throat, then, putting it gently aside she looked at the other documents. There were two receipts. She stared at them. The Fuller Gallery, Westgate, Chichester. Her address, though the name of the gallery was different. She found her hands were shaking. David Fuller had paid Evie two guineas each for two watercolour paintings of the cathedral, one at sunset, one with two Spitfires flying past the spire and another of ducks flying at sunset. Where, she wondered, were those pictures now?

  She was reaching for the next piece of paper when the door opened behind her. She turned on the stool and found herself face to face with Charlotte Ponsonby.

  For a moment they stared at each other in silence before Charlotte stepped inside and shut the door behind her and leaned against it. ‘I thought it must be you when I saw the lights on in here,’ she said.

  Lucy glanced past her at the door. ‘Is Mike here with you?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of coming down here alone.’ Charlotte was wearing a short pink linen coat over a dress of the same colour and purple high-heeled sandals. She did not look, Lucy thought to herself idly, as though she was dressed for a weekend in the country.

  ‘He is coming down in the other car but I seem to have arrived first,’ Charlotte went on, ‘which gives us a chance to have a little chat.’

  Lucy swept all the papers on the table into a careful pile and tucked them back into the book, then she folded her arms. ‘What sort of chat?’

  ‘A chat about you and Mike.’ Charlotte moved to the other side of the table and pulling up a second stool perched on it, her eyes fixed on Lucy’s.

  Lucy stood up. She picked up the book and held it to her chest defensively. ‘There is no “me and Mike”, as you put it. What on earth makes you think there is? I am working here, that is all.’

  ‘He is obsessed with you.’ Charlotte’s eyes were hard.

  Lucy stared at her. ‘What nonsense! Last time I saw him he was angry with me, but that was the result of a misunderstanding.’ Suddenly she was furious. She was damned if she was going to make excuses to this woman. ‘If you have a problem with Mike I suggest you take it up with him. He and I barely know each other. We’ve had lunch twice and on every occasion we have met it has been to talk about his grandmother. If you are feeling insecure in your relationship, I suggest you look closer to home! I doubt if he likes the clingy type.’

  She stopped abruptly, shocked at her own bitchiness. Bending over, she picked up her briefcase and laptop bag. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I would hate to be intrusive.’

  She tu
rned to the door.

  ‘Stop!’ Charlotte had risen from her stool. ‘What is that book?’

  Lucy still had it clutched in her arms. She held it tighter. ‘It is a textbook on Renaissance art. Probably from Evie’s days at college.’

  ‘Did Mike say you could take it away?’ Lucy could feel the hostility coming off the woman in waves.

  ‘Mike said I could take anything I wanted,’ she said with exaggerated patience. It is all going to be returned, I assure you. And I assure you equally that, if it is the monetary value of this book that worries you, it is probably not even worth a fiver. If I tried to sell it, it would fetch nothing; it would be pulped.’

  ‘Then why are you taking it?’

  ‘Because I am interested in art; I am interested in Evie. I am writing a book about Evie and anything that interested her, interests me.’ Lucy slotted the book into her bag. ‘Any further questions?’ She held Charlotte’s gaze for a full three seconds and was pleased to see the woman quail slightly.

  She opened the door. ‘Have a nice weekend,’ she called over her shoulder as she closed it with care behind her. She hoped she hadn’t sounded too sarcastic.

  Mike was standing by her car in the lane. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ She fumbled in her pocket for the keys.

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do. I have enough to cope with trying to sort out your family, Mike, without being accused of trying to seduce you by your girlfriend!’ Her anger had sparked up again at the sight of him. ‘I’ll keep out of your way for a bit. Perhaps that is best anyway, given your suspicions about my motives!’ Pulling open the car door she threw in her laptop and bag and climbed in after them.