The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘And now he will never make friends with Mike,’ Lucy said wistfully.

  ‘No, but you can tell Mike that was his wish. That will help them both.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘I suppose I have to speak to Mike.’

  ‘Of course you do. Ring him today. At once.’

  ‘And that will help George how?’

  ‘It will ease his way. He died suddenly and unprepared. He will have left unfinished business amongst which is his relationship with you and Mike.’

  ‘Oh great! So now he is going to haunt me as well!’

  ‘No. Sorry.’ Maggie ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Ring Mike, Lucy.’

  Mike picked up her call at once. ‘Lucy? Where are you?’

  ‘Staying in Chilverly.’

  ‘Mum rang and told me about George. It’s terrible. Listen, I am at Rosebank Cottage. I have taken a few days off from the office. I can work from here if necessary. Can you come over? We need to talk.’

  Lucy felt a lightening of her spirits. ‘Is Charlotte there?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘No.’

  They met two hours later. As they sat in the living room of the cottage Lucy could hear the quiet roar of an ancient Hoover upstairs, thudding over the carpets on the uneven boards. ‘Dolly’s day?’ She smiled.

  ‘Not usually. She has to go to the dentist again tomorrow. She will be glad to see you. She said she would make us some coffee as soon as you arrived.’ He sat down on the sofa and in the light from the window she saw the strain on his face. ‘I didn’t realise you had gone to see George. I didn’t realise he was well enough to see anyone.’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t,’ she responded sadly. ‘I would hate to think I could have been responsible in any way for his death. He had a bad heart, I gather.’

  ‘But you didn’t upset him, did you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She was indignant. ‘We were going to meet again and he was going to tell me lots of stories about Evie. He was looking forward to going to the opera that evening. He was fine. Cheerful. The only thing that had made him sad was the estrangement from the family, and, Mike, he was so keen to meet you and be friends with you. He seemed so upset about his difficult relationship with your father. He implied it was Johnny’s choice, not his.’ She shook her head. ‘He was going to show me his pictures. He had several that Evie had given him over the years and now I suppose they will go to Christopher.’ She scowled. ‘Sorry. That sounded awful. It must confirm your worst suspicions of me.’

  ‘About that,’ Mike put in. ‘I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot about Christopher and his accusations about your painting –’ He broke off as Dolly came in with a tray. Lucy hadn’t noticed that the sound of vacuuming had stopped. Mike changed the subject swiftly. ‘Dolly, do you remember George living here?’ He pounced on one of Dolly’s homemade biscuits and then as a second thought passed one to Lucy.

  ‘Of course I do.’ Dolly nodded emphatically. ‘He was a bit younger than your father who had gone off to university when they first moved here. He was a nice boy, George. There was a terrible row over him living here, of course. Evie’s husband wanted him to stay with him in London. George ran away from his father’s house and came down on the train by himself. I suppose he was about fifteen, and he hitchhiked here from Chichester. I can still remember Evie hugging him and telling him he didn’t have to go back. His father used to beat him. Mr Edward came after him, of course, but there was nothing he could do.’

  Mike and Lucy looked shocked. ‘He never mentioned that,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t. He was terrified of his father, though. I remember one day when they thought Mr Edward was coming down to take George back to London by force. Evie sent George to stay with some school friends and she nerved herself to have a fight about it, but Mr Edward never came. I’m not sure if he actually threatened to go to court but I think if he did he gave up for some reason. I don’t think it was ever mentioned again. George was a gentle boy, quite sensitive. Artistic like his mother.’ She bit her lip. ‘How very sad that he could have come down here. He loved this house, but when Mr Johnny inherited it, that was that.’

  ‘But he told me that his father left him all his money?’ Lucy queried.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Edward was very rich, according to Evie.’ Dolly seemed to have lost her usual reserve. ‘He never gave her any money to support the two boys. He was a penny-pinching sort of a man.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But he left it all to George. Never a penny piece to Johnny.’

  After Dolly went back to work Mike suggested they go to the pub for a sandwich. ‘Peace offering. Please. Can we start again?’ he said. As they sat in the courtyard at the back of the pub he made his suggestion. ‘There is a spare room at the cottage, you know. You could stay if you wanted to be closer to the studio. It would save you having to drive back and forth. How much do you reckon is still there to look through?’

  She still hadn’t told him about the ghost. All she had said was that Robin had suggested she take a few days off to concentrate on the book. Mike hadn’t asked why she was staying with Huw and Maggie and she wondered suddenly whether his mother had told him what had been going on. She glanced up. He was cutting a wedge of cheese and didn’t notice. He looked tired and there were deep dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘There is a lot more than I first thought,’ she said carefully. ‘I suppose it would save time if I could stay over here occasionally. But what would Charlotte think?’

  She saw his face tighten. ‘There is no reason why she should find out.’

  ‘Obviously I wouldn’t be here next time she came.’

  ‘No.’

  He pushed his chair back abruptly. ‘Would you like another glass of wine?’

  She nodded. Subject changed and off limits. Interesting.

  Tuesday 27th August

  Lucy had found another batch of letters. Evie had obviously had no system whatsoever for filing things at any point in her life. This time they were in an old torn brown foolscap envelope which was labelled Galleries. Excitedly Lucy carried it over to the table and pulled out a wedge, not of gallery details but a stack of personal letters held together with a rusty metal paperclip.

  Hitching the stool closer she sat down and carefully removed the clip.

  December 13th 1940, morning

  Ralph had gulped down his early morning tea as he shaved and dressed. It was as he was leaving the room that he remembered Tony’s letter and the ring. He still hadn’t had a chance to get up to Box Wood Farm. His only day off he had gone into Chichester to meet Sylvie. One of these days he would introduce her to the rest of the family, but not yet. Life at Box Wood was too complicated. He didn’t want to risk upsetting his father, though why a sweet girl like Sylvie would do that he wasn’t sure. Evie was causing enough trouble for now. He hesitated then took the letter and the ring out of his pocket and stuffed them into the drawer of the cabinet beside his bed. His silver St Christopher had become entangled with the ring. For a moment he hesitated, about to put the medal back in his pocket but a voice called him from the corridor and leaving it where it was he hurried out and followed the others down the stairs.

  It was a foggy, windy morning after all the rain and they were instructed to fly out over the Channel to intercept some stray 109s which had been seen approaching under cover of the cloud. It was going to be cold up there. The pilots gathered at flight dispersal and almost at once were sent to their planes.

  ‘Chilly old morning!’ Ralph’s rigger greeted him. ‘Don’t worry. She’s warmed up and ready to go!’

  He climbed into his Spitfire and settled into the seat, closing the cockpit hood and drawing on his gloves as almost at once the flight leader‘s voice crackled over the radio.

  They flew in formation out over the coast above a sea which was suddenly unimaginably blue in a patch of winter sunshine and began to climb.

  ‘Bandits ahead. God! Bloody hundreds of them!’ The voice came again. �
�Go for it, boys, and good luck!’

  Tony pushed the last of his belongings into his bag and set it outside the door to be collected with everyone else’s to be loaded onto the transports, destined for Prestwick. After the days of rumour the squadron had been posted at last and they were setting off that morning. They were due some respite after being in the front line for several months and normally he would have been over the moon with relief and joy to be going home, near enough to his parents to visit them as often as he got the chance. As he glanced at his watch he noticed his log book had fallen down behind the locker. He bent to retrieve it and put it to one side. An important document, not something to leave behind.

  His thoughts went back to Evie. Ralph would by now have had plenty of time to deliver his letter and the ring to Evie but he had heard nothing from her.

  ‘Ready old boy?’ A pilot from B flight ran up the stairs two at a time. ‘They ‘ve copped some more action over at Tangmere this morning. One of the squadrons has lost a couple of planes. Damn bad luck that. Come on. The CO is about to call time on this place! We’re well out of it all.’

  Tony smiled. ‘One more thing I’ve got to do.’ He ran into the office. It was empty. He grabbed the phone and dialled Box Wood Farm. He couldn’t just leave it. Suppose Ralph hadn’t had the chance to speak to Evie? Supposing she was going to ring him but hadn’t had time? She didn’t know he was flying out. He had to give her one more chance. He listened to the ring tone, picturing the phone echoing in the hall at Box Wood. If Evie didn’t answer please let it be Rachel.

  It was Dudley. His message was clear. ‘My daughter never wants to see you again.’ The man sounded as though he was about to explode with fury. ‘How many times does she have to tell you, boy!’

  The phone was slammed down and Tony was left staring at the empty desk in an empty room. Only seconds later someone put their head round the door. ‘We’re off!’

  Standing up slowly Tony turned away from the desk. He could hardly see for sudden unmanly tears. His log book was forgotten.

  Tuesday 27th August

  Dear Rachel, the letter said. It was dated 14th December 1940.

  We were so desperately sorry to hear about Ralph. No words can express the appallingness of your loss at this time. All I can say is that he died for his country and his country will be eternally in his and your debt.

  Lucy read the letter twice. Her eyes were brimming with tears. So this was it. Ralph had died on 13th December and someone had written this letter to his mother. She bit her lip and turned to the next in the pile.

  They were all there. The letter from Ralph’s commanding officer, two from his fellow pilots, several from neighbours, one from a woman called Sylvie who Lucy guessed might have been a girlfriend. She frowned. Had there been a mention of Sylvie in any of the stuff she had found so far? She scrutinised the anguished letter again. ‘My darling Rafie,’ the woman had called him. Rafie. That was Evie’s name for him. Did Evie know her? There had been no mention of her in Evie’s diaries. If Sylvie was Ralph’s girlfriend, how awful to have lost the man she loved before she was even officially a part of the family. Did that explain Evie and Tony’s desperate need to marry so quickly after they had met? Poor Sylvie, whoever she was, seemed to have mourned and wept alone.

  Most of the letters were addressed to Rachel or Rachel and Dudley. There was nothing to convey the desolation of the recipients of the condolences, nothing to echo the faint desperate cry which Lucy had heard echoing through Box Wood Farm on the evening she had spent with Elizabeth. She clipped the letters together and sadly put them back in the envelope, feeling in some strange way that these tragic missives were none of her business, however much in her heart she was inextricably linked to the family in their agony.

  Wednesday 28th August

  Charlotte put down her phone and switched it off. She was frozen with shock. Mike had been telling her about some replanting he was planning to do in the garden in the autumn. They were chatting comfortably, laughing, not making plans exactly, but the implication was there that they would see one another soon, and she could hear him pottering round in the kitchen at Rosebank as he talked, clattering pans, running the tap and she pictured him with his mobile tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he prepared himself some supper; late supper. She had glanced at her watch as they talked. It was after eleven. It was then she had heard a voice in the background, clear, fluting, full of laughter.

  ‘Mike, you’re not really going to make us some supper at this hour? Honestly, a sandwich will be enough –’ And then the voice had stopped abruptly and Charlotte could picture Mike gesturing frantically that he was on the phone. Lucy was there with him. That was why he had decided to stay down in Sussex; that was why he had so easily and casually told her to stay in London. Lucy was there at eleven o’clock at night.

  Charlotte walked over to the fridge and bent to open it, taking out a bottle of wine. She felt numb. Lucy was there, with him, at the cottage. She slopped some wine into a glass and gulped it down. The bitch, the utter bitch. She had set her cap at him from the very first time she had set eyes on him and he was such a fool he hadn’t seen it. He wouldn’t even realise what was happening until it was too late and Lucy had her claws well and truly stuck in. She poured some more wine into the glass, this time filling it to the brim. What to do, that was the question. How to get rid of Lucy bloody Standish? Engage brain. Think.

  She walked towards the window, slopping some wine over her bare feet and stared out into the light-spangled darkness of the London night. This could not be allowed to happen. Mike was the man for her. She had chosen him, decided, planned their future in that house, planned how to get rid of Evie’s stuff, visualised new furniture, even looked up the local schools for their children when they came. Evie. It was all Evie’s fault, always had been. Without her, Lucy would never have come, never had the excuse to inveigle herself into Mike’s life.

  She drained the glass and put it down, unsteadily balancing it on the edge of the bookcase, brushing the tears out of her eyes. Easily sorted. It would all be easily sorted. As soon as it was light she would drive down to Sussex and sort things out. She would make sure that Mike was gone. A phone call would do that, make sure that he was somewhere else and then she would sort things out. She gave a feral smile as she walked back across the room and picked up her phone. She glanced at it. Three missed calls. All from Mike. So he was scared, trying to make it all right, trying to explain. Too late. It was up to her now to sort things out.

  Trailing her fingers along the back of the sofa, she made her way along to her bedroom door and pushed it open. So many of her things were missing now, left at Mike’s London place or left at Rosebank. She had hinted so often that they should move in together properly but always he had resisted, making excuses. And now she knew why. Even before Lucy had barged her way onto the scene he had been keeping his options open. She hadn’t been enough for him. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks again. She threw herself down on her bed and closed her eyes and quietly began to sob.

  Half an hour later she had given up on sleep. She got dressed and put on a jacket. She drank two cups of black coffee and then made her way down to the garage under the building. Climbing into her car she backed out of her parking space and turned into the road. She negotiated the narrow streets with the tightly parked cars on either side without incident, and then set off towards the south. Aware that the cool night air had made her feel slightly dizzy she slid down the window and took deep breaths of the breeze in her face, leaning forward towards the dash to find some music and letting the blast of sound echo behind the car as it steered down the echoing sleeping streets.

  Thursday 29th August, the early hours

  In Brighton Mike lay staring up at the ceiling of the spare room in his mother’s house. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to bail out of Rosebank for the night. It was one in the morning by the time he reached Brighton but it seemed suddenly important that Lucy did not feel in
any way pressured. She had been doubtful about staying at the cottage even when he had shown her to the small spare room. Perhaps sharing a bathroom was too intimate, or even the thought of breakfast together. She had been too tired to drive back to the vicarage, though, that he was sure of. Better to let her find her feet alone. He would be back, he had told her, mid-morning tomorrow. He wasn’t sure if the slightly taken aback expression he had caught on her face after they had finished their coffee at midnight contained an element of disappointment or relief. Whatever her feelings, he couldn’t deal with them now. Not with his guilt and confusion about Charlotte weighing so heavily on his mind. With a sigh he turned over and pulled the sheet up over his head. Within minutes he was asleep and dreaming about one of his mother’s Cordon Bleu breakfasts.

  December 23rd 1940

  The old place had not changed one bit since he had last seen it in July. Tony stared at the front of his parents’ farmhouse with a feeling of indescribable confusion. He had hitched a lift over from Prestwick and was looking forward to his first few days of leave for a long time with relief and longing and misery. He had to tell them that it was all over with Evie. Heaving his kitbag up onto his shoulder he trudged up the drive, noting the bare branches of the trees in their familiar arabesques over the stone slabs on the roof, the ancient lichen whorls showing yellow against the patches of snow and the outline of the distant hills against a sky as white as the ground beneath. The first thing he would have to do was find a car to drive. The sale of his little Morris Cowley back at Westhampnett had been entrusted to his batman, who was fairly sure he could get six pounds for dear old Esmeralda. The buying and selling of cars as pilots failed to return or as their squadrons came and went was something of a local industry at all the airfields. At Prestwick he was already negotiating to buy an old motorbike. That would save him having to cadge lifts, as he had this morning.