The Darkest Hour

‘You coming down to The Dolphin tonight, Tony?’ One of his friends clapped him on the shoulder.

He shook his head. ‘There is someone I want to see.’

There was an appreciative groan across the room. ‘I thought so. The laddie is smitten!’ A voice called from the sofa by the window. ‘Money on the fact that it is our little artist!’

Tony grinned. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘State secret.’

‘You’ll be wanting to buy Esmeralda then.’ Another voice. David Brownlow. From whom he had borrowed the car.

He still hadn’t made up his mind about the little Morris, but suddenly it made sense.

‘A fiver, I think you said?’

‘Six was the deal.’

Tony grimaced. ‘You want my shirt as well?’

‘Go on. You’ve got a rich daddy.’ The banter was good-natured. The men were climbing to their feet. Time to go out to the Flight hut. ‘The lady will love it.’

Tony smiled. ‘The lady loves me!’

Another general groan. ‘Don’t count your chickens,’ David advised gravely. ‘Even you can’t have wooed her so quickly.’ He reached into his pocket for the car key and dangled it in front of Tony’s nose. ‘Let’s see the colour of your money.’

Tony reached into the pocket of his battledress. ‘I trust there is petrol in it?’

It was David’s turn to look shifty. ‘Enough to get you there. Wherever there is!’ He let out a whoop of laughter. ‘I might have to ask you for a lift into Chi tonight, of course. On your way to the little lady’s farm.’

They flew two patrols that morning; the skies were empty. When Tony set off for the farm he was in high good spirits, a bunch of flowers on the seat beside him. Evie hadn’t been down to the airfield that day but it never occurred to him that she wouldn’t be at home either. Rachel was walking across the yard, a jug of milk in her hand when he drove in and drew to a halt by the stable wall.

‘I’m sorry, Tony. She’s not here. She’s gone with her father to Southampton.’ Rachel waved an inquisitive fly away from her jug. ‘She wanted to do some sketching over there and grabbed the chance of the lift.’ She waited, smiling at him, seeing the boy’s face fall. There was nothing for it. Tony had to turn the car and go back to the airfield.

September 1st 1940

Eddie had a letter in his hand. He caught Evie’s wrist and pulled her across to the kitchen table. ‘Sit.’

Taken by surprise, she sat. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve had a letter from Sir Kenneth Clark’s office.’

‘About me?’ Her eyes sparkled.

He nodded. ‘The War Artists Advisory Committee wants to see more of your work. But –’ he raised his hand as she jumped up ecstatically, ‘it has to be the kind of work that they are approving for women artists.’

She sat down again with an angry pout. ‘I am not going to paint women in aprons.’

‘They don’t like the thought of you painting on an airfield, especially one that may be bombed and strafed regularly. It is too close to the action. There are male artists painting the flyboys and that is enough. I explained that you live near the airfield and technically are in just as much danger at home, and that you go to Westhampnett with your brother and are chaperoned and in no danger whatsoever, but –’

‘You said what?’ Now she was blazing with anger. ‘How dare you!’

‘It’s true, Evie. Well, more or less. They all look out for you, you know they do.’ He folded his arms. ‘It’s up to you. I can’t do any more.’ For a moment they glared at each other, then at last she looked away. ‘Don’t they want to see any more pictures of the planes and pilots then?’

He chewed his lip for a moment. ‘I think it’s worth trying again with a new portfolio. We were stupid; we should have got you to sign the pictures with your initials. Then the issue of you being a woman might not have come up at all or not until it was too late and they had accepted you. I think the best chance now is to win them over with your sheer brilliance.’ He grinned at her. ‘So, sweetheart, have you anything new to show me?’ He stood up and wandered over to the dresser where her sketchbook lay. Picking it up he opened it and began to turn the pages. ‘You’ve torn some out.’

‘So?’ She was still fuming.

‘So, you can’t afford to waste paper. Have you anything upstairs in the studio?’ He glanced up at her. ‘Evie, you can‘t afford to slack. If you want to be taken seriously, you have to work.’

‘I have worked!’

‘Show me then.’ He strode towards the staircase.

On the easel was a half-finished painting. Eddie studied it in silence for several seconds.

‘It’s good isn’t it?’ she said, standing behind him.

‘Who is it?’ He stepped closer, examining it more closely. The figure in the RAF battledress was standing in the middle of the airfield, a Spitfire pulled up on the grass in the distance, his helmet and goggles under his arm, the boyish grin and windswept hair immediately engaging and carefree.

‘Tony Anderson. He’s with the squadron at Westhampnett.’ Her mother had told her of his visit, of the wilting flowers on the seat in the car. His wistful remark about his parents had touched her deeply; she hadn’t been able to get it out of her head and almost without intending to do it she had begun the portrait for his mother. She thought back to his kiss and felt a jolt of excitement at the memory. She had hoped he would repeat his visit but there had been no sign of him.

‘It is good, you’re right.’ Eddie moved away from the painting. ‘Excellent, that can go in the portfolio. It’s not an action painting, and it is a good portrait with lots of warmth and enthusiasm. It would appeal to them.’

‘No.’ Evie folded her arms and stood in front of the painting. ‘This one is not for sale.’

‘What do you mean?’ Eddie frowned at her.

‘What I say. It is not for sale and it is not for the portfolio.’

‘Everything you paint is for sale, Evie.’ Eddie’s voice was suddenly harsh. ‘That is our agreement.’

‘That is not our agreement, Eddie. We have no formal agreement.’ She glared at him. ‘This picture is for Tony’s parents. My gift.’

She held his gaze for several seconds and it was Eddie who looked away first. ‘I’m astonished you think you can afford to be so generous,’ he said coldly. ‘Both with your time and the materials. Which I obtained for you, I may add. If you are giving it away then you will have to reimburse me for the paint and canvas.’

Evie’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘I don’t believe I heard you say that,’ she hissed at him. ‘Of all the callous, hardhearted, mean-spirited –’

‘That is enough, Evie,’ he shouted. ‘This is not a game!’

‘No,’ she said, ‘It’s not.’ Her voice was bleak. She turned to walk out of the room.

He sighed. ‘No, come back, Evie. I’m sorry. You are right. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course you can give the picture away. It is just that we can’t afford to squander materials. But you know that.’ He hurried after her and caught her in his arms. ‘Sweetheart. Wait. Don’t be cross. Forgive me.’

She gave him a weak smile. ‘Of course I forgive you. I’ll paint lots more pictures, I promise.’

He followed her downstairs to the kitchen. Rachel had just come in from feeding the hens and she had a bowl of eggs in her hand. ‘Can I give you some, Eddie? I think your mother said you don’t have hens any more.’ She glanced from one to the other. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘It’s fine, Mummy,’ Evie said impatiently. ‘Eddie is just going and I have to get out to my chores.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll see you next week, Eddie.’

‘Next week?’ he echoed. There was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

‘You said you had to go to London first. And as you say, I have to get down to the airfield and make some more sketches. I mustn’t shirk my duties,’ she said coldly. She pushed past him and walked out into the yard.

He glanced at Rachel. ‘She can be a bit touchy, your Evie,’ he said with an uncomfortable laugh. ‘I think I’ve upset her.’

Rachel gave him a cool glance. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Eddie.’ She put three eggs in an old brown paper bag and handed them to him. ‘Give my best wishes to your mother.’

She watched through the window as he walked across the yard to his car and climbed in. As soon as he had gone she threw on her cardigan and went to find her husband in the barn.

The more she saw of Eddie Marston the more she found herself beginning to dislike him. Oh, he was good-looking enough, and had a certain charm but there was something about him which put her teeth on edge. She had known him since he was a child, of course, but this new, confident, older Eddie was beginning to grate on her nerves.

‘Hopefully the honeymoon period is coming to an end,’ she said to Dudley as he straightened his back with a groan. He had been working on the engine of the tractor, the tractor that Ralph had persuaded him to buy. ‘They’ve had a row.’ She put her hand down to the dogs as they milled round her.

‘Do you know what about?’

‘He’s trying to exploit her again. She finally stood up to him. I could hear them shouting at each other upstairs.’

Dudley grimaced. ‘He’s too sharp for his own good, that one. Let’s hope she stays seeing sense. The trouble is he is dangling some tempting ideas in front of her, to say nothing of the money. He’s got the contacts. She thinks he can make her dreams come true.’

They were both silent for a minute and into the silence came the unmistakable drone of distant aircraft engines. They walked to the door of the barn and looked up.

‘They’re ours,’ Dudley said quietly as he shaded his eyes against the glare of the sky. ‘Spits. I wonder if our Rafie is up there with them.’

Saturday 13th July

As they stood up to leave the pub Mike paused thoughtfully. ‘You know, there is one way I can help you sort out the research. Why don’t I ask Dolly to go through the stuff that’s in the studio and weed out all the shoes and hats and handbags and things? I’ll tell her she can keep what she wants and pack up the rest to go to the charity shop. Some of that stuff probably counts as vintage. They would make some money out of it.’

Lucy froze. ‘I suppose that would be all right.’ She swung round to face him. ‘The only thing is, there may be letters and papers in the bags. People often leave that sort of thing – I know my own grandmother did. Dolly might not recognise what is important.’

‘We can tell her not to touch anything that looks like a letter. I’ll make sure she understands that. I’ll ask her to put anything she spots which might be significant into a box file or something and keep it safe until you have had a chance to look at it.’ He led the way across the terrace and back into the bar, heading through it towards the front door. It was dark in there after the sunlight and Lucy found herself squinting to see where she was going, threading her way between tables as she hurried after him. When they were once more outside and heading back down the lane she caught up with him.

‘You know, I think I would rather she didn’t poke around in the studio, Mike.’ She gave an awkward smile as he glanced at her. ‘I think Dolly has a bit of her own agenda as far as Evie is concerned. She is very protective, that’s obvious. If she were to find something important, she might feel that it would be better if she quietly put it somewhere out of my reach.’

He stopped. ‘What makes you think that?’

She sighed. ‘Instinct?’

‘Has she said anything?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘It’s more the way she looks at me; the constant checking up to see what I’m up to.’

He laughed. ‘I’m afraid that is inevitable. Look, supposing I say you can come any day you like, even when she’s not here? I’d rather you avoided the weekends, that’s when Charlotte and I like to get a bit of time on our own, but any other day. I’ll give you a key to the studio. How would that do?’

She felt the relief sweep over her. ‘That would be a great help. Thank you.’

They reached the gate of the cottage and climbed the steps. ‘So, are you going to do some more sorting this afternoon?’ he asked as he opened the front door.

‘I’ll stay for a few hours if that is all right. Then I must get back.’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘It feels as though there is going to be a storm.’ Black clouds were beginning to appear in the west.

‘Well, lock up and keep the key when you go. I have a spare. And feel free to come whenever you like. I have to go out this afternoon, so I’ll leave you to it.’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘Keep me in touch with anything interesting you find, and let me know how you are getting on.’ He paused. ‘Hang on; I’d better give you a key to the cottage as well, in case you need the loo or anything. Then you can make yourself tea if you need to. Just help yourself. I’m sure I don’t need to ask you to make sure you lock everything up carefully after you.’ He went into the hall and opening a drawer in the small oak side table at the foot of the stairs took out a spare set of keys.

She looked up as she took the keys. ‘You are very trusting, Mike. Thank you. I won’t let you down.’

‘I’m sure you won’t.’ He grinned. ‘I pride myself on being a good judge of character.’

‘Unlike Dolly.’

‘Oh, Dolly is shrewd enough in her way.’ He held her gaze for a moment as though reassuring himself about what he had just said, then he turned to the front door. ‘I’ll see you soon, OK?’

For a moment she stood still in the silence of the hall, listening to his footsteps as he ran down towards the gate. Only when she heard it clang shut behind him did she head towards the studio.

The clouds had turned to brazen overcast and it was already beginning to rain when she started to pack up for the afternoon. She tidied the table, picked up her laptop and her notebook – a real paper one which would, she hoped, reassure Dolly – and went over to turn off the lights. It was at the very last minute that she paused and looked back. Had they left it that Dolly would come in to take stuff away which she thought would not be needed? She wasn’t quite sure now. She studied the cardboard box near the table thoughtfully. In the top sat the attaché case with the letter drafts. Surely it was legitimate to take them and scan them into the computer at home. Then she could return them. Mike hadn’t actually told her not to remove anything. He trusted her to make her own judgements.

It took only a couple of minutes to open the case, remove the contents and then put it back, tucked into the bottom of the box.

September 3rd 1940

‘Evie!’ Eddie found her in the cowshed. She had finished evening milking and was tidying up.

She turned towards him with a smile and pulled the scarf off her head with a sigh. There was only one cow in milk now that Daisy was in calf, which eased her load, but even so she was exhausted. From the yard the sound of the generator filled the evening air.

‘I thought you had gone to London,’ she said. She pushed the milking stool into the corner with her foot.

‘I changed my mind. Work to do down here.’ As always he was vague about his duties with the Ministry. ‘My God, I love the way you look in those dungarees!’ He moved towards her and swept her into his arms. ‘Irresistible.’

‘Get off!’ She tried to push him away.

‘Why? You know you enjoy it.’ He caught her hand and pulled her towards the hay store. ‘Come on. What about a little snuggle? I bet you’ve been working all day.’

‘I have, Eddie, and I’m tired.’

‘Just five minutes, eh? I’ve got a present for you in the car. Wait till you see it.’

He pushed the door closed behind them and set to work undoing the straps of the dungarees and pulling them down. ‘Your mum is out. I checked.’ He nuzzled her neck, then her face as he began to unbutton her blouse.

At first she didn’t resist; she enjoyed sex, except the whole silly business with the johnnies, which she hated but insisted on. She might have been an art student, but she was not naïve and she had no intention of getting pregnant. But now, suddenly she did not want Eddie to touch her. She pushed him away. ‘Not now, Eddie!’

‘Oh, go on, you know you want to.’ He had his hand around her wrist and he pulled her against him.

‘No, I do not!’ Suddenly she was angry. She pushed him hard in the chest and surprised, he let her go.

‘Evie!’

‘No, Eddie! I am not in the mood!’

‘What about your present?’

‘You mean I don’t get the present if I don’t make love to you?’ Her voice sank dangerously.

Eddie shook his head. ‘Of course I don’t mean that. Don’t be silly.’ He sounded hurt. He turned away and took a deep breath. ‘I thought you wanted it as much as I did.’

She was rebuttoning her dungarees. ‘Not now.’

He shrugged. ‘All right. Have it your own way.’ Somehow he managed to summon a smile. ‘So come on out to the car and I’ll show you.’

The present was a wooden box of oil paints. She stared at it wide-eyed. ‘Where on earth did you get this? It’s wonderful.’

‘I did a favour for a friend,’ he tapped his nose in the irritating way he had, ‘and he asked me what I would like as a way of saying thank you. I knew he was going up to the Smoke and I asked him if he could lay his hands on some oil paints. I have to say, I didn’t expect something quite so splendid.’ He leaned across and kissed her on the top of her head.

‘Evie! Eddie!’ Her mother’s voice rang out sharply from the kitchen door. They were standing by Eddie’s car and hadn’t noticed that Rachel’s bicycle was leaning against the wall. They jumped apart.

‘Mummy, look at this fantastic box of paints,’ Evie called out. She carried it over towards the house.

‘Wonderful,’ Rachel said. The look she gave Eddie belied the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘Are you staying to supper, Eddie?’

‘Best not. But thanks for the invitation.’ He glanced at Evie. ‘Enjoy the paints. I’ll call in in a day or two and see how you’re getting on with them. Don’t waste them all on the Scots cherub, will you!’

Evie froze at the words and opened her mouth to protest, but he had already turned towards his car.

‘Sounds as though he’s jealous,’ Rachel said tartly.

‘He didn’t like me painting Tony’s portrait to give to his parents.’

‘I bet he didn’t.’ Rachel looked at Evie with narrowed eyes. ‘Judging by the hay in your hair and the fact that your dungarees are not properly fastened, young lady, I suspect Eddie has a more than artistic interest in you. Do be careful, won’t you? I don’t want you bringing disgrace on this family. That would kill your father.’

She turned back into the kitchen so she didn’t see the flood of angry colour in her daughter’s cheeks.

Saturday 13th July, evening

The sky was even darker than before and the thunder clouds were massing overhead as Lucy drove back from Rosebank Cottage towards Chichester. The air smelled metallic and large raindrops began to fall as she turned onto the main road, hitting the windscreen as she drove.

She found a parking space almost outside the gallery and let herself into the house just as the rain began in earnest. Robin had locked up and switched on the display lights in the window, setting the alarm before he left. She picked up the note he had left on the desk. Good day! Oodles of dosh. I’ll drop it into the bank on my way home. Come and have Sunday brunch tomorrow. I’m cooking. Sleep well, darling.

She gave a quiet chuckle as she ran upstairs to the kitchen and she turned on the lights as the first rumble of thunder echoed round the streets outside.

The kitchen was hot and airless with the window closed. She opened it a crack and the room was at once filled with the smell of wet earth and pavements and the sound of the torrential rain cascading off the roof and bouncing on the paving slabs in the little garden below.

She wasn’t sure what made her look at the studio door. It was ajar. Robin must have gone in there during the day. She walked towards it and raised her hand to push it open. At the last minute she hesitated.

Behind her the sound of the rain faded; in front of her, the studio was oppressively silent as she pushed open the door. She peered in, holding her breath. Something was wrong. She felt herself grow cold.

Somehow she forced herself to stand her ground and raised her hand to grope for the light switches to the left of the door. The room was shadowed by the rain clouds outside and the streams of water running down the glass of the skylights. She flipped the switches and flooded the studio with light. Moving to stand in front of the picture on the easel she gasped. Someone had painted out the figure behind Evie. It had gone.

‘No, it can’t be.’ She raised her hand and touched the surface of the canvas with her fingertip. The paint was dry. She found she was breathing in short tight gasps as she stared round the room. The table full of paints and chemicals did not appear to have been touched. The brushes and palette knives and swabs were all neatly stowed and clean and dry. There was nothing there to show anyone had been in there. Robin? Would he have done it? She looked at the painting again. He didn’t have the technical ability never mind the inclination to do something like this.

She turned round helplessly.

The skylights were illuminated suddenly by a brilliant flash of lightning and a loud crash of thunder reverberated round the room, and it was then she saw him. The tall young man she had seen in her bedroom. The blue uniform. The mournful eyes. He was looking directly at her.

‘Ralph?’ she whispered.

Another crash of thunder echoed up from the streets outside, more distant this time. The lights went off for a moment. When they came on again he had gone.

September 4th 1940

Tony arrived at the farm as Evie was coming in from the stables. She stopped and gazed at the little car as the engine stuttered to a halt. For a moment Tony sat without moving, his head bowed with exhaustion, then he looked up and saw her framed in the stable door. His face lit up. He climbed out of the car.

‘Would you like to come out to supper?’ He grinned at her. ‘Please. I shall starve to death unless you do.’

Evie laughed. ‘Why, do you plan on eating me?’

He nodded. ‘If only.’ He gave her a cheeky smile. ‘No, I thought we would go down to the pub. It’s been a gruelling day. We’ve been up for most of it. Jerry is still active now,’ he glanced up, ‘but we’ve not been called so we’ve got a couple of hours.’

As they stood there in the farmyard they could hear the distant thump of explosions over to the west. ‘Portsmouth is taking a beating again tonight,’ Tony commented sadly.

Evie scanned his face, noting how tired he was, how the circles under his eyes shadowed his smile. ‘I’d love to come out with you,’ she said. ‘Wait, I’ll tell my mother I won’t be in for supper.’

They sat opposite each other at a table in the smoky dining room at The Victoria in Bognor.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ Evie said. She sipped her shandy, still studying his face. She ached to pull out her pencil and sketch him.

He smiled. ‘Not much to tell. I am – I was – a law student. Only child. Doting parents.’ He gave a little apologetic shake of the head.

She nodded. She hadn’t mentioned the portrait. It was to be a surprise. She felt unaccountably shy suddenly, as he looked up and held her gaze. He smiled at her.

‘You’re beautiful.’

She laughed. ‘Untidy. Farmer’’s hands. Dreadful clothes sense. I don’t think so.’