The Darkest Hour

The Darkest Hour Barbara Erskine From the Sunday Times bestselling author comes an epic tale of love, passion and heartbreak.In the summer of 1940, eyes are focussed on the skies above the South of England: the Battle for Britain has just begun. But Evie Lucas has eyes for no-one but a dashing young pilot called Tony. Evie has a glittering career as an artist ahead of her but seems only to be fascinated in sketching portraits of him…Seventy years later, recently widowed art historian Lucy is putting the pieces of her life back together, and to do that she needs to uncover the mystery surrounding a painting in her home. As Lucy ties up the loose ends of one lifetime, she stirs up a hornet’s nest of history in another. Suddenly, Lucy finds herself in danger from people past and present who have no intention of letting an untold truth ever surface.Some stories are buried in the darkness forever. Some are just waiting to be told… Copyright (#ulink_1c526756-1ca1-551b-be4f-005fb9c923ec) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014 This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016 Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2014 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Cover images © Hazel McAllister/Alamy (swallow); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images) Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780007513123 Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007513147 Version: 2018-01-30 Dedication (#ulink_589703db-84a6-5715-8ceb-5736203d585a) For my Dad, with love and In memory of my darling Mummy who had her own part in the origins of this story, and who would have loved to join in the adventure of writing it. Contents Cover (#u0de3d871-bb00-59b0-b064-69a7c3204c47) Title Page (#ufde80b37-f3eb-51aa-8493-0d95786c59bd) Copyright (#u29dfbb42-2971-539f-921c-4f92a8fd55ee) Dedication (#uafcc0e28-b2ef-5bd3-b5ab-5ea58054e015) The Family Tree (#u2b20de46-2d8e-587e-b219-981486fe6107) Prologue (#u2084e57c-35b0-56c4-94d6-e515b2f347e6) Chapter 1 (#u56a6d066-2ff9-524a-97b9-2161c8f240fd) Chapter 2 (#u305e1703-3437-59bb-b7d9-1e94ec59dbe1) Chapter 3 (#u0e3e6acd-f03d-55ec-b356-5bc744b7bfba) Chapter 4 (#u96ebd1de-d6b8-5d04-a1c8-d5f93021e276) Chapter 5 (#u014b696e-74fd-5e1c-8730-19e1844248e9) Chapter 6 (#u39ddd407-d4c7-5074-b48d-d1cbc53da3a1) Chapter 7 (#u6198e0cb-bef6-5864-8284-a6d89ab9a173) Chapter 8 (#ub8ce05f3-ce73-5f46-b0ac-922a8b9d8fa2) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Postscript (#litres_trial_promo) A collection of memories from Barbara’s father, Nigel Rose, which inspired the writing of The Darkest Hours (#litres_trial_promo) Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading Sleeper’s Castle (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Barbara Erskine (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#ulink_095c30aa-c0b4-5e36-b271-af49dd866153) March Glancing into the driving mirror Laurence Standish frowned uneasily as he swung the old Citro?n estate off the main road and headed into a side turning which wound down steeply through coppiced woods towards the valley bottom. The sleek black Ford which had been sitting on his tail for the last twenty miles or so had followed him and was drawing closer. He had first noticed the car coming out of Chichester. It was close behind him. Too close, and he was growing increasingly irritated. Perhaps he shouldn’t have turned off the main road. He was lost now, well off the beaten track, threading his way up and down winding lanes, ever mindful of the car still there in his rear view mirror. He was approaching a crossroads now. On impulse he spun the Citro?n’s steering wheel to the left at the last moment without signalling, feeling the suspension sway and adjust as the road climbed steeply again, becoming narrower and more potholed as it crested the rise and plunged once more into the woods. The black car followed him. If anything it had closed the gap between them slightly. He didn’t recognise the car and he couldn’t make out the face of the driver but there was no doubt at all that he was being harassed in an increasingly dangerous fashion. He had no idea why. Was it road rage? Had he offended him by pulling out in front of him or something? He wasn’t aware of doing anything which anyone could take offence at. Did the guy want to rob him? Did he want his car? He doubted it! He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile with the vague idea of calling the police and cursed, remembering that he had thrown it into the battered old briefcase which at this moment lay on the back seat with the surprise birthday present he had picked up for Lucy. A signpost flashed past. He couldn’t see how far it was to the next village, but once there he resolved to pull up outside the first shop he reached and go inside. The car was even closer now and it was flashing its lights. Supposing there was something wrong. For a moment he hesitated, taking his foot off the accelerator and as though sensing his hesitation the driver behind him pulled out to try and overtake. Still flashing its lights the nose of the Ford drew level. The road was narrow and winding and there was a sharp left hand bend ahead. ‘Oh shit!’ Laurence stamped on his brake. The car behind him was trying to force its way past. It swerved towards him and there was a scrape of metal, followed by a louder grinding noise as the wheels of the two vehicles locked. Instinctively Laurence pulled his car towards the left, praying there was room for him to manoeuvre. His Citro?n’s wheels spun on the muddy verge, then gripped and flung the car into the dense hazel brake. Laurence was aware for a fraction of a second of the tangle of splintering branches thrashing against the windscreen, then beyond, a strip of woodland sloping steeply down towards a stream at the bottom of an area of rolling hillside. The Citro?n banked sharply, racing faster down the hill. Laurence was stabbing frantically for the brake. Shocked and disorientated, he fought to hold the steering wheel. The last thing he saw was the huge oak tree heading straight for him. The car reared up momentarily as it struck the oak, then it slid sideways in a cascade of shredded bark and started to roll. At the foot of the slope it hit another tree crushing the bonnet like a concertina as it came at last to a stop. There were several moments of silence as the ruptured fuel lines spilled their contents onto the hot exhaust, then with a roar the car burst into flames. The driver of the Ford had pulled up at the roadside ten yards ahead. He climbed out and ran back, standing by the torn and broken trees, looking down at the burning wreck. That was not supposed to happen. ‘Shit!’ Unknowingly repeating Laurence’s last word he watched in horror as the car exploded, sending a ball of flame and smoke up into the windless air. For a moment he stood completely still, then swiftly he turned away and ran back to the Ford. It was scraped and dented but still drivable. He climbed in. As he drove away from the scene he pulled the black balaclava off over his head and tucked it into the door pocket. Nothing in the car would be recoverable. But no one was going to survive that inferno. Shit. 1 (#ulink_995dfa4e-d099-5bd8-8b91-50860770a3ff) Three months later Lucy Standish was in the kitchen of the small flat above the art gallery in Westgate, Chichester, an open letter in her hand. She had read it twice already, trying in her own mind to make sense of the contents. Re: Your application for a grant to research the life of war artist and portraitist Evelyn Lucas, with a view to producing a biography and definitive history of her career: I am pleased to inform you that your application for a grant from the Women’s Art Fund has been accepted … She had been accepted. She had been given the grant. Lucy put down the letter and walked across to the window. The gallery was part of a terrace of narrow period houses, each one different, some two storey, some three. Hers was three, with a small attic floor under a roof of ancient tiles. From the kitchen, on the first floor, she could look down at the pocket handkerchief back garden she and Laurence had created together from the builders’ rubble which had filled the small yard when they first took over the gallery four years before. The short paved path was lined with flowers now, the small lilac tree they had planted had blossomed. There were butterflies everywhere; she could see them hanging from her pots of lavender and from the clinging roses on the fence. It was months since she had applied for the grant. She and Laurence had discussed the project endlessly, wondering how she could take time out from the gallery to research a book. It was their part-time assistant, Robin, who had suggested applying for some sort of bursary; Robin who had turned up the obscure organisation which had now come up trumps. Robin who had made it all seem possible. Then, before Larry died. Now it was too late. She glanced round. On one side of the first-floor kitchen was their living room, and on the far side behind a closed door was the studio where Laurence had worked. It was somewhere she could hardly bear to go, even now. It was in there they had discussed Evelyn Lucas with so much excitement when they had realised that for all her fame there were no books about her, very little research, hardly any information at all; it was there they stood together in front of Evelyn’s self-portrait and it was there, in front of the painting, that Laurence had bent to take Lucy in his arms and kiss her hard on the mouth before running down the stairs and going out to the car. It was the last time she had seen him. Taking a deep breath she walked across to the studio door and opened it. The portrait of Evelyn still stood on the easel where it had been on the day Laurence died. He had been about to start restoring it when he had had the notion, he hadn’t told her why, that he would like a second opinion on its authenticity. He had contacted Professor David Solomon at the Royal Academy and arranged to take the picture up to London on that fateful day at the end of March. Two hours before he was due to leave the professor’s secretary had phoned to say David Solomon had flu and they had postponed the meeting. So why had he gone out anyway? She remembered his smile, his mysterious wink as he tapped his nose, his last words ‘I won’t be long’. He hadn’t taken the painting with him after all, and obviously he wasn’t going to meet David Solomon, so where was he going? The question had circled endlessly round in her head. For a while she had wondered if he had gone to buy her birthday present. That might have explained the wink. But that would have meant he had died on a trip to do something for her and she couldn’t live with that thought. Her birthday had come and gone only days after the crash and she had tried to put the idea out of her head. She would never know now. The professor had written to her several weeks later with his condolences and had suggested that one day, when she was ready, perhaps he could come down and view the portrait here at the gallery. She had not replied, though she suspected Robin had. Dear Robin. She must start taking control of her life again. It had to go on. And she had to face the fact that almost certainly she could no longer afford him; probably no longer afford to go on running the gallery even with the bursary to back up her income. Glancing into the mirror on the wall by the door she sighed. She had lost a lot of weight over the last three months. Her face, always thin with high angular cheekbones, was positively haggard, her dark eyes enormous in contrast to her pale skin. She had raked her long straight dark brown hair back into an unflattering ponytail which Larry would have hated. The studio was in darkness, the blinds pulled down over the north-facing skylight windows. The room ran the full depth of the house front to back and the front windows looked out over the street below. She pulled the blinds up allowing the clear north light to flood in at the back, and resolutely she faced the easel. Evelyn Lucas, if it was indeed her, had painted herself sitting perched on a farm gate. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, and dressed in fawn jodhpurs with a blue sweater knotted round her shoulders over a blue and white gingham shirt, her honey-blond hair loose and wild in the wind. She had dark blue eyes which looked straight out of the portrait, eyes which were engaging, challenging even, daring the viewer to do, what? At the corner of the painting, a patch of sky with torn grey clouds and fragments of blue behind her shoulder, there was a clean area where Laurence had started to remove some of the grime which covered the surface. Lucy moved closer and stared at the corner. There had to be something there he had spotted which had caught his attention and made him doubt the picture’s provenance. But what? ‘You OK?’ Robin’s voice behind her made her jump. He was standing in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him let himself into the gallery below. She nodded. ‘Do you know what it was Larry saw here which made him think it wasn’t an Evelyn Lucas after all?’ Robin came to stand beside her. ‘No idea.’ They gazed at the painting in silence for several seconds. That it was of Evelyn had been almost beyond doubt. There were photos of her on the record and she certainly looked extraordinarily like them. Lawrence had picked up the painting at an auction only a few weeks before his death. It had been catalogued as ‘Portrait of Unknown Woman’, but when he brought it home in triumph he told Lucy that he suspected that it might be a missing Lucas from the early 1940s. It was being sold by the executors of an old lady who had died without close heirs and its past was, as far as he knew, a mystery. In Larry speak, he took a punt and bought it for a song. Robin folded his arms and squinted at it. ‘Whoever painted it, I think it’s lovely.’ She smiled. ‘So do I.’ Robin glanced at her. ‘Sure you’re OK?’ ‘Why go out if the professor has cancelled?’ she had begged. She hated it when he went away on his own. But he had insisted he had to go out. And he had refused to let her go with him. When the police knocked on the door a few hours after he had left she didn’t believe them. What was he doing on a remote lane on the way to Petersfield? Why had he turned off the main road? Where had he been going? They never found out exactly what had happened. He had skidded, that much was clear from the tyre tracks, and there was evidence that another car had been in collision with his, but the fire damage had been too great to discover much more. He had probably been killed by the impact with the first tree. No other vehicle had shown up on the database with damage which would correlate to the paint marks which had survived. It was black, and probably a Ford. How many black Fords were there in the south of England? Lucy did not care. No amount of forensic evidence would bring Larry back, her perfect, adored, talented husband. She turned away from the painting and looked at Robin. Short, plump, slightly balding and with the biggest and best smile of anyone she had ever known, Robin Cassell had been her mainstay and her rock for the last three months. When Larry was alive he had come in to run the gallery two or three mornings a week to allow them some time in the studio and the freedom to go to auctions and on buying trips around the country. When the gallery reopened three weeks after Larry’s funeral it had been at Robin’s suggestion, and he had started coming in every day. ‘Just until you are back on your feet,’ he had said, giving her a hug. Guessing at her cash flow problem – neither her parents, nor Larry’s were in a position to help her financially – and knowing Larry had made no will, he had refused to let her pay him. But that situation could not go on. However much he wanted to help her she could not let him continue to work for nothing. He didn’t need the money; he was, as he mockingly put it, a trust fund kid, which meant he had inherited a large house from his parents which had been sold for development. Besides that, he worked on and off with his life partner, Phil, who ran a bookshop in the centre of town, but even so, her conscience had been beginning to worry her. Until now. ‘I’ve got the grant, Robin,’ she said quietly. She turned back to the picture. ‘I had the letter this morning. What am I going to do?’ ‘You are going to write the book, ducky.’ Robin smiled. ‘You owe that to Lol. And to our Evelyn here.’ ‘I don’t know that I can. Not without him.’ She blinked back the sudden tears so close all the time, so near the surface. ‘You can. And you will. And it will be up to you to prove if this is a painting of her, by her, or not.’ ‘Professor Solomon would tell us that.’ ‘Maybe.’ Robin stood back, still staring at the picture. ‘Maybe not.’ ‘Did you tell him not to come, Robin?’ ‘I said we would be in touch when we were ready.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘So, it’s up to you, Luce. Take the money and start researching. Leave the gallery to me, at least for a while. You know I love looking after it.’ Robin turned away and walked back into the kitchen. ‘Did you have any breakfast this morning?’ he called over his shoulder. She followed him through and closed the door on the studio. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’ ‘Well I am, so I am going to make us some toast with lashings of marmalade and some coffee and then you are going to start planning how you are going to approach your research. OK?’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Maybe,’ she echoed. ‘No maybe about it. You’ve got to start living again and this will gently lead you out into the world. You know Uncle Robin is right.’ She walked over and picked the letter up from the worktop where she had dropped it earlier. She read it through again and then she looked up at him. ‘I’ll think about it, OK?’ The evenings were the worst. When the sign on the gallery door had been turned over to read ‘Closed’ and Robin had gone home to Phil, and she was alone in the flat. At first there had been people around. Her family, friends, Larry’s family, they had all been there for her, but slowly their visits had become fewer and further between. Neither she nor Larry had brothers or sisters; her parents and Larry’s lived miles away and in some ways she had been glad of that. She needed time to be alone, to think and to grieve. Tonight was different. She waved Robin out of the door and locked up behind him then she climbed the stairs back to the flat and went straight into the studio. She stood for a long time staring at the picture, taking in the detail of the composition, the position of the young woman, just a girl, really, in the landscape, the detail of the countryside around her, then of Evelyn herself, if it was Evelyn, her clothes, her eyes and hair, her expression. It was strange. The more one looked at it, the more hostile that expression seemed to become. She was good-looking – beautiful even, but there was a rawness about her, a violence in the brushstrokes which was unsettling. Robin was right. The painting contained a mystery of some sort. And surely it was a mystery Larry would want her to solve. She shivered. Were it not for the fact that the professor in London had cancelled the meeting the painting would have been in the car with Larry. It would have been destroyed. Perhaps providence had saved it for a reason. She moved over to the table and switched on the lamp. No doubt Larry had thousands of digital photos of the painting on line, but he had also made several prints, much enlarged, pinned to a board on the wall. She stared at the close-ups of the paint textures, then she turned back to the painting. Scrabbling round in the tray on the table beside the easel she picked up Larry’s magnifying glass. Ignoring the sudden pain which swept over her as she took it in her hand and realised that he had been the last person to touch it, she held it up to the area of the picture which he had started to clean and scrutinised the paint. She could see nothing special. Just sky and clouds. Shaking her head she put down the magnifying glass and surveyed the selection of bottles of liquids and gels on his tray. Conservation liquids, solvents, acetone, turps, they were all there. Hesitantly she picked up one of the bottles of cleaning emulsion. Pulling up the high stool on which Larry perched when he was working at the easel, and reaching for a cotton bud, she dipped it into the fluid and gently stroked the edge of the clean patch where Larry had made his first tentative efforts. The cotton came away covered in dirt. And paint. She frowned. Paint? She felt a moment of panic. If this was an Evelyn Lucas it was potentially very valuable. Perhaps valuable enough to solve her money problems forever should she ever sell it. She must not damage it. She looked at the picture again and then she saw it, so obvious when you looked closely. A section of the sky had been over-painted. It had been done skilfully, but obviously at some point after the original paint had dried. She moved closer and worked on another small section, her tongue protruding slightly between her teeth, removing the newer paint, acutely aware that Larry would be furious with her; that working on the painting was something for a trained expert like him, not for a rank amateur, but she couldn’t stop. The over-painting was resinous and smooth. It was coming off relatively easily leaving the texture beneath it untouched. Suddenly she caught her breath in excitement. Something was emerging from the clouds. Behind Evelyn, if it was Evelyn, on the far side of the gate on which she was perched, there was another figure, a figure which had been completely obliterated, a figure in the uniform of the Royal Air Force, a young man with fair hair and bright blue eyes. Lucy let out a whistle. ‘So, Evelyn. You had an admirer.’ She put down her swabs and the bottle and sat back, staring at the canvas. ‘And you didn’t want anyone to know about him.’ She had been sitting there working for two hours and she was stiff when at last she screwed the lids back on the bottles on the work table and stood up, pushing back the stool. The silence of the room had become oppressive and for the first time that evening she became aware once more of how empty the place was. The daylight had faded and beyond the circle of the spotlights the room was growing shadowy. Somewhere outside she heard a small aircraft flying low over the rooftops. The deep throb of its engine grew louder. She glanced towards the window, then back at the easel. In the painting the figure of the young airman was clear now, standing behind Evelyn, his hand on her shoulder, his eyes gazing past her out of the picture. Who were they looking at? Not someone they welcomed, surely. Both looked angry and defensive. Only the touch of his fingers on her sweater was gentle. Lucy could sense the reassurance there. And the love. By next morning her excitement had returned and she showed the painting to Robin. ‘That is extraordinary,’ he said. ‘We had no idea he was there. Do you think Lol had spotted him? Do you know if he had the painting X-rayed?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I think that must be what he was going to discuss with Professor Solomon. He took lots of photos, some in close-up. He must have sensed something because there was no sign of it. None at all. I looked with the magnifying glass. It was only when I began to clean it that I spotted something underneath.’ She turned to face him and for the first time in ages he saw the spark of excitement in her eyes. ‘I’ve made my mind up, Robin. I’m going to try and find out more. I owe it to Larry, you’re right, and I owe it to Evelyn as well. I want to know who this young man was and why he was painted out.’ 2 (#ulink_756841ba-a56a-5b45-b53a-4b2ed9efd9ab) Friday 28th June The cottage where Evelyn Lucas had spent the last years of her life stood on a bank above a narrow lane. The hedges were thick and verdant, hazel and dogwoods threaded through with honeysuckle and wild roses. Lucy stood for a moment looking up at the front of the cottage. It was like a painting by Helen Allingham. The ancient peg-tiled roof was furred with moss and lichen above flint walls and windows with small diamond-shaped leaded panes; the wooden porch was covered with clematis. Pushing open the gate Lucy climbed the steps to the front door and reached for the bell pull. She heard a chime somewhere deep in the house. Carrying on her shoulder a bag containing a notebook, a camera, and a small digital audio recorder, she had left her car in a lay-by just outside the village and walked down the lane, timing her arrival perfectly for four o’clock. It had taken quite a bit of detective work to find the location of the cottage and even more to trace a contact number but she had in the end managed to speak to Evelyn’s former housekeeper. The cottage was to her delight still owned by a member of the family. As she stood waiting for a response a thrush burst into song somewhere in the garden behind a lavender hedge to her right. To the left a sloping lawn led up towards a hedge of myrtle behind which she saw the roof of the building she was pretty certain must be the studio. Beyond the studio the Downs sloped up towards the intense blue of the sky. She could see the swallows darting and swooping over the fields. At last she heard footsteps approaching. As the door opened she found herself momentarily thrown by the appearance not of the elderly woman she had been expecting, but of a tall man in his mid-thirties. His hair was a dark blond, severely brushed back from a deep forehead, his eyes a clear dusky blue, full of suspicion now, though they betrayed laughter lines at the outer corners. Most unexpectedly of all, given the rural location, he was formally dressed in a dark blue suit and a tie. ‘I’m sorry.’ She took a step back. ‘Have I come to the wrong address? I was looking for Evelyn Lucas’s cottage.’ She knew it was the right address and now she guessed who this was. ‘No, this is the right place.’ He waited. ‘How can I help you?’ His tone was not encouraging. ‘I spoke to a lady. Mrs Davis? She was expecting me.’ ‘Ah.’ He gave her an austere smile. ‘My housekeeper. She has gone home I’m afraid.’ Lucy could feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment beginning to drown her excitement. It had taken a lot of persuasion to get Mrs Davis to agree to let her come over and see the house. ‘We are not open to the public, you know,’ she had said down the phone, her soft Sussex accent gentle but nevertheless determined. ‘The owner, he doesn’t like people coming any more. I’m sorry.’ Sensing it was not the moment to talk about detailed research or the production of a book Lucy had merely described herself as an art student, deeply involved in studying Evelyn’s work. ‘I would so love to see where she painted,’ she had said. ‘I am sorry. I had understood you allowed people access to her studio.’ On the phone her conversation with Mrs Davis had ground to a halt at that point. And there had been a few moments silence. ‘That was before Mr Michael moved in,’ Dolly Davis had said at last. ‘He doesn’t want people poking around here. This is his home now, you see.’ ‘Mr Michael?’ Lucy had felt at a sudden disadvantage. Should she know who he was? Mrs Davis had provided the information without the need of further questioning. ‘He is Evie Lucas’s grandson. He inherited the cottage when his father died. Before that they did allow study groups here from time to time, you’re right, but Mr Michael, he likes his privacy.’ ‘But surely, this is a place of national importance. He can’t just refuse to let people see it,’ Lucy said, with some indignation, perhaps betraying more vehemence than she realised. They had talked for several minutes before at last Mrs Davis had agreed to allow her to visit the studio the following Friday afternoon. ‘Only a quick peep, you understand,’ she had said as they hung up. ‘I wouldn’t want Mr Michael to be upset.’ Mr Michael, it appeared, was only using the place at weekends. He lived and worked in London and should have returned there, but now here he was standing in front of her and he showed every sign of being if not upset then at least angry and intransigent. She became aware suddenly that he was waiting for her to say something. This might be her last chance. On the other hand, she didn’t want to antagonise him, or to get Mrs Davis into trouble. Playing for time she held out her hand. ‘How do you do. I am Lucy Standish.’ Taken aback he hesitated for a moment before he took her hand and shook it. ‘Michael Marston,’ he said gravely. He had a strong handshake; he did not smile. Again he waited. She found herself suddenly wishing she had taken more care with her appearance before leaving home. Her hair was scraped back as usual, held in an unsophisticated ponytail by a rubber band, she was wearing no make-up and she was dressed in a shirt and jeans. She gave a small audible sigh. ‘OK, I give up. I am so sorry. I don’t want to get your housekeeper into trouble. It’s all my fault. I somehow managed to persuade her to let me have a quick look at Evelyn’s, that is, your grandmother’s, studio. I have been studying her work and it would mean so much to me. She, that is your housekeeper, explained that it is no longer open to the public and I can quite understand that. I am truly sorry.’ She was rattling on and she knew it. Shaking her head she turned away. ‘I am sorry. I will go. Of course, I will go. Please don’t be angry with her. She is so proud of Evelyn and she understood how I felt. I didn’t mean to intrude.’ ‘Stop!’ Michael Marston had folded his arms during her anguished soliloquy. He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you ever let anyone else get a word in edgeways? No wonder you talked your way under Dolly’s guard.’ Lucy bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’ He was making her feel like a small child. ‘Stop apologising.’ He smiled at last. It lit his face but it also betrayed how exhausted he looked. ‘I am sure that just this once I could make an exception and allow you to come in as you’ve come all this way. I wasn’t expecting I would be here this afternoon, and obviously neither was Dolly. No wonder she was so reluctant to leave me here and take the time off.’ He stood back and beckoned her to follow him into the shadowy hallway. ‘Please follow me. What did you say your name was?’ Repeating her name, Lucy followed him into a long low living room. With windows back and front open onto the garden the whole place smelled of newly cut grass and roses. She stared round in delight. ‘This is lovely.’ ‘Indeed. She adored this place. She could never be persuaded to move once she found Rosebank Cottage.’ ‘She painted this room, didn’t she? As a backdrop to some of her best portraits.’ He nodded. ‘And got slated by the critics for it. Too chocolate box like some of her wartime pictures, but as you probably know, that wasn’t really her style.’ He made his way between an easy chair and a sofa, placed on either side of an open fireplace, heading towards the French doors which led out into the back garden. Lucy glanced at the hearth. It was empty now save for an arrangement of dried flowers. He led the way outside and up some narrow mossy steps into the upper garden and towards the building which Lucy had already guessed was the studio. Built of timber framing, infilled with dark red brick, it was single storey but with a high-pitched roof, tiled like the house but with skylights on the north-facing pitch to add to the light from the large windows. The walls were curtained with wisteria and roses. Groping in his pocket Michael Marston produced a key-ring and inserted one of the keys into the door. He moved aside and waved her in ahead of him. She stepped over the threshold with bated breath instantly forgetting him as she took in the large high-ceilinged room in which she found herself. Though Evelyn had been dead for many years it was as if she had just walked out for a few minutes. Her brushes and palette knives were lying on the table near her easel with a selection of squeezed tubes of oil paint. As Lucy took a step or two closer she saw that they were dried up and split, but she could still smell the linseed oil, the turpentine. She squinted at the painting on the easel and realised with sudden disappointment that it was a print of one of Evelyn’s best-known works, the one which currently hung in Tate Britain. Slowly she began to walk round the room. On the large paint-stained wooden table several sketchbooks lay open. She went closer to look. Two of the walls were lined with shelves still laden with tins and boxes and rolls of paper. Several canvasses were stacked against one wall and more paintings hung on the other walls. ‘None of them are originals, I’m afraid.’ Michael Marston’s voice came from the doorway. She had actually forgotten he was there. She turned towards him. ‘It is wonderful. It still retains so much atmosphere. As if she had just this minute left.’ He gave a faint smile. He had loosened his tie, she noticed, and undone the top button of his shirt. It made him look marginally more relaxed. ‘She was like that. She had a powerful personality.’ ‘Do you remember her?’ He nodded. ‘Very well!’ ‘You must miss her.’ ‘It would be strange if I didn’t. She was my grandmother.’ He folded his arms. ‘If you’ve seen enough –’ He was clearly impatient for her to go. She felt a pang of dismay. Not already. She hadn’t seen nearly enough. She gave him a faint smile. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.’ She paused for a moment, wondering if she dare ask if she could take some photos or even if she could come again. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she hesitated again. ‘I don’t suppose I could come back some other time when it is more convenient?’ He was heading for the door. She had a fraction of a second to make up her mind, to tell him now honestly why she was there. She had to tell him something if she wanted his co-operation but was now, when he was tired and impatient, the time to speak to him? He had turned back and was watching her, she realised, a spark of interest in his gaze for the first time. ‘Could I explain why I’m here?’ she said at last. ‘There is a specific reason for my interest. I know you want me out of your hair. It will only take a minute, I promise.’ She hoped she didn’t sound as though she was wheedling. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms still folded. ‘Go on.’ ‘I am an art historian by training. I am particularly interested in women war artists. People like Dame Laura Knight, Dorothy Coke, Mary Kessell and, of course, Evelyn Lucas. She was special because she came from Sussex and she was here during the Battle of Britain, and of course most if not all of the artists who painted the action were men; I’m compiling a catalogue of her work and I would love to find out more about her. I want to write a book about her.’ She fell silent, watching his face. ‘You’re working on your PhD?’ He sounded faintly patronising. She smiled. ‘I have my PhD.’ She felt an altogether unworthy flicker of triumph as he acknowledged his mistake with a slight nod of the head. ‘This is a project for a full-length biography,’ she added. He said nothing for a while, frowning, then, ‘My grandmother was a very private person. She didn’t want people poking into her personal affairs.’ ‘I can understand that.’ Lucy dropped her bag at her feet and perched on the edge of the table. She leaned forward slightly, unaware that the open-necked shirt with its rolled-up sleeves was alluring in its own understated way, as was the eagerness in her expression. ‘But would she mind now? After all, your father opened this place to the public. He can’t have thought she would object all that much or he wouldn’t have done that, would he?’ ‘True.’ He shifted slightly. ‘I took the decision to close it because I valued my privacy. I’m more like her than my father was. Besides, he never lived here full time. That was why she left it to me. He kept an eye on it, and, yes, allowed people here, but after he died I decided to use it as a weekend cottage. I didn’t want strangers here any more.’ ‘I wouldn’t get in your way.’ He was watching her. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Are you a painter yourself?’ he asked eventually. She shook her head. ‘I’m a writer. A historian. My husband and I run, ran, an art gallery in Chichester.’ ‘Ran?’ He had noticed the change of tense. ‘I suppose I still do. He was killed in a car crash three months ago.’ She was surprised to find she could say it without faltering. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pushed himself away from the door and seizing his tie, pulled it off. ‘So you haven’t come a long way after all.’ ‘I didn’t actually say I had,’ she remonstrated gently. He gave a wry smile. ‘No, you didn’t. Sorry. You had better come inside the house.’ He was coiling the tie round his fist. Turning, he led the way out into the garden. Picking up her bag she followed him and waited while he locked the door behind them. As they retraced their steps into the cottage and through the living room Lucy smiled at him uncomfortably. ‘I am really sorry to have intruded on your afternoon off. I was going to write to you once I had spoken to Mrs Davis and seen the studio.’ He dumped the tie on the bookshelf. The room had a homely, old-fashioned feel; at a guess, there was no woman in his life apart from the doubty Mrs Davis. ‘And you were hoping, presumably, that I will have lots of information about Evie to fill out your project for you.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m not asking you to write it for me, but obviously I would be very grateful for any pointers. As I said, apart from old exhibition catalogues there doesn’t seem to be much out there. Even the Tate doesn’t appear to know anything beyond her dates.’ ‘Perhaps it is a pointless exercise. Perhaps there is nothing.’ ‘There has to be something.’ She heard a hint of desperation in her own voice. Its intensity surprised her. ‘Her paintings must have a history behind them. The Battle of Britain series is iconic. The pictures of the airfield at Westhampnett, the Spitfires. Not really a woman’s subject.’ ‘Ah well, that’s easily explained. Her brother, Ralph,’ he pronounced it Rafe, ‘my great-uncle, was a fighter pilot in a Spitfire squadron.’ ‘I see. I didn’t know even that.’ Lucy felt a wave of disappointment. It was likely then, that the young man in the portrait was Evelyn’s brother. Somehow, already in her own mind, he was her lover, a source of mystery and romance, just as in her own mind there was now no real doubt as to the picture’s provenance. Evelyn’s story had caught her imagination in a way it had failed to before. At the beginning it had been of more academic interest, now, since she had seen the young man with his hand on her shoulder, and since seeing her studio and her home, Evelyn had become real to her. She still hadn’t mentioned the portrait to Michael, she realised. The fact that she owned a possible Lucas original was crucial; it had been the reason behind the decision to research Evelyn’s life, to find out where the picture fitted into her oeuvre, to date it and, since she had uncovered him, to identify the young man with his hand so affectionately on her shoulder. ‘Did she live here during the war?’ Lucy sat down uninvited on the arm of the sofa by the window. She felt more comfortable with her host now, more relaxed. His initial suspicion of her seemed to have lessened. He shook his head. ‘She still lived at home with her parents during the war. Her father was a farmer over near Goodwood. She inherited the farm after they died, then she sold up and bought this place. I can give you the address of the farm if you like, then you can go and pester them.’ His smile compensated slightly for the harshness of the words. He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation of dismay. ‘I’m sorry. I do have to get on. I’m expecting someone. If you would like to give me your address and contact details I will get in touch with some suggestions about where you could start your research if I think of anything.’ ‘So, you don’t mind my doing it?’ She was disappointed at the sudden change of mood after he had seemed to be mellowing towards her, but at the same time elated that he appeared to be agreeing to help her with the project. She reached into her bag to find the gallery’s card. ‘You’ll find my e-mail and phone number there.’ ‘And you are?’ He was examining the card. ‘Lucy Standish. I told you.’ Twice to be precise. He grinned, acknowledging the slight tetchiness of her tone. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t take it in.’ And then she was outside and he had shut the door behind her. Walking slowly back up the lane she noticed a car parked in the lay-by behind her own. A woman climbed out, locked it and turned towards her. They approached one another, exchanged the rather awkward smiles of strangers in a situation where they cannot avoid acknowledging each other, and passed. The woman was tall, slim and elegant in a pale silk shift dress. There was a large designer tote on her arm. Her car, Lucy couldn’t help noticing as she pulled out her car keys was a BMW Z4. She couldn’t resist a glance behind her. The woman was climbing the steps to Rosebank Cottage. So there was someone in his life after all. 3 (#ulink_0895aa84-854b-5efa-98c1-e480e87e8d81) August 6th 1940 ‘Evie?’ Ralph found his sister in the dairy. At twenty-one, he was two years older than Evelyn and had always enjoyed his role as her big brother. ‘I’ve asked my station commander and he says he can fix it for you to go and sketch over at Westhampnett. I know it’s not Tangmere as you asked, but it’s a satellite field and only a couple of miles away. He reckons if you come to Tangmere people might ask why a squit of a girl like you was there. There are too many big brass there with it being the local sector control. He suggested that Westhampnett might be less conspicuous and a bit safer as a place to draw. There is a Hurricane squadron based there.’ ‘I don’t want a safer place, Rafie!’ She glared at him. ‘I’m only obeying orders!’ He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I know.’ She swallowed her indignation and dropping the empty bucket she was holding threw her arms round his neck. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you for arranging it!’ ‘Get off!’ He pushed her away good-naturedly. ‘You smell of cow. Don’t say anything to Dad. I’m not sure he would approve and I know he will worry. You’ll have to find an excuse to leave the farm for the afternoon.’ ‘That will be easy.’ She was glowing with excitement, her golden-blond hair mostly hidden by the scarf knotted round her head. ‘I’ll think of something. There are loads of things I need to collect in Chichester. I can do that first to justify using the petrol. It will give me an excuse to be out for a bit. Once I know where to go I can bike over there.’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘How’s it going? We see the enemy planes, watch the fights. There are so many of them, Rafie. I can’t bear to think of you up there. Dad was listening to the wireless last night –’ ‘I’ve got a few hours off, Evie.’ Ralph spoke sharply. ‘Leave it. I don’t need the official commentary.’ ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. She could see the exhaustion in his face now she looked more closely, the strain in his eyes. As always when she felt a strong emotion she found her fingers itching to pick up a pencil; it had always been her way of dealing with things, even when she was a small child. Sternly she pushed the longing aside. ‘I’ve finished here. I’ll go and wash. Come into the kitchen and we’ll see where Mum is.’ She stacked the dropped bucket by the door and headed out into the yard. Tearing off her scarf she shook out her hair in the sunshine. ‘I’ve had a letter from an art student friend, Sarah Besant,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘They are talking about evacuating the Royal College of Art for the duration. They are tired of having their windows blown out! She thinks they are going to go up to the Lake District.’ Ralph gave a sharp laugh. ‘That will shake up the locals a bit, won’t it?’ ‘Students and locals, both.’ Evie smiled. He glanced at her fondly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back and finish the course? I had thought it meant everything to you, getting into the RCA.’ She folded her arms. ‘I’m needed here. I can always go back after the war.’ He sighed. She was needed on the farm because he wasn’t there. It was that simple. But he couldn’t be in two places at once. He was no longer a farmer, he was a pilot now, first and foremost. His father had resumed the running of the farm and he needed Evie to help him. Even so, Ralph couldn’t bear to think of her stuck here when she could be back in the college, studying the painting she loved so much. ‘Mum and Dad would feel much better if you were out of it all. If they are going to evacuate the college it would be so much safer,’ he persisted. ‘No, Rafie. You are not going to change my mind. It wouldn’t feel right, leaving Daddy running the farm alone. I can paint as well as helping him. I’ll find a way.’ She glanced up. He followed her gaze and for a moment neither spoke. Small white summer clouds dotted the clear blue of the empty sky. Ralph had joined up in 1938, much to his father’s disgust. His only son had turned down the opportunity to go to university after he took his Highers and had instead immersed himself in the farm, but suddenly he was turning his back on his destiny for the sake of a bit of excitement in the RAF. Father and son had not always seen eye to eye – Dudley preferred the old ways on the farm – if it was good enough for your grandfather it is good enough for us – and Ralph wanted to study new theories and import new machinery and so, yet again, they were at loggerheads. Then war was declared and Dudley’s view changed overnight. Suddenly he was proud of his son and silently he took back the reins of the farm after clapping Ralph on the back. It was all Ralph needed to know his father supported him. The two men had called a truce. ‘I need to get back,’ he said suddenly. He bent and kissed his sister on the top of her head. ‘Don’t worry the parents. I’ll see them tomorrow, God willing.’ He grinned. They had both had the same thought. A beautiful peaceful afternoon. It was too good to last. It was only a question of time before the distant drone of engines heralded the next wave of enemy aircraft appearing from the south. 28th June, late afternoon Michael Marston was in a thoughtful mood when Charlotte Ponsonby arrived at Rosebank Cottage. Her sudden phone call the night before, when she found she had two unexpected days off, and his spontaneous agreement to stay at Rosebank so they could spend them together was the reason he had thrown Dolly and therefore Lucy into disarray. After their initial hug Charlotte followed him through the house and out into the garden. ‘So, are you going to tell me who your visitor was?’ He roused himself from his reverie. ‘Who?’ ‘The woman I saw leaving here not ten minutes ago.’ ‘Oh, her.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, her. Who was she, Mike?’ She herself was as far as she knew Mike’s only girlfriend, his official partner to dates and parties, included automatically by his friends in conversation and future plans, but still she felt insecure; there was a reserve on Mike’s side which she couldn’t quite work out. Was it his natural way with women or was it just her? Was he as yet undecided? Had he in his own mind still to make a commitment? His next question did not reassure her. ‘Why so interested?’ ‘Because I am.’ ‘Jealous?’ ‘No! Of course not. Hardly.’ She gave a little snort as she tossed her head. Her hair swung in a glossy curtain round her face and for a moment hid her expression. She had narrow intense eyes and sharp features which were undeniably beautiful in their bone structure but her face held a certain hardness of which she was acutely conscious. It made her smile too much. ‘Actually, she is quite attractive, if you like that sort of thing.’ Mike grinned as he lowered himself onto the rustic seat on the lawn and held out his hand to pull her down beside him. ‘She is an interesting person. Her husband was killed in a car crash three months ago.’ He paused, frowning slightly, wondering how on earth anyone could possibly cope with something like that. ‘She wants to write a book about Evie.’ There was a long silence. ‘And is that good?’ She surveyed his face carefully. ‘I don’t know.’ He sat forward on the bench, his hands hanging loosely between his knees. He closed his eyes against the sunlight and sighed, leaning back at last against the rough lichen-covered bench back. ‘Well, she is really famous, isn’t she? I am surprised no one has done it before,’ Charlotte said cautiously. ‘I suppose it was bound to happen one day. But she was always reluctant to talk about the past. I remember my parents saying they knew so little, even Pops, for goodness’ sake. Broad brushstrokes, that’s all.’ Mike gave a snort of laughter at his choice of words. Charlotte smiled. She kicked off her wedge-heeled sandals and leaned into him. ‘We’re a couple of idiots sitting here in our office uniform,’ she whispered. ‘Shall we go and slip into something more comfortable?’ He didn’t answer for a moment. She gave him a sideways glance, wondering if he’d heard what she said. ‘If she starts poking round we won’t be able to stop her,’ he said eventually. ‘There is no knowing what can of worms she might dig up.’ ‘Why should there be a can of worms?’ Charlotte was getting tired of this conversation already. She jumped to her feet and reached for his hand. ‘In fact, surely the more worms the better. It would make it all more exciting. Make her pictures more valuable.’ He looked up at her. He liked her hair free of the severe knot in which she kept it restrained during the working day. ‘OK. I’m coming.’ Reluctantly he stood up and allowed himself to be towed back towards the cottage. Upstairs she looked round the small bedroom with its quaint windows and chintz curtains. Rosebank needed a clean blast of modernity and a damn good builder. There wasn’t even a shower, for God’s sake. She could hear the bath running and the slam of cupboards. Mike always forgot where he had put the bath gel; and everything else, for that matter. The trouble with this place was that it was nothing more than a weekend cottage. It was inconvenient, small and uncomfortable. It needed a clean sweep and then a designer with a good eye for modern comforts. With a clever conversion and a large extension it would make a nice home. She hadn’t known Mike that long and their relationship was mostly based in London where his garden flat in Bloomsbury met her every criterion of comfort and convenience, but there was a small part of her which was beginning to think about a future with him which was definitely longer term than any other she had so far experienced. Which brought her back to her niggling worry about the depth of his feelings for her. Had he ever thought about marriage? They had never discussed it, but supposing, just supposing they tied the knot, what then? Mike was an advertising executive in a medium-sized but well regarded company with a broad portfolio of accounts. He was clever and attractive, confident and talented but in some areas of his life he was reserved. He enjoyed his own company and although he clearly enjoyed hers she wondered sometimes if he was one hundred per cent dedicated to her; or for that matter to his job and to London. She returned to her reverie about the future. Commuting was out of the question, it was from her point of view just too far, but once there were children she for one would be more than happy to spend at least part of each week in the country. Husband in town; wife in the country. Recipe for disaster, she knew that. But a garden, a local playgroup, good schools. It would make sense. It was a lifestyle some of her friends were opting for and she had to admit she was beguiled. She tiptoed over to the large chest of drawers which dominated the room, perched as it was incongruously on the uneven floorboards, and she pulled open the top drawer. Surprise! It was stuffed full of dusty books. It was years since Evie Lucas had died and the house was still full of her stuff like some goddamn shrine. Well, now there was a solution. She pictured her brief meeting in the lane with Mike’s afternoon visitor. A tall slim woman, slightly sallow of complexion with dark straight hair; good features, large eyes – Charlotte always noticed other women’s eyes – beautiful even, but not his type. Why not let her sort all this mess out? When she and Mike had first met and she had realised he had a famous grandmother with a painting in the Tate Gallery Charlotte had excitedly imagined a house full of paintings worth millions. When, wide-eyed, she had said as much to Mike he had roared with laughter. ‘If it was true I’d be a rich man! Sadly there are no paintings left. God knows where they all went. I suspect Evie sold some. I assume she was quite hard up in her old age. That often happened, didn’t it? Artists were poor in their lifetime; only later was their stuff valuable. And to be honest I don’t think she has ever been that popular as a painter. The others, the ones in the cottage, were left to my cousin.’ Charlotte found herself wandering round the room fingering the furnishings and picking up ornaments, deliberately putting them down in different places, well aware that next time Dolly came in she would return them to their original arrangements, exactly as Evie had left them years before. Bloody Evie! This could be such a pretty cottage without her malign influence hanging over everything. Ideally they should take everything out into the garden and burn it. Mike would never agree, of course. She looked at the various bits of furniture. Perhaps instead she could persuade Mike to store it in the studio, to allow them to go and buy some really beautiful modern bits, choosing them together, changing the whole feel of the place. That would be a start. Who knew? Maybe that would be enough. He would begin to see the place as theirs rather than Evie’s. She smiled. Maybe it was time to begin dropping hints that dusty chintz and threadbare rugs were not the way they wanted to start life together. ‘Mike!’ she called now. ‘Mike, I’ve had an idea.’ She went through to the bathroom and perched on the edge of the old chipped roll-top bath. Part of her made a mental note to find out about re-enamelling as she bent to drop a kiss on Mike’s forehead as he lay, knees bent almost to his chin, eyes closed. ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea. Why don’t we do some sorting out? I’ll help you. Go through the house and put all Evie’s stuff out in the studio. Then you can get your widow woman to sort through it all. It will give her whatever it is she wants and give you some space to call your own. This is such a small house!’ She paused, holding her breath, trailing a finger through the foam on the bath water, then as the silence became intolerable she bent to kiss him on the mouth. With a shout of laughter he grabbed her and pulled her into the bath on top of him, slopping water all over the floor. It was a long time later as they lay naked on the bed, watching the light leach out of the evening that he answered her question. ‘You know, that might be a good idea. I do feel a bit overpowered by Evie when I’m here. It is still so much her house,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She can keep the studio. That seems fair. But you are right. She is swamping me. Why don’t I ring Lucy Standish next weekend and tell her she can start as soon as she likes. If she is here during the week when we are in town we needn’t see her or get in each other’s hair.’ It was only later he wondered what Dolly Davis would think of the plan. August 10th 1940 Enemy planes had been attacking since dawn. As Ralph’s squadron scrambled for the third time in quick succession he felt his head throbbing with the strain. His stomach lurched as it always did with a lethal cocktail of excitement, adrenaline and good old-fashioned nerves. The ground crews had prepared the aircraft in record time, checking for damage, refuelling, rearming, restarting the engines ready to go. His own rigger and fitter were there, the men who kept his Spitfire flying. He acknowledged their smiles, their thumbs up; there was nothing for him to do but grab his Mae West and helmet, hop up onto the wing, slide into the seat, buckle up, and thrust the throttle forward as the planes swiftly taxied out, turned one after the other into wind, thundering across the airfield and up into the sky. He adored this moment, the feel of the joystick in his hands, the exhilaration of flying the small, fast, single-seater fighter, hearing the throaty roar of the powerful Rolls Royce Merlin engine. As always he felt a sudden expansive rush of joy as the wheels folded neatly into place and locked and the thrill as one after another the planes climbed swiftly up and away. 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 career 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 risqu?. 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 (#ulink_f7069a66-4789-57f7-a125-6f1f80adf10d) 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. ‘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. ‘So, if he didn’t look like this chap or Lol, what did he look like?’ Robin glanced at her. ‘He was someone else. Not this man in Evie’s picture. Same uniform. Completely different face.’ ‘Did he try and speak to you?’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘You think he was a ghost?’ she whispered. Robin put his head on one side for a moment, considering. ‘I’m not sure what I think. Most likely you are right and he came from your dream, but dreams are supposed to carry messages sometimes, aren’t they?’ She was feeling confused. ‘He didn’t say anything. I was in such a state of shock. I was sure he was my imagination. It was only when I came back in here and looked at the picture again that I realised that it was a different man and I started to panic.’ ‘Intriguing.’ Phil took a slow thoughtful sip from his mug. ‘Is he somewhere else in the picture, do you think? Behind her other shoulder?’ Robin frowned doubtfully. ‘There is no room. Look at the composition of the painting. This was how it was supposed to be when she painted it. Without him there she is standing too far to the left. There is a huge empty space behind her. I’ll bet that is what Lol noticed. It would have looked wrong to him. He had a fantastic eye. He would have seen that something was off balance. Perhaps that’s why he thought that it wasn’t a Lucas after all. She must have changed her mind after painting him there. Perhaps they had a row.’ He reached over and caught Lucy’s hand. ‘You know what this means, Luce, don’t you? You have to find out the whole story. Who were these men and what did they mean to Evie? Perhaps this guy wants you to write your book.’ Glancing at her sideways, noting her white face, he gave her a reassuring grin. ‘Are you going to be OK here on your own tonight? Why don’t you come back with us?’ He had only just stopped himself from saying, ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want you to write it.’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I can’t leave the place, Robin. You know I can’t.’ ‘Then we’ll stay here.’ Ever practical, Phil reached over with the kettle and topped up Robin’s mug. ‘Kip down in the living room.’ ‘Would you?’ She didn’t mean to say it. It had slipped out before she could stop it. She didn’t like to admit how rattled she still felt by what had happened. Standing there with them in the room with her was one thing. Being alone in the house with its flights of creaky stairs and squeaking floorboards was quite another. ‘Of course we would. If your boy in blue tries anything we’ll give him a surprise.’ Phil gave a small snort of laughter. She smiled. ‘You are incorrigible.’ ‘Always.’ ‘But thank you.’ August 13th 1940 On June 18th Churchill had made his speech informing the country that the Battle of France was over and that the Battle of Britain was about to begin. For weeks the country waited, then, on August 13th the first massed attacks began. Huge formations of German fighters and bombers started to thunder remorselessly in over the Channel, some bound for London, some for Dover, Southampton and Portsmouth, but most, specifically and unerringly, for the chain of airfields defending southern England, and Ralph was in the front line. Evie was sitting outside A Flight hut on an empty oil drum when the phone rang in the hut. All round her men paused in what they were doing. She stopped drawing, her hand poised above the paper, counting under her breath. She could hear the mumble of the voice in the dispersal hut then the phone slammed down and the single-word shout. ‘Scramble!’ It was the third that day. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her hand steady on the paper as she went on with her sketch. These lads had become familiar to her; they smiled at her and exchanged jokes as they waited between sorties. They were friends. And some of them were almost certainly not going to come back. In the previous three days eleven of the pilots had been killed and the majority of the planes damaged or destroyed. The surviving men were exhausted. The ground crew had barely finished refuelling the surviving planes, rearming the guns. The pilots had scarcely had time for a cup of tea. She sharpened her pencil and turned the page, forcing herself to concentrate on what she was doing, not letting the adrenaline get to her. She must not show her fear for them. Her job was to be invisible; to be utterly professional. Lightning charcoal sketches, a man pulling on his flying helmet, another knotting a scarf round his neck. The tractor dragging the refuelling bowser out of the way. Engines starting, the chocks being snatched from the wheels, the blur of propellers, as they gained speed and then they were gone, the remaining flight of Hurricanes, not even a full squadron now, swooping up into the air as in the distance she heard the air raid sirens start to wail. Behind her, one of the riggers stopped to look at her page of drawings. ‘There is a new squadron coming in this afternoon. 911 Squadron. Did you see the two big Harrows that flew in this morning with the advance ground troops and all their gear?’ he said. He waved and she glanced at the two large planes parked side by side near the line of trees. ‘It’s a Spitfire squadron, like your brother’s. Something new here for you to draw. Our chaps will be glad of a break, poor bastards. Jerry has really been going for us these last few days.’ She looked up at him and managed a smile. ‘Our boys will cope.’ ‘Yeah. Sure.’ The man pulled an oily rag out of a pocket in his battledress and wiped his hands. He looked up at the sky where already they could see the approaching attack. As they watched, the neat formations of fighters heading in from Tangmere to join their own boys began to break up and within seconds the sky was full of action. ‘Suppose we’d better get ourselves ready for them when they come back,’ he said with a sigh. Evie watched him depart, sharing his anxiety; within seconds she had sketched the man’s retreating form, the slump of his shoulders, the angle of his head as once again he glanced up at the sky. Evie followed his gaze, aware for the first time of the swallows which swooped and dived over the airfield, oblivious of the drama in the sky far above, and in the corner of the page she drew a small bird. Only moments later two planes broke free of the m?l?e and Evie was aware of men appearing from the various huts staring upward as the dogfight swooped low overhead. The guns rattled as the two planes dodged and wove around one another, the RAF roundel and the square black crosses clear; a Hurricane versus a Messerschmitt 109. Evie found she was holding her breath. They were so close now she thought she could see the men inside, then they soared upwards on and on up towards the sun. A final blast of firing and suddenly it was over. The German plane veered away and down, flames pouring from the fuselage. It was heading straight for them. She watched, her mouth dry, unable to move, only faintly aware of the shouts near her, of men running, of the tortured scream of the engine and then the plane was down, crashing in flames barely fifty yards away on the far side of the hedge. For several seconds she was paralysed with terror. She found she had dropped her sketchbook and pencil; she had forgotten to breathe. Men ran across the field towards the wreck but there was nothing they could do. The man inside had never stood a chance. Taking a long deep breath she dashed the tears from her eyes angrily. He was the enemy; she shouldn’t be upset. Only five of their own planes returned from the sortie, one ending up spectacularly on its back in the field almost in front of her. Evie jumped to her feet, heart in mouth, watching as the medics ran out with a stretcher, only to see the pilot extricate himself from his straps without help. He staggered from the plane, clutching at his arm, which hung uselessly at his side. He ran several steps, then stopped, swaying slightly, obviously disorientated, as the men with the stretcher reached him. It was several seconds before, automatically, she reached again for her sketchbook. But her hand was shaking too much to draw. She was still sitting there, stunned, when the promised new squadron appeared, circling the airfield in formation, their engines thundering deafeningly overhead. Fifteen Spitfires landed one after the other, coming to rest at last under the trees near the Nissen huts. The engines cut out, leaving the airfield eerily silent but for the distant song of a skylark. Friday 5th July The nights after her strange experience were hard for Lucy. Robin suggested he and Phil come and stay with her again but she refused. ‘I have to learn to be here on my own,’ she said stubbornly. ‘If you come again I will want you here every night. I have to face it. I was scared, but nothing happened. He was just a shadow. He wasn’t threatening. He was probably a dream or just my imagination.’ She looked straight at Robin and gave a faint smile. Noticing the defiant challenge in her eyes he said nothing to contradict her. ‘Brave girl!’ he said. What she hadn’t told him was that she couldn’t get the man’s face out of her head. His shadowy presence was in a way more real to her than the solid cheery figure in the painting. He had appeared for a reason. He was a link to Evelyn and he must have been trying to tell her something. Surely, if he had failed to get his message across wasn’t he likely to come again? The gallery had been busy but she used the occasional pauses between customers to rough out the outline of the book she was going to write about Evelyn, filling in the very few details she had been able to scrounge from the information that was out there in catalogues and on the Net. A whole week had gone by since she had seen Michael Marston and still she had heard nothing from him. At first optimistic that he would get in touch she wondered now if he ever would. Had he promised to help just to get her out of the door? It increasingly felt as though that was exactly what he had done. But if he didn’t intend to help her, where did she go from here? Putting her ghostly visitor firmly out of her mind she went over her meeting with Michael one more time in her head. Had he given her any material she could work with, at least as a start? She went into the studio and stood in front of the picture. Michael had mentioned a farm where Evelyn had spent her childhood and he had implied that he would give her the address. There had to be some way of finding that out herself, but in the meantime, was there some way that she could identify it from the painting? She dragged her eyes away from the faces in the portrait and this time concentrated instead on the landscape. The gate, the sky, the skyline. Was there a clue there which she could unravel, assuming it been painted on Evelyn’s parents’ farm? There was nothing to distinguish the gate. It was a five-barred wooden farm gate shaded with grey lichen and a mound of soft pale moss. No clue there. Nothing special. But the skyline? The silhouette of the Downs. Would she be able to find someone who recognised that? If it was a favourite place, a real place, then possibly; if it was imaginary then obviously it would mean nothing. But Evelyn painted real places. She painted the Downs she loved and the landscape around her home, that much one could tell from the paintings Lucy had seen in the catalogues, so there was a possibility that the place was identifiable. What else had Michael said? He had mentioned Evelyn’s brother, Ralph, who was a fighter pilot. She looked back at the face of the young man behind Evelyn in the portrait. She was sure her initial impression must be right, that this young man was a lover. The touch of his hand on the shoulder, the expression in his eyes, both were too tender, too intimate to be the love of a brother and sister. She squinted at the painting again. It was strange how the expressions of the two faces seemed to change from one moment to the next. Perhaps that was the sign of a great portrait. Or was it just the change of light? Whoever it was, at least she had one name. Ralph Lucas. So she would start with Ralph. August 13th 1940 Tony Anderson had finished training in June. After the fall of France, Churchill had ordered that all trainee pilots be sent straight to squadrons and Tony found himself heading back to Edinburgh where until very recently he had been a law student in his third year. His first posting was, to his great delight, a Spitfire squadron based at Drem, some dozen or so miles from the city, and there he spent another two months training on active duty and getting to know the men who soon became his friends. On August 12th, the squadron discovered that it had been posted. They were to go to Sussex where the Battle of Britain was under way. There was heavy cloud over most of the country and they flew well above it, stopping only once to refuel. As they neared the south coast the cloud began to break up at last and sunlight illuminated the landscape beneath them. Tony felt his heart lift. The most surreal moment had come as they approached London, seeing nothing of the city but an enormous number of barrage balloons poking up out of the heavy cloud. ‘Something going on over to our left, chaps.’ Tony heard the CO’s voice crackle in his ear as they began to lose height. Tony squinted round and saw the planes in the distance. Dozens of them all over the place, criss-crossing the sky. ‘No chance for us to have a crack at them this time. We’re too low on fuel. Let’s just get there safely for now; we’ll soon get our chance.’ From the air he could see the Sector Airbase at Tangmere and then Westhampnett, so close it was almost next door. The latter seemed to be no more than a large field, without any runways. He could see a couple of Nissen huts, a windsock, a bowser and a few concrete hard standings around the perimeter and a line of trees. In the middle of the airfield a Hurricane lay on its back; behind the hedge he could see the wreckage of another plane amidst a heavy pall of black smoke. He felt a little kick of excitement under his ribs. This was it. They were now in the thick of the action. He took his turn to land, taxiing in towards the trees and came to a standstill. As he pulled off his helmet and slid back the cockpit’s canopy the last thing he had expected to see was a beautiful girl standing in front of him, sketchbook in one hand, pencil in the other, and a ferocious scowl on her face. Friday 5th July, late Downstairs in the gallery Lucy made her way to the back of the long narrow ground floor room which was their exhibition space. The gallery area had two windows, at the rear a tall narrow casement overlooking the small garden and at the front a bowed picture window onto the street which at present was lit by two spotlights focused on a bronze heron standing on a black dais. There was still light in the sky outside, late though it was, but the room itself was dark. She turned the lamp on in the small office area at the back, where an antique desk sat on an oriental rug between two comfortable leather armchairs. Sitting down at the desk she fired up the computer. Threading her way through the usual entries offering to find Ralph Lucas on Facebook, to contact Ralph Lucases on several different continents, to establish their position in a dozen Lucas family trees, none of them relevant, to sell to them and to buy from them and even to provide their phone number, she found the right one at last. The entry was pitifully short. Ralph James Lucas, Fighter Pilot (260 squadron, Spitfires) born 1919, died 1940 Lucy sat back. Twenty-one. Evelyn’s brother had only been twenty-one when he died. There was no other information that she could find. Taking a deep breath she turned off the computer and the light and went slowly upstairs. Pushing the studio door open, she stood there, staring at the painting once more. ‘Ralph?’ Her voice sounded hollow and hesitant. It held no conviction. There was no reply. So, since Ralph was not the fair-haired young man in the painting, was he her dream, her ghost, the shadowed, enigmatic figure she had seen in her bedroom, not a part of this composition at all, but still around, off stage, an ?minence grise, a restless spirit? The man in the shadows? And if that was true, why had he appeared now? What was it he wanted to say? And was he haunting her, or was he haunting Evelyn? She found herself wishing desperately yet again that Larry was there, that she could talk to him, discuss the painting with him, share her compulsion to find out who this man was and how he fitted into Evelyn’s life, and above all to feel safe, nestled in her husband’s strong arms. She glanced back at the painting one last time, then, shivering, she turned off the lights and closed the door on the studio. That night she slept on the sofa in the living room, wrapped in Larry’s old red dressing gown. August 13th 1940 ‘But why are you so cross?’ Eddie seemed to find Evie’s fury funny. ‘There’s no harm done. You were going to work up the picture on canvas anyway. It was only a bit of dust.’ ‘He headed towards me deliberately. Nobody else came near me.’ ‘Maybe he was just the last one in and had to leave his plane at the end of the line.’ He laughed again, putting his arm round her shoulder and giving her a quick hug. ‘You said he apologised.’ ‘He thought it was a joke. Some of these boys are so arrogant!’ She almost stamped her foot. ‘They are fighting a war, Evie,’ he said gently. ‘I think they are entitled to be a little arrogant sometimes. Maybe he just didn’t see you sitting there on your little oil drum.’ ‘That’s what he said.’ ‘Well then.’ She wriggled free of his arm and went over to the table, studying her sketchbook with a concentrated frown. ‘I saw a plane crash today. It went down in flames right there on the edge of the airfield. The pilot was killed. He had no chance to bail out.’ Eddie sighed. ‘It’s happening everywhere, Evie. You know that.’ ‘But there, right in front of me.’ She looked up at him. ‘It was an enemy plane. I should be pleased.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘He’s still a human being. You wouldn’t be you, Evie, if you were dancing with glee. But if it hadn’t been him, he would have shot down one of our boys, we both know that. Maybe more than one. Your young friend from this afternoon perhaps.’ She glared at him. ‘I suppose so.’ She looked back at her sketchbook. ‘You’d better go, Eddie. I’ve got to help Mummy downstairs and then if I’ve got time I’ll come up and do some more work here.’ ‘If?’ he said, with not altogether mock indignation. ‘You’d better find some time. I’ve got an investment in these pictures, don’t forget.’ It was dark outside by the time she returned to her makeshift studio. She made sure the blackout was secure then switched on the lights, flooding the table with cold white light. She reached for her pencil. Since the incident on the airfield with the young pilot she had been itching to draw him, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had even noticed his golden good looks. The sketchbook lay open at her drawings of the crashed Hurricane in the middle of the airfield, the smoking shell of the Messerschmitt beyond the hedge. She folded the page back and looked down at the clean new sheet in front of her. They had started limiting the size of newspapers the year before, but so far there had been no more mention of paper rationing. Even so, she was going to have to be careful not to waste a single piece. His insolence, that was what she remembered most clearly, his cheeky smile, the sparkling blue eyes, the wild hair springing up as he pulled off his helmet and goggles. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he had said and she had let fly. Instead of smiling and welcoming him to Sussex she had called him a selfish inconsiderate clod and probably more besides. She couldn’t remember. Her hand hesitated over the paper as she ran through in her head the things she had said and she blushed; here alone in the empty studio, she blushed at the memory. Why? Why had she been so angry and why so rude when for all she knew, as Eddie had just reminded her so sanctimoniously, the young man was quite possibly about to die for his country. Tony. She remembered his name too. ‘Hi, I’m Tony.’ And he had held out his hand. ‘Thanks a lot, Tony. You’ve ruined a day’s work, Tony. Why did you have to taxi up here instead of down to the other end of the line, Tony?’ She had seen his face fall. He had been the one to blush. Then mercifully for them both someone had yelled his name from the Nissen hut behind them and he had raised his shoulders, then his hands, in a gesture of surrender. ‘Sorry,’ he had said and he had turned away. And now she could picture every detail of his face in her mind, every freckle, every stray corkscrew spring of his curly hair, every quirk of his mouth. With an exclamation of impatience she leaned forward over the table, her elbow on the page itself as if to hold it in place and she began to draw with swift sure strokes of the soft pencil. Sunday 7th July ‘I can’t find her card.’ Mike Marston was rummaging through the pile of post and papers on the kitchen table at Rosebank Cottage. ‘Whose?’ Charlotte was arranging some flowers in a blue pottery vase. ‘The woman who wants to write about Evie. She gave me her card. God, what was her name? Why do I keep forgetting it?’ He lifted a pile of magazines off a chair and looked under it. ‘I hope Dolly hasn’t thrown it out.’ ‘Dolly never throws anything out,’ Charlotte commented tartly. ‘If she did we might have a bit more room.’ She rammed a vivid blue stem of delphinium into the vase. Mike stood up and watched her for a moment, amused. ‘You don’t have to attack the poor flowers. You’ll find they surrender quite easily if you push them in gently.’ She swore under her breath. ‘They might surrender to you. They are out to get me! I am not the domesticated type, or hadn’t you noticed?’ ‘I’d noticed.’ He laughed. She glanced up at him suspiciously. ‘You sounded as though you meant that.’ ‘I did.’ There was a split second’s silence. He reached over and touched her hand. ‘I don’t go out with you for your domestic skills, Charley, and you know it!’ He caught her fingers as she reached for a rose and swore. ‘You can snip off the thorns, you know. Then you won’t get pricked.’ She sighed. ‘So, who taught you that? I know. Don’t tell me. Evie. Right?’ He gave a rueful nod. ‘She loved flowers.’ She found the card on the dresser propped against a jar of peppercorns and for a moment she held it in her hand, staring down at it, studying the small sketch of the shop front, the elegant italic script, the name The Standish Gallery, and on the back the name, hand-scrawled in ballpoint. Lucy Standish. Her brow was furrowed in thought. He was looking the other way. She could drop it down the back of the line of old cookery books and it would be gone forever. She pictured the woman’s shadowed, melancholy face and straight dark hair and gave a small satisfied smile. Was there any danger? None at all. ‘Mike.’ He looked up and she held out her hand. He grinned and took the card. ‘Glad one of us is organised.’ He reached for the phone. She watched as he waited for the call to connect and registered by the slight slump of his shoulders that it had gone to voicemail. ‘Hello Mrs –’ He paused and looked at the card. Then he turned it over to where she had written her name on the back. ‘Mrs Standish, this is Mike Marston. I’ve been thinking about our discussion the other day and I was wondering if you would like to come over here again so we can work out some modus operandi. I’m sorry for the delay in contacting you. I’ve been rather busy.’ He looked at Charlotte and winked. ‘Give me a call. You have my number here.’ He hung up. ‘Have you given her your mobile number as well?’ Charlotte queried. ‘No. She rang the house when she first got in touch. Better that way, then she can speak to Dolly.’ He stood for a moment looking round the kitchen. ‘Your idea of putting Evie’s stuff in the studio will take an awful long time. Hadn’t we better make a start?’ He walked through into the sitting room and surveyed it rather hopelessly. ‘There is such a lot. I don’t know where to begin.’ ‘Why not leave it to Dolly and me?’ Charlotte brought in her vase of flowers and put them down on a side table. She stood back to admire the effect. ‘We could go to the supermarket now and collect some cardboard boxes. In fact, after this weekend, why don’t we leave the whole thing to Dolly, then as you suggested Mrs Standish can come over during the week when we’re not here? We don’t want to waste our precious weekends.’ She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and carefully blotted a drop of water which had fallen onto the table from the rose petals. ‘You have told Dolly what you plan to do?’ ‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘Oh, Mike!’ ‘I did hint at it, just to test out her reaction.’ ‘And what did she say?’ Mike gave a rueful smile. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’ 5 (#ulink_3d46aa53-fc8e-51f8-a76c-be9e792f6b82) August 22nd 1940 It was Ralph who introduced them properly. He finally persuaded Evie to go with him to the pub. ‘Eddie is more like a slave driver than a –’ he was saying as they climbed into his car. He drove an ancient cream three-wheeler Morgan which was his pride and joy. He stopped suddenly mid-sentence and she looked at him quizzically. ‘Than a – ?’ she echoed. ‘I was going to say boyfriend,’ he said at last. ‘Is he my boyfriend?’ she repeated softly. ‘Yes, I suppose he is. I’m sorry. I know you don’t like him.’ ‘I never said that.’ ‘You don’t have to.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘Dear Rafie, I can read you like a book. Daddy doesn’t like him either. Not really. And you’re right, he does make me work hard and just occasionally, yes, I do feel a bit put upon, and yes, I would like to go to the pub with my big brother.’ It had been a hard week. Tangmere had been targeted and it had received several direct hits. Parts of the aerodrome had been reduced to a mass of rubble. Many planes had been lost when the hangars were destroyed. There had been nonstop sorties as the waves of attack came over, but a blessed interval of quiet followed. It had been a baptism of fire for the new squadron at Westhampnett. There had been no night raids here, however, although everyone expected them soon, and a night off for a jar and some female company seemed like a really good idea for the exhausted pilots and ground crew alike. Ralph took her to The Unicorn in Eastgate Square, a favourite with the pilots. The pub was noisy and very crowded. It was stuffy and hot inside and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He bought Evie a drink, then they ducked out through the blackout curtains which hung over the door of the lobby and went to stand on the pavement outside. Within minutes a group of young men in RAF uniform had joined them. ‘So, Ralph,’ the voice behind Evie was cheery, the accent Scots, ‘are you going to introduce me to the lady?’ Evie turned, the half-pint glass in her hand slopping shandy over her shoes. ‘Hi, Tony.’ Ralph slapped him on the back. ‘Evie, this is Tony Anderson. One of the boys from Westhampnett. Tony, my sister, Evelyn.’ ‘Your sister!’ Tony echoed with a huge grin. ‘Wow!’ Ralph smiled happily. Evie scowled. ‘What he means is, we have met before. Flying Officer Anderson ruined one of my pictures.’ ‘Oh, come off it. It was hardly ruined,’ Tony exclaimed. ‘A wee bit of dust, that’s all.’ ‘A wee bit of dust, as you called it,’ Evie repeated, repressively, ‘can destroy a picture if the paint is still wet.’ ‘True.’ Tony nodded thoughtfully with a wink at the bemused Ralph, ‘but you were only doing some quick pencil sketches. I remember most particularly.’ Evie gaped at him. ‘You noticed?’ ‘Of course I noticed. To make amends, I will buy you a drink. But that is all,’ he added severely. ‘I will not grovel for the rest of my life.’ Evie stared after him as he headed towards the door and vanished into the smoky interior of the pub. Ralph laughed. ‘So, you two have met before.’ Evie nodded. ‘But I am not going to let it spoil my evening.’ ‘Glad to hear it.’ Ralph raised his glass as another group of RAF officers headed their way. ‘Let’s see if we have more success here. Have you met my flight commander?’ By the time Tony threaded his way back through the crowds with Evie’s glass in his hand she was engaged in animated conversation with Alan Reid. Tony elbowed his way to her side and pushed the glass towards her. ‘Thanks.’ She took it and turned back to Al with a smile. ‘Evelyn!’ Tony called out. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard. She glanced back at him. ‘If I concede that a small amount of dust from the airfield may have sullied your pristine sketches will it appease you if I allow you to draw my picture?’ Her eyebrows shot up as she stared at him. ‘Go on,’ he grinned. ‘This is not an offer you can afford to turn down.’ She tried not to smile. ‘What if I told you I had already done it?’ He gave Ralph and Al a sidelong look. ‘Ah, well, I suppose I am irresistible. I shouldn’t really be surprised if you have.’ Ralph gave a snort of laughter. ‘Give up, Evie. I think you’ve finally met your match!’ Monday 8th July Lucy waved the customer out of the gallery with a smile. He had been uncertain and unhappy, dithering between two pictures, not sure if the recipient of his gift would like it, angling to have her promise to give his money back if he had to return it. Which she would do, of course, but she would far rather he didn’t feel he had that easy option. The small watercolour under his arm was one of several Larry had picked up at the last auction he had attended before his death. She looked at the empty space on the wall where it had hung and sighed. She had to get in some new stock and soon. At the end of the week perhaps she would go to the country house sale she had spotted in the paper only that morning. Friday, the announcement had said and it specifically mentioned pictures. A good call perhaps. She tucked the cheque the man had given her into the little cash box in the drawer in the desk. Robin would be furious with her for letting him take the painting without clearing the cheque first. Larry would have been too. The purchaser had looked honest but neither of the men would have taken him at face value. Not these days. Well, she had. She noticed suddenly that the light was winking on the answer phone and she leaned across to press the button. It was Michael Marston. She rang back at once but there was no reply. It wasn’t until the next morning that she managed to get through to Dolly Davis. Mr Michael, she was told, would be in London for the next two weeks, but he had left instructions that Lucy was to be given access to the studio in the garden. She arranged to go the next afternoon. ‘He’s got this idea in his head that you can sort through all her stuff,’ Dolly said with a look of sour incomprehension as she opened the studio door and pushed it back against the wall. It was raining gently and the garden smelled of fresh grass and roses and honeysuckle. She reached up to turn on the lights and ushered Lucy in. The huge table which before had borne only an open empty sketchbook and some tubes of paint was now laden with dusty boxes and piles of books. More boxes lined the walls, accompanied by suitcases and even a couple of hat boxes. ‘You can look through everything but you mustn’t take anything away,’ Dolly went on, and by the set of her jaw Lucy could tell she intended to enforce that instruction personally. She wondered in sudden amusement if the old lady intended to search her before she left each day. She watched as Dolly turned and went out, closing the door behind her. Through the window she could see her stooped figure tramping across the wet grass towards the kitchen door. Lucy stared round in awe. She had moved from having virtually no information about Evelyn Lucas at all to being given access to possibly the entire archive still in existence. When Dolly returned after an hour or so with a cup of tea and a slice of lemon drizzle cake Lucy wondered if she had passed some kind of test. She had stacked the books on one side – very few novels, she noticed, mostly books on art, some technical manuals, exhibition catalogues, some brochures, biographies of famous artists – and she had shifted most of the cardboard boxes and baskets and bags either to the top of the bookcase or onto the floor in front of it. In this way she had managed to clear the table again, leaving it free to examine each item in turn. There appeared to be hundreds if not thousands of letters, not from Evelyn herself sadly, as far as she could see at first glance, but replies from other people, which was almost as good; bills, bank statements, most of which seemed to demonstrate a distinct paucity of funds and all kinds of other remnants of a busy life. The two portfolios, stacked against the wall behind the door had proved, to her intense disappointment, to be empty. Lucy looked up as the door opened. Dolly set down her tray in the middle of the newly cleared space. There were two cups and two slices of cake. Lucy smiled. ‘I’m amazed that Mr Marston has trusted me with all this. And truly honoured.’ ‘He must have liked the look of you.’ Dolly slumped down on one of the two straight-backed chairs near the paint-splashed deal desk. She was in her eighties, Lucy guessed, but energetic and fit enough to keep the cottage spick and span. ‘It’s been something he’s put off doing again and again. And if it hadn’t been for that woman he’d have gone on putting it off.’ Lucy frowned, puzzled. ‘That woman?’ ‘Charlotte Thingy.’ Dolly grimaced. ‘She’s behind this. Hard as nails, she is. She’s not interested in poor Evie. She just wants the space cleared so she can makeover the cottage. She’s even emptied the upstairs drawers.’ She pointed to the two suitcases under the table. ‘Poor Evie’s personal things. Can’t wait to get shot of them. Not that it didn’t need doing, you understand. Of course it did. But she should have left it to someone who cared. I offered, but oh no, she had already done it. Shoved it all in a great heap. No doubt next time she comes the rest of Evie’s things will all be pushed out here as well.’ Lucy thought it best not to comment. She reached for her cup. ‘I’m not sure where to start. There is so much more than I expected. This will take me weeks, months, to go through.’ Dolly nodded. ‘As I said, it’s time someone did it. She deserves some recognition. I was with her here for the last forty years of her life, you know. I looked after her so she could paint. Right up to the end she was working. Her eyes were as good as someone half her age.’ Lucy looked down at the slice of cake on her plate with an absent frown. ‘I didn’t realise she was still painting. There are so few of her works on the record. What happened to them, do you know?’ ‘Christopher took them.’ Dolly grimaced. ‘Christopher?’ ‘Christopher Marston. Her other grandson. Mr Michael’s cousin.’ Lucy gave a secret smile. Christopher obviously did not merit that honorarium of Mr. ‘He took the paintings,’ Dolly went on. ‘Mr Michael got the cottage. That was the arrangement.’ She pursed her lips. Lucy digested that piece of news with disappointment. So, that explained the lack of paintings and sketches in the house. ‘He took her diaries too. Everything he could lay his hands on that wasn’t screwed down,’ Dolly went on. ‘I told Mr Mike but he wasn’t interested. He said Christopher was welcome to them. He said it was what Evie wanted. He said it was the cottage itself that mattered to him because that was where she had been happy. Christopher would have sold it.’ Lucy was studying her face, noting the anger and frustration there. ‘Did Christopher sell the paintings, then?’ she asked quietly. Dolly shook her head doubtfully. ‘I suppose so. I don’t know. They were never mentioned again. But I’ll bet madam there,’ she gestured over her shoulder towards the cottage, ‘will want to know where they are once she realises how valuable they were.’ By ‘madam’ Lucy assumed she meant Charlotte Thingy. She hid a smile. When Dolly had removed the tray she worked on for several hours, sorting through the different boxes. The suitcases poignantly contained a selection of clothes, underwear, nightgowns. Lucy could understand Charlotte’s indignation if these were still in place in what must have been the main bedroom in the cottage. She hadn’t been upstairs but it looked as if there wouldn’t be more than two rooms up there. She pushed the cases against the wall. Somehow touching Evie’s clothes was unbearably sad, but it brought her closer. She reached for another box. This seemed to contain the contents of a desk, perhaps the desk she had seen in the sitting room of the cottage. Stationery: unused notepaper and envelopes, cards, ancient fountain pens, old keys, stamps, a clip containing bills and receipts, all dating – Lucy turned them over carefully – from the summer before Evie died. And there was a tin box. She opened it and found it full of black-and-white photos of a young man. The top two snaps were of him in RAF uniform. In one he was leaning against a small three-wheeler car, in the other standing beside a single-seater aircraft, painted in the familiar brown and green camouflage with the RAF roundel and a large number painted on the side. A Spitfire. She stared at him for a long time, gently running her finger over his face, then with shaking hands she turned the pictures over and looked at the back. Only one was labelled. Rafie, it said and Summer 1940. When she looked up her eyes were full of tears. She had recognised him at once. ‘Ralph?’ she whispered. There was no reply. She had been right in her guess. The shadowy figure she had seen in her bedroom was Evie’s brother. She looked at the pictures again and picked up the others with unsteady fingers. There he was as a baby, a child, and as a boy in school uniform. Always the same wistful smile, the hair flopping in his eyes, the affectionate gaze directed at whoever was taking the picture. She hadn’t realised that Dolly had come back in until the woman approached the table. ‘Sorry.’ Lucy brushed the tears away. Dolly looked down at the photos. ‘Are those of Mr Ralph?’ Lucy nodded. ‘He was killed in the war,’ Dolly shook her head again. ‘Evie never talked about him, you know.’ She gave Lucy another curious glance. Lucy gave an apologetic smile, aware suddenly of the tears on her cheeks and how odd they must look. ‘It seemed so sad. This picture must have been taken just before he died. He looks so happy.’ Or did he? Was that wistfulness there because he had a premonition of the future? She bit her lip. ‘Where did you find them?’ Dolly was frowning. Lucy pointed at a cardboard box. ‘So, she’s been through the desk as well.’ Dolly glared at the box. ‘I’m sorry. Was it private?’ ‘Not from you.’ They looked at each other in silence for a moment and Lucy realised that her tears had unlocked something in Dolly’s reserved manner. They were allies now, against Charlotte Thingy. As though sensing she had unbent too far Dolly straightened her back. ‘I’m afraid you are going to have to leave,’ she said. ‘I’m going home now and I need to lock up.’ Lucy’s heart sank. ‘Of course.’ She glanced round the studio. ‘I haven’t really started,’ she said helplessly. ‘I usually come in on Tuesdays and Fridays,’ Dolly stated firmly. ‘You’re welcome while I’m here. I arrive at nine and leave at four thirty.’ Friday. The day of the auction. With Robin’s co-operation, she had planned to set blocks of time aside, a week or two at a time, to go through the archive. If she could only come once or twice a week it would take forever. ‘I’ll do my best to be here,’ Lucy said. ‘If I can’t make Friday I’m afraid it will have to be next week.’ August 24th 1940 Eddie counted out four crisp white fivers and folded them into her hand. ‘More where that came from, Evie. Keep up the good work, sweetheart.’ He drew her into his arms again and pulled her against him. ‘They’ll take as many of those small paintings as you can produce.’ Evie pulled away. He smelled of cigarettes and there was a taint of stale alcohol on his breath even though it wasn’t yet five o’clock. ‘That’s great Eddie, thanks.’ She tucked the notes into the pocket of her dungarees. ‘Are you staying for supper?’ She had just finished milking when he had arrived. He shook his head. ‘Best get home.’ He paused for a fraction of a second. ‘You haven’t been down to the airfield for a couple of days.’ He glanced down at her shrewdly. ‘Is there a problem?’ She shook her head. ‘There is so much to do here. There are only so many hours in the day, Eddie.’ ‘Yes, well, there is a lot to do there as well. Don’t forget, I’m going to need a portfolio to put in front of Sir Kenneth Clark at the WAAC.’ ‘Don’t worry. I’m working on it.’ She gave him a playful push. ‘Go on. Go home. I’ll do some more work once I’ve scrubbed the dairy.’ Did he not realise, she wondered as she waved him away just how hard she worked on this bloody farm, doing the work of at least two land girls, and how hard it was to build up a portfolio if he kept selling her paintings as fast as she produced them? It was nearly dark when at last she wandered, exhausted, back towards the farmhouse and pushed open the door. Tony Anderson was sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea with her mother. She stopped dead, staring at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I came to have my portrait painted.’ ‘You can’t just turn up!’ He looked at Rachel. ‘Tell her. What else can I do? We’re on call nearly all the time. I’ve done five sorties today. We’ve only been stood down tonight because the battle was so fierce this afternoon the Hun have gone home to lick their wounds. But if you’re not willing –’ He stood up. ‘Evie,’ Rachel cried. ‘Tell him you’ll do it. The poor boy has been waiting hours. You can draw him down here in the kitchen while I heat up some soup for you both. I know you can sketch while you eat, I’ve seen you do it before.’ ‘You haven’t been over to the airfield,’ Tony interrupted accusingly before Evie could reply. He held her gaze steadily. ‘I thought under the circumstances you might come to me.’ ‘What circumstances?’ Rachel put in sharply. She had stepped into the larder and reappeared with a large earthenware pot of soup covered with a muslin cloth. ‘I promised him I would draw him,’ Evie snapped at her mother. She turned to Tony. ‘I couldn’t leave the farm. I’ve been so busy.’ She was feeling unaccountably under siege, embarrassed and angry at his attentions and feeling worse because of her mother’s amused gaze. She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘All right, I’ll sketch you now, late as it is.’ She heaved another sigh, this one even louder. ‘Thanks.’ He was trying to look humble now, a smile trembling behind his eyes. There was a sketchbook on the dresser. She grabbed it and opened it at a clean page. ‘Sit down. Here, under the lamp.’ He sat down obediently, an elbow on the table, chin on hand, profile raised to the lamplight. ‘Will I do?’ ‘You’ll do.’ Now suddenly she was trying not to laugh, her irritation evaporating. She couldn’t work out how she felt about this man. She had never met anyone like him before. His merry blue eyes, his sense of fun, his soft Scots accent, his stunning good looks and his cheeriness in the face of threat all intrigued her. Was he so stupid that he didn’t understand the danger all round him? Wasn’t he afraid? She knew Ralph was afraid. That was why he was so brave. Then she realised what it was that was different about Tony. Eddie and Ralph were men. Tony was still a boy. ‘Go to bed, Mummy!’ It was midnight. They had finished their soup ages ago and Rachel was still sitting over her book in the corner. For the hundredth time her eyes had closed and she was nodding closer and closer to the volume in her lap. She hadn’t turned a page in half an hour. Tony glanced over his shoulder quickly then resumed his pose. ‘I don’t need a chaperone, Mrs Lucas, honestly. I’m sure I could fight her off.’ ‘Tony!’ Evie was squinting down at the page. ‘Stop wriggling.’ He gave her a broad smile. ‘Can I look yet?’ ‘Yes.’ She sighed and dropped the pencil. ‘Yes, you can look.’ He stood up and walked round the table as with a groan Rachel closed her book and levered herself out of her chair. They both stood staring down at the sketch. ‘That’s brilliant!’ Tony exclaimed. ‘Almost as handsome as the real me. Not quite, that’s not possible, but it will do. When will you paint it?’ Evie was staring up at him, blinking. ‘When will I paint it?’ ‘Aye. Fill in the colours.’ Just in time she saw the twinkle, the twitch of his mouth. Reaching over she slapped his hand. ‘I’ll paint you when I think you deserve it. Until then you have a finished pencil sketch by the soon to be famous Evelyn Lucas, which will one day probably be worth hundreds of pounds. Here. Take it with you and get back to the base. I’m sure you should have been in hours ago.’ ‘Just like in school. You’re right.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘But I’ll show matron the picture then she’ll promise not to beat me with her slipper.’ He took the sheet of paper from her. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you up so late, Mrs Lucas, I really am.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘But it was worth it. I’ll send this to my parents and they will treasure it.’ For a second he was serious. ‘If anything happens to me –’ He paused and left the rest of the sentence unfinished. Evie walked with him to the door. The two dogs appeared from one of the sheds and she sent them back with a click of the fingers. By the light of the faint moonlight in the yard she could see a small open-topped car parked near the barn. He followed her gaze. ‘I borrowed it. Brilliant little runabout. 1927 Morris Cowley. Chap at the base wants six quid for her. If I buy her I’ll take you for a ride. If you’re good.’ He sighed. ‘So, I’d best be going. The last couple of mornings they’ve been calling us at four a.m. Thanks, Evie.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. Before she could turn away he had bent to kiss her lightly on the lips, then he was sprinting towards the car. She saw him pack the drawing away carefully then he made his way to the front and bent to the starting handle. The engine caught almost at once and he vaulted into the driving seat. The blacked out headlights barely gave him any light to see by at all as he reversed and turned before heading down the lane. She put her fingers to her mouth, staring after him. The touch of his lips had sent a shockwave through her system which had for a moment left her incapable of coherent thought. 6 (#ulink_bbab531f-4bad-59f0-b4d8-e0df759bf233) Friday 12th July ‘I thought you weren’t coming down this weekend.’ Dolly had opened the door to Mike with a duster still in her hand. It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon. ‘Charlotte had to cancel our trip abroad. She was summoned to some sort of conference she couldn’t get out of. It’s a shame but we’re rescheduling our break.’ Mike dropped his briefcase and holdall and looked round. ‘Is Lucy Standish here? I didn’t see her car in the lane. I thought this would be a good chance to talk to her and see how she is getting on.’ Dolly frowned. ‘She couldn’t come today. There was some auction she had to go to, apparently.’ ‘Ah.’ Mike couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘So, what do you think of her so far?’ ‘She seemed nice enough.’ Dolly was guarded. ‘All she did was rearrange the boxes and poke around in some of them.’ ‘I don’t suppose she had time to do much.’ Dolly sucked her teeth. ‘Maybe she saw enough to realise there is not much of value here.’ Mike looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that you mustn’t forget that she is a dealer.’ ‘You don’t believe she is writing a book? You think she had an ulterior motive?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Dolly gave an expressive sigh. ‘She didn’t bring anything to write on, as far as I could see.’ Mike studied her face for a moment. ‘Maybe I should ring her.’ He waited until Dolly had gone home then pulled Lucy’s card out of his wallet and reached for his mobile as he wandered out into the garden. ‘I was sorry to miss seeing you,’ he said when she answered at last. ‘My housekeeper said you had to go to an auction today.’ ‘Yes. Such a nuisance. There was nothing I could do.’ Lucy sounded flustered. She was in fact juggling her phone as she tried to unlock her car door, three carefully wrapped paintings one of which was quite large, under her arm. With relief she got the door open and slid the pictures behind the seat, dropping her bag into the footwell. ‘Sorry. That’s better. I hadn’t realised I would only be able to come on Tuesdays and Fridays. That is going to slow up my research quite a bit.’ ‘I don’t suppose you would have time to come over tomorrow?’ Mike was grinning to himself. So Dolly planned to keep an eye on everything personally. He had never said that Lucy couldn’t come on any other days. He grimaced. Was that na?ve of him? Perhaps Dolly was right and he shouldn’t be so trusting. Before tomorrow he would do what he should have done in the first place when she first got in touch. He would do some research of his own on line and find out some more about Mrs Lucy Standish. He brought his attention back to what she was saying. ‘I’ll come early, if that’s all right.’ It was only when he had switched off the phone that he wondered how early early was. She was there just before nine. She was still wearing jeans but this time she had on a pretty deep red blouse and her hair was loose on her shoulders. She followed him into the kitchen and sat down obediently at the table while he made coffee. ‘I must apologise for not being here on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I work most of the time in London. I left it to Dolly to make you welcome. I hope she wasn’t too ferocious?’ He pushed a mug towards her and sat down on the other side of the small table. His eyes, she noticed, were shrewd and steady as they focused on her face. This time he was dressed informally in jeans and a black T-shirt. The clothes suited him much better, she decided. He looked less intimidating and more approachable. ‘I don’t think she entirely trusts me,’ she said ruefully. ‘She kept popping back to check what I was up to. And fair enough. She cares a great deal about Evelyn.’ ‘She felt that as a writer you should have brought writing materials. It caused some suspicion that you were not laden with notebooks and a quill pen.’ Her gallery was well respected, he had discovered. She had a degree in art history and her husband had been killed in an horrendous car crash nearly four months before. She gave a snort of laughter. ‘That never occurred to me. True, but not quite accurate. In there,’ she indicated the tote she had dropped beside her on the floor, ‘I have a laptop. I didn’t get round to taking it out on Tuesday. I had just about sorted out how I was going to start categorising stuff when she said I had to go.’ ‘She chased you out?’ ‘Only because she was leaving herself.’ Lucy laughed again. ‘I suspect she thought I was after the family silver. Is that why she sent for you?’ He shook his head. He liked the way she laughed. Her face mobile, humorous, not classically beautiful like Charlotte, but elegant, her cheekbones emphasised by the way she tucked her hair back behind her ears as though she wasn’t used to wearing it loose. She didn’t look so exhausted and sad today; her eyes were brighter. ‘You were at an auction yesterday, I gather.’ She nodded. ‘Guilty as charged, but I promise I wasn’t fencing stolen goods. I was buying for my gallery.’ ‘Did you find anything?’ She nodded. ‘It was hard enough to find time to hunt for stock when Larry was alive. Larry was my husband.’ Her eyes dimmed as he saw the sadness cross her face. ‘Robin doesn’t know enough to be a buyer,’ she went on. ‘Robin Cassell, he is my assistant. He’s looking after the place today so I can come here. Opening on Saturdays is another problem for us but it is often our best day so we have to manage somehow.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘No.’ The gurgle of laughter again. ‘Whatever Mrs Davis thinks, I am not here to beg, borrow, buy or steal any of Evelyn’s work. Far from it. The gallery was Larry’s. I am not even sure I want to keep it going.’ She stopped as though surprised by what she had said. Mike was still watching her steadily and she was beginning to find it a bit disconcerting. She was talking too much but somehow she couldn’t stop. ‘My dream was to be a writer; a biographer and we both had this interest in Evelyn as a Sussex painter. I abandoned the idea after he died but then the grant came through and I felt I had to honour our dream.’ Her voice faded and she sat staring down into the coffee mug. ‘Maybe I can’t do both. I don’t know.’ She looked up and saw he was still watching her. ‘Sorry. Not your problem.’ ‘Unless you give up on Evie,’ he said gently. ‘I won’t give up on Evie.’ She picked up the mug. ‘Or Ralph.’ The name seemed to hang in the air for a moment longer than necessary. She sipped the coffee then glanced at him over the rim of the mug. ‘I don’t suppose either of them haunt this place?’ It was his turn to laugh. ‘Well, Ralph never came here, so I doubt if he would. But Evie?’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘She has certainly left a strong presence here, let’s put it that way.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment and he put down his mug. ‘You weren’t being serious?’ ‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly, ‘but, as you say, she has left a strong presence here. One would have to be very insensitive not to feel it.’ ‘She loved this place. It feels a bit like a betrayal to be moving her stuff out, if I’m honest.’ ‘That’s how Mrs Davis feels. But I can understand your fianc?e wanting to –’ ‘She’s not my fianc?e,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘Sorry. Partner, then. Whatever.’ She changed the subject hurriedly. ‘It is helpful for me to have it all out there, then I can sort through it more easily.’ She hesitated. ‘I gather from Mrs Davis that any diaries there may have been were inherited by your cousin?’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think Evie kept any diaries.’ She looked puzzled. ‘I must have misunderstood. No matter. There seem to be a great many letters from her friends. I am sure I can find material there. She was obviously a hoarder!’ She smiled. ‘Indeed.’ He stood up suddenly. ‘Shall we go to the studio and take a look?’ She followed him into the lush garden with its kaleidoscope of flowers, the grass perhaps a little too long now. It showed a trail of damp footprints behind them and she felt her feet grow wet in her sandals. Did he have a gardener, she wondered, or did he do it himself at weekends? She felt a pang of guilt. Their precious little garden behind the gallery was overgrown. It looked unloved. Neither she nor Robin had the time to look after it any more. Mike produced a key and opened the door to the studio. He went in and looked round. ‘You seem to have tidied up. Or was that Dolly?’ ‘Me!’ Lucy moved over to the table. ‘I needed space to work and make notes. There is a tremendous amount of stuff here. Even her clothes.’ She moved over to a couple of large cardboard boxes. ‘Shoes. Hats. Handbags.’ ‘Ah.’ For a moment he looked uncomfortable. ‘Charlotte may have misunderstood when I said we should put her papers out here. She seems to have brought everything.’ ‘It’s a small house,’ Lucy said sympathetically. ‘I’m sure you both need the space. I’ll go through it all and then perhaps you can decide what should be kept. For the archive,’ she added hastily, afraid she might have overstepped the mark. ‘Good idea.’ He glanced round helplessly. ‘There seems to be an awful lot more stuff than I expected. How on earth are you going to find time to go through everything?’ ‘With great difficulty if I can only come once or twice a week.’ She glanced up at him frankly. He shook his head. ‘I can see that. Perhaps we can find a way of circumventing Dolly’s surveillance.’ For a moment she was speechless. ‘Does she give the orders round here then?’ she said at last. He screwed up his face quizzically. ‘Pretty much. I rely on her such a lot. You can see why. I’m away most of the time and she has been coming here for more than forty years. The house and garden wouldn’t survive without her. ‘I see.’ Lucy sighed. ‘Sorry. It’s not my business anyway. It won’t be hard obviously to sort out the paperwork from the other stuff.’ She gave a reluctant smile. ‘Then I’ll try and roughly put it into some kind of chronological order. I hope she won’t mind me using a computer?’ ‘Now. Now.’ The reprimand was gentle. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. We are going to help you as much as we can.’ She felt very small suddenly. ‘Sorry. It’s frustration. I can’t wait to start.’ ‘Then why not start now? I won’t get in your way. Perhaps we can adjourn to the pub at lunchtime to compare notes?’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this but I’m afraid there is still much more in the house.’ She made a face. ‘It is her whole life, Michael. May I call you Michael? Mrs Davis, Dolly, is always so formal. But as long as there is room in the studio we can go on bringing it over here. It is all stacking away quite neatly.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I take it you have no reservations about all this. You haven’t changed your mind about me working here?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve got anything to hide. If I had the slightest inkling that there was I wouldn’t let you within a mile of it all. Please don’t let Dolly put you off. And it’s Mike. Please.’ She watched as he strode back across the lawn towards the shed in the far corner. Ah, her question about lawn mowing was about to be answered. She saw him bend to pick up a red fuel can from just inside the door. He shook it experimentally, nodded as though satisfied there was enough fuel for his enterprise and then dragged the mower out into the sunshine. Leaving the door open to let in the sunlight she turned back to the boxes. Almost at once she struck gold. A small battered attach? case had been pushed into one of the large cardboard cartons, together with several shabby leather handbags. Lucy was about to push the whole lot to one side when she saw the locks on the case. One of them had flipped open. She pulled the case out of the box and set it on the table. The other lock was stiff but after some tugging it reluctantly sprang back as well, releasing a musty smell of old leather. Inside the lid there were several suede pockets, ragged now and full of small holes as though they had been nibbled by some insect, one full of unused envelopes, the others stuffed with sheets of paper closely covered in small scrawled writing, much crossed out and rewritten. Pulling out a handful she stared down at them. Was this Evie’s handwriting? She set the sheets down on the table and selected one, trying to decipher the words. It has come to my notice that … then a bit that was crossed out. Lucy squinted at it … you have been less than honest, then another bit more clear this time. How could you do this to me? Lucy hooked her foot around the leg of the stool behind her, pulling it closer and she sat down, her eyes glued to the sheet of paper. It was the rough draft of a letter. Carefully she read it through. There was much in the same vein – recriminations, anger, frustration – the strongest passages crossed and recrossed out, softened, reworded. She turned over the last sheet. Nothing. She sorted through all the sheets. Of this particular letter there was no beginning and no ending. To her enormous frustration there was no way of telling who it had been addressed to or the date. The other fragments of paper she pulled out were varied and torn but some, to her great delight, were actually about Evie’s painting. ‘Yes!’ Lucy murmured. This was what she wanted. She glanced over her shoulder towards the door. Mike was moving steadily behind the mower in the distance, partially hidden behind a couple of ancient apple trees. Her first instinct had been to call him and show him what she had found but something made her pause. In spite of what he had said she still wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced that he was wholly on side about the biography. If I had the slightest inkling that there was anything to hide I wouldn’t let you within a mile. The words echoed in her head for a moment. There was a warning there; a threat even. If she uncovered more personal stuff was he likely to confiscate it or worse, burn it? She had heard of families reacting like that before. She hesitated, tempted to stuff the contentious pages into her bag. No, that would be unforgivable, stealing. But perhaps just for now she would quietly put them safely to one side and wait to see what else turned up. It was after one o’clock when Mike stuck his head round the door. ‘Would this be a good moment to stroll up to the pub?’ He stepped into the studio and fished in his pocket for a piece of paper. ‘Put this somewhere safe before I forget. The address of the farm where Evie was brought up. I don’t have the phone number, I’m afraid, but it is owned by some people called Chappell.’ She tucked the scrap of paper into her tote then she grabbed her purse out of the bag and followed him. They made their way up the lane towards the village. A cluster of houses, most built of flint like Rosebank, some old red brick and some timber framed, clustered around a small green, next to which was the village church. The thatched, picture-book country inn, the upper storey covered in hung tiles, was a few minutes’ walk further on up the lane. ‘So, have you found anything useful?’ He introduced her to the couple who ran the pub and they had ordered at the bar before finding themselves a table on the terrace at the back. ‘I’m still sorting stuff out.’ Lucy sat down in the shade of a pergola covered with yet more roses. ‘It seems to me she kept every single bill and bank statement and receipt she ever had.’ He laughed. ‘That will make for a singularly dull biography.’ ‘It will if that’s all I can find.’ She reached up to her dark glasses tucked on top of her head and slid them down onto her nose. ‘I hope you have lots of anecdotes you can tell me to fill out the gaps between her visits to the bank. Gossip, scandal, family rows. That sort of thing.’ She was watching him from behind the glasses and she saw him look away suddenly. He was quite handsome, she decided, in an unorthodox kind of way. ‘All families have secrets,’ she went on gently, ‘and sometimes there is no reason for them to be secret any more. Times passes. The people involved have died.’ She paused hopefully, taking a sip from her wine glass. Mike sat back in his rustic chair with a sigh. Beneath him the wood creaked in sympathy. ‘I think there were family rows. The trouble is they would have been when I was too young to understand them and once I had my own life, you know how kids are, I wasn’t really interested. I loved my grandmother, but I’m afraid I was more interested in me. And so was she. She was fantastically modern in her outlook. She never talked about the past.’ He looked up sharply. ‘If I’m honest, I’d rather you stuck to the subject of her painting. You know she went to the Royal College of Art before she became a war artist? Now that is a topic people would find intriguing. She never completed the course because of the war. Instead she worked on the family farm. That is how she gained access to the airfields. Through her brother, Ralph, sketching between her stints milking cows.’ August 27th 1940 It had been a peaceful day compared to the last two; Tony had sat longer than usual over his lunch listening to the general discussion in the Mess about the reason for the lull. Were the Germans licking their wounds or were they planning an even more lethal raid? The consensus seemed to be with the latter view but in the meantime some of the men were planning an evening around supper at The Dolphin in Chichester. Tony found his thoughts wandering. To Evie. Again. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. That kiss, three days before, so spontaneous, so electrifying, had burned its way into his very being. This had never happened to him before. He was used to girls falling at his feet, metaphorically at least, and her chippy reaction to him had fascinated him. She was sparky, intriguing, vivacious. Nothing like anyone he had ever met before and he wanted to see her again, badly. ‘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 attach? 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 na?ve 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.’ ‘You have a lovely clothes sense.’ He glanced down at her frock. It was a deep blue, with a marcasite brooch at the neck. She had changed from her overalls while he turned the car in the yard. ‘One day I will drape you with furs and diamonds!’ She giggled. ‘That sounds wonderful. But not me. I am always covered in charcoal dust and paint stains.’ She held out her hands to prove the point. They were sturdy hands, rough from the hard work around the farm and there were traces of bright blue around her nails. He caught hold of them and held them for a moment. She thought he was going to bend forward to kiss them but he sat still, staring at her face, his eyes dreamy, just holding them. She found she could hardly breathe suddenly. Her heart was thumping unsteadily in her chest as she lost herself in the blue of his eyes. It was several minutes before he looked away and at last he gave her fingers a squeeze and let them go. Far away they heard the sound of the air raid siren. 7 (#ulink_e5c53328-8933-535d-beed-47c1cbfcb9e4) Sunday 14th July ‘Why didn’t you call us?’ Phil pushed a glass of Pimm’s into her hand as they stood round the cooker in his and Robin’s kitchen next morning. ‘You know we would have come.’ Behind them the table was littered with Sunday papers and the room smelled deliciously of the major fry-up Robin was conjuring into existence in the huge pan. ‘I can’t keep calling you every time I think I have seen something which isn’t there,’ Lucy said crossly. ‘I just can’t.’ She saw the two men exchange glances and she glared at them furiously. ‘I’m beginning to think I’m going mad. I admit I am getting a bit obsessed with the picture and Evie and everything, but he was so real.’ She hadn’t mentioned the fact that she thought someone had painted out the figure behind Evie. This morning the picture was untouched, the young man once more grinning cheerfully over Evie’s shoulder. ‘Do you think he’s a ghost?’ She chewed her lip for a moment. ‘No. The whole thing is getting ludicrous. It was probably the storm. I hate thunder, it always gives me a splitting headache and I was tired anyway. I was probably hallucinating, no more no less. And it wasn’t as if the figure was frightening. Not really.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘But you think it was Ralph. Did you try and speak to him?’ Robin put down his spoon and grabbed his glass. ‘I think I said his name.’ ‘And he didn’t reply?’ ‘No, but.’ She frowned uncertainly. ‘I felt he wanted to. He looked straight at me.’ She glanced at Robin, then at Phil. ‘Have either of you ever seen a ghost?’ Both men shook their heads . ‘My mum believed in ghosts,’ Phil said after a moment. ‘She saw them, but she was Irish.’ He grinned. ‘Do you have to be Irish?’ Lucy smiled miserably. ‘No, of course not.’ Phil became serious. ‘No, I think they could exist. A lot of people say they have seen them.’ ‘I don’t know much about ghosts,’ Lucy went on. ‘He wasn’t transparent or anything. But what else could he be? He looked like a real man and yet he wasn’t.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t explain it.’ ‘But it wasn’t a hallucination, was it? However much you try and convince yourself.’ Robin put down his glass and turned back to the pan. ‘So, what we need is an expert on these things. An exorcist maybe?’ ‘No.’ Lucy said sharply. ‘I don’t want him exorcised.’ She sat down at the table and pushed aside the papers. ‘If he is a ghost, I want to know what he wants.’ ‘Then you need a medium,’ Phil put in. He reached for the jug of Pimm’s and topped up her glass. ‘Someone who can talk to him and ask him questions. My mum used to go and see a medium.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘So, what is wrong with that suggestion?’ ‘I think it is me he wants to talk to. It’s to do with the picture, isn’t it? Even if he’s not in it.’ ‘Did you tell the guy at Rosebank what you had seen?’ She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t the right moment.’ ‘Why not? Presumably Ralph was his uncle.’ ‘Great-uncle.’ Lucy nodded. ‘For all you know he haunts him as well.’ ‘No. I asked him that.’ The two men looked at each other again. ‘Ah, so it is just you he haunts?’ Phil said. ‘Looks like it.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Great, isn’t it?’ ‘He’s not trying to scare you, though. He definitely wants to tell you something.’ ‘That’s if you assume “he”,’ Robin hooked his two forefingers in the air to convey the inverted commas, ‘is anything at all.’ Phil and Lucy turned towards him. He bent over the cooker and flipped a rasher of bacon over in the pan. ‘Lucy was the one who said she was hallucinating,’ Robin protested. ‘This does all seem a bit far-fetched, you must admit.’ ‘Lucy thinks he’s real,’ Phil said. ‘No I don’t,’ Lucy wailed. ‘Or at least, yes I do. What does real mean, anyway?’ ‘OK. Stop the conversation right there.’ Robin put down the spoon and clapped his hands. ‘Food is ready. This, Lucy, is our once a month treat, a reward for all that healthy porridge we have for breakfast the rest of the time, so I want no arguments. You eat what is put in front of you, right, my darling? Sit down guys and girls and let us eat. Our brains will work much better on full tummies!’ Lucy laughed. ‘We are sitting down. Hadn’t you noticed?’ ‘Good.’ Robin hefted the pan onto the table. ‘Help yourselves. Bacon, egg, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast is on its way. Coffee, more Pimm’s.’ He sat down opposite them. ‘Three cheers for the cook?’ ‘Definitely.’ Phil loaded a plate from the pan and put it down in front of Lucy. ‘I bet you didn’t have any supper last night.’ ‘No, as a matter of fact.’ She had said he wasn’t frightening, and he wasn’t. But something was. She thought back for a moment to the cold terror which had gripped her as she closed the door on the studio. She had gone through into the living room and huddled on the sofa hugging a cushion until she had fallen into an uneasy sleep. ‘There is one thing, though,’ she picked up her knife and fork, ‘he never moves. He doesn’t smile. He is just – there. I feel he can see me, but thinking about it, I wonder if he can. I think I am just someone in front of him. I tried to convince myself last night that, even if he is not in it, he is a part of the portrait. Like the smell of oil and turpentine would be if it was new. Did he attach himself to it in some way when it was being painted? Is he no more than a shadow stuck on the paint before it dried?’ There was a long moment of silence. ‘That sounds desperately sad,’ Robin said at last. ‘I think I would rather he was a proper ghost.’ ‘But you don’t have to live with him,’ she retorted tartly. ‘True.’ Robin climbed to his feet as the toaster on the worktop regurgitated four slices of toast, evenly browned. He juggled one onto each of their plates and tossed the spare piece into the pan. ‘I still think you need to see someone about this,’ Phil said. He reached for the marmalade and spread a large spoonful on his toast. The other two stared aghast. ‘You can’t have marmalade with bacon,’ Robin said after another second’s pause. ‘Why not? The Americans do. It’s fantastic. Try it.’ Phil dug the spoon into the jar and homed in on Robin’s plate. ‘No way!’ Robin pulled it out of the way. ‘That is grounds for divorce.’ Phil laughed. ‘Fair enough.’ He dropped the spoon back in the jar and glanced at Lucy. ‘Honestly. I think you need to talk this through with someone who knows about this sort of thing. For all sorts of reasons.’ She reached for the coffee pot. ‘Because of Larry, you mean? But it isn’t Larry, is it? I wish so much it was.’ She poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped it slowly, her face suddenly once more a picture of misery. Robin leaned forward and touched the back of her hand lightly. ‘He’s at peace now, Luce. Let it be. This other guy isn’t. Presumably. If he is a ghost.’ He leaned over and turned on the radio. ‘Right, change of subject. I want to see that food eaten after all my hard work. I don’t want to see you languishing away into nothing.’ He gave Phil a wink. ‘And that goes for you, too.’ It was after four when Lucy finally returned to the gallery. It had been hard leaving the warmth and friendship of the little house in Lion Street. She felt secure there and cosseted, but she had to get back. She walked upstairs and went straight to the studio door, pushing it open. The room was full of sunlight, the painting as she had left it, Evie and the young man behind her untouched. There was no sign of Ralph. She stood for a moment, waiting, before turning her back and walking through into the living room leaving the door open behind her. The sheaf of papers she had smuggled out of Rosebank Cottage lay on the table by the window. Drawing up a chair she sat down and began to read through Evie’s notes again, slowly and carefully this time, scrutinising every word. Almost every page seemed to be the core of a separate letter. Lucy suspected Evie found letter writing difficult. She was anxious to get the wording right, often feeling she had committed herself to something she had not intended and reworking the letter until it became bland and characterless. The only one that spread to more than a page was the first she had looked at, which she found, once she had sorted them, extended over nearly three pages of foolscap. It was infuriating not to know who Evie was writing to. She sat back and sighed. Perhaps there were more letters like this one back at the studio waiting to be unearthed. It took an hour to scan all the pages into the computer downstairs, before placing them in a brown envelope ready to return them to Rosebank. She wondered how she was going to categorise everything she found. It had been stupid to worry about taking the papers away. How else was she going to sort them and write a book? Dolly Davis might not trust her but obviously Mike did. Switching off the scanner she stood up, the envelope in her hand, deep in thought. Liaising with Mike wasn’t quite that easy, though, was it? However friendly he had been yesterday at the studio and over lunch, which he had paid for, not allowing her to contribute anything, she had the feeling he was holding her at arm’s length. He was charming and attractive, no doubt about that, but there was something reserved about him. Her instincts were usually fairly good about people and she kept coming back to the unease she had felt when they had said goodbye. He had said he would be back in time for supper and asked her to stay but she had the feeling he didn’t mean it. He had expressed worry about her driving through the storm, but she was sure he didn’t actually want her to stay too long. Was it that he was afraid of what his girlfriend would say when she heard he had been spending time with another woman? Hardly. Surely it was obvious to everyone she was not, never would be, in the market for a relationship. Not after losing Larry. So it had to be to do with the research into Evie. But if he didn’t want her to do it all he had to do was say so. Again the words of his caveat came into her head: If we had anything to hide … I wouldn’t let you within a mile. Did what she had just read hint at some kind of secret or was it merely a spat with a local tradesman? But then again, Mike had invited her to use the cottage. He had given her a key. She could go there whenever she wanted. Not the actions of a man with something to hide. She put the envelope down on the table. Before she left Lion Street, Robin had taken her hands in his. ‘Listen. We’ve talked, and we agree. Starting tomorrow I am going to come up to take care of the gallery every day to give you the chance to get this Evie stuff sorted. We think it’s weighing on you, the research, and we think you need to get it all sorted as soon as possible. So, OK? No argument. It is settled.’ And so it was. Tomorrow she would go back and take the chance to walk round the cottage alone, to get a real feel of the place and to look through Evie’s more personal belongings before Dolly came and took them away. September 5th 1940 Rachel was out when Tony Anderson came up to the farm the next day. ‘I’ve been given a few hours off.’ He leaped out of the car, having drawn up near the kitchen door. Evie had just been going out to feed the hens. She stopped, a bowl of scraps in her hand. The dogs were up in the fields with her father. ‘Sorry,’ he went on, seeing the flash of irritation on her face. ‘Is it not convenient?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s never convenient!’ She sighed. She hesitated. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant I am always busy. There is always something to do on the farm. Tony,’ she smiled at him. ‘I had such a good time last night. Thank you for the meal.’ He had brought her back about ten p.m., dropping her off in the yard after a quick almost apologetic kiss. For a second they had both hesitated, both thinking of the last time, when he had kissed her. But the moment passed. She opened the door and climbed out. ‘Thank you, Tony,’ she had whispered. ‘Will I see you again?’ She thought he nodded and for another second they looked at each other, silent in the darkness, then he had put his foot on the throttle and the little car had roared away down the drive. She looked at him now, overwhelmed by the urge to reach up and touch his face. She pushed the feeling away sternly. ‘Now you’re here I’ve something to show you.’ She turned back into the house and put the bowl down on the table. ‘Follow me.’ He was hard on her heels as she ran up the two flights to the attic studio and opened the door. ‘My goodness, this is fabulous,’ he exclaimed as they walked in. The room was flooded with light from the skylight windows, and warm from the summer sun outside. It smelled of the wood of the old twisted roof frame, and of paint and turpentine. He stared round. ‘Oh wow! Look at your paintings, and there –’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘That’s me!’ ‘It certainly is.’ She laughed. ‘It’s for your mum and dad. I thought they would like it. It is a present.’ ‘Oh, Evie!’ He stood staring in front of the easel. ‘Oh, Evie!’ ‘You just said that.’ Suddenly she was worried. ‘You do like it?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ He turned to her and put out his arms. ‘Oh yes, yes, yes!’ She stepped towards him and he enveloped her in a huge bear hug. There was a split second when she could have moved back. Could have laughed. Could have turned to run down the stairs but she didn’t. She shut her eyes as his arms closed round her and she knew that she was lost. As though magnetised she raised her face to his. Their kiss lasted for what seemed like an eternity. When at last they drew apart neither of them spoke. He took her hand and led her back to stand in front of the picture. ‘You’ve painted the man you are going to marry,’ he whispered. Her eyes widened. He was joking. But for once he looked serious. For a moment she felt a wave of panic, then almost reluctantly she nodded. ‘I think I knew it from the first moment I set eyes on you.’ ‘When you swore at me?’ ‘When I swore at you.’ She smiled. She turned to look at him again, her whole body flooded with sudden anxiety. ‘You are joking?’ ‘No, I don’t think I am,’ he said slowly. But the sparkle was back in his eyes. ‘Have you felt like this before?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Never.’ He put his arms round her again and buried his face in her hair. ‘You smell nice. Sort of like paint and hay and straw, oh, and cows.’ ‘Thank you!’ She pushed him away and smacked his arm. ‘No.’ He caught her arms and pulled her back. ‘It is the nicest thing I have ever smelled. Shall I ask your dad for his permission to marry his daughter?’ She giggled. ‘You can’t.’ ‘Why? I’m sure he would expect it.’ ‘After one kiss?’ ‘Two.’ ‘Tony. We don’t know each other.’ ‘That’s perfect. We will explore everything there is to explore. We will go together into the mysteries. You shall be my America, my New-found-land. Do you read John Donne? You need to know all about me. And I need to know all about you.’ He paused and to her horror she saw sudden tears in his eyes. ‘There is so little time, Evie. Who knows what will happen? I’m so scared.’ They clung together for a long time. Outside the sun went behind a cloud and the studio grew dim. It was very quiet. The scent of the warmed oak beams was heavy in the air. At last he drew away. ‘I want you to come to a dance with me tonight. In Chichester. At the squash club. Please.’ ‘All right.’ She laughed. ‘I’d love to.’ She washed her hair and changed into a dress while he waited in the kitchen, drinking tea. When she appeared he sat gazing at her, speechless. Her hair was still damp, still irrepressibly wild even where she had tried to tame the curls into fashionable sausage-shaped loops to bounce on her shoulders. Her dress was brightly coloured in blue and white, the padded shoulders and swirling skirt emphasising her narrow waist. She giggled when she saw his face. ‘Will I do?’ ‘You’ll do.’ She followed him out to the car. ‘This will blow my hair everywhere,’ she said as he helped her into the narrow front seat. He laughed. ‘You will look gorgeous whatever it does. At least it will be dry.’ He raised an eyebrow as he touched it gently and brought his hand away dripping. The room was decorated with flowers and flags, the band sitting on a dais at the back. It was crowded already when they arrived. ‘Can you dance?’ He caught her hand and pulled her onto the floor to find a small space to themselves. She laughed and nodded. ‘Can you?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ Tony was a brilliant dancer. The band was fantastic and Evie was in seventh heaven. They jived, they danced to the latest big band tunes, they paused to drink luke-warm fruit juice and they danced again, throwing themselves into the swing, the boogie, and then at last, they waltzed. As he put his arms around her he looked down into her eyes. ‘Still going to marry me?’ She laughed. ‘I think I just might.’ ‘Good.’ He bent and kissed her on the lips. Evie closed her eyes. She rested her head against his shoulder and lost herself in the dream of his embrace. She felt safe there, and warm and happy. She wanted the dance to last forever but all too soon the exhausted band was striking up the National Anthem. Tony and the other servicemen stood to attention and his arms fell away. She leaned against him gently. Outside in the street it was very dark. He caught her hand. ‘Come on. Let’s find the car. I’ll run you home, then I have to go back.’ She nodded. ‘I know.’ ‘The next time I get an hour or two off I will come to see you, but you can come to us. Draw me in my Spitfire. Show posterity what good-looking pilots there are in my squadron. Give me a reason to come back safe.’ ‘I’ll do that. I’ll come tomorrow.’ She managed a smile. For a moment neither of them was capable of saying anything more. He opened the little door for her to slide into the car and they drove back through the dark lanes, the blacked out headlights barely showing up the narrow road and overhanging hedges. At the farm he pulled up outside the back door. They could hear the dogs barking from the kitchen. ‘Mummy is still up,’ she whispered. He nodded. She turned to him. ‘Thank you for a perfect evening. Don’t get out. I don’t want to say goodbye.’ She leaned across and kissed him lightly on the forehead then she slipped out of the car and ran towards the door without looking back. Monday 15th July Rosebank Cottage was bleak in the rain. Inserting the key into the lock and letting herself into the hall, Lucy stood for a moment looking round. ‘Hello?’ she called nervously. ‘Is there anyone there?’ She had half expected Dolly to be there but the house was empty. The lights were off, the doors and windows shut, the only sign of life a fly buzzing angrily against a window pane. She walked into the kitchen. The silence was broken by the sound of a tap dripping slowly into the sink. Lucy stepped forward and turned it off with a shiver. It felt as though someone had just that minute walked out of the room. The atmosphere was tense, the room alive. She touched the kettle gently, anticipating it to be warm. It was stone cold. It wasn’t Dolly she was expecting to find here, she realised suddenly. It was the former owner of the cottage. ‘Evie?’ She spoke out loud, questioning, waiting for an answer. There was none. And yet she had the feeling that Evie was there, somewhere, waiting to be summoned. She went back through into the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up. The steps were narrow and uneven, polished oak, turning sharply halfway up so that she couldn‘t see the top. She took a deep breath and set her foot on the bottom step, wincing as it let out an agonised creak. There were two small bedrooms opening off the landing at the top and a bathroom. She hesitated again, feeling intrusive, even a little prurient as she peered first into one room and then into the next. But then Mike had told her she could use the bathroom and there was nothing to see in the two bedrooms which spoke of the present-day occupants. The rooms were neat and tidy, impersonal. She wondered if that was because Evie’s belongings were now stacked up in the studio and she felt a wave of sadness for having been the cause of her exile from her own home. She stood in the slightly larger of the two bedrooms and looked round. It was several seconds before, cautiously, she went over to the chest of drawers and pulled the top drawer open a crack. It was empty, as was the drawer below it. They smelled faintly musty. Obviously they had been recently emptied. Lucy turned and looked at the pictures on the walls and felt an immediate pang of disappointment. There was nothing here by Evie herself. She peered at each in turn. There was one by the door, two on the opposite wall and a cluster of small prints near the window. She peered at them closely, noticing the fade marks on the wallpaper beneath them. They didn’t match. There had been other pictures here but they had been moved and not all that long ago. Was this the mysterious Christopher’s handiwork? If so he had obviously been very thorough. The pictures which had gone had been very small. She groaned quietly. She was going to have to ask Mike about his cousin and see if he would give her his address. There were obviously going to be pictures in his custody which had never been in the public domain at all and which would be crucial to include in a complete survey of Evie’s work. There was a creak on the staircase and she spun round. ‘Hello?’ she called nervously. She was overwhelmed with guilt again, horrified to have been caught poking round the house even though she had every right to be there. She tiptoed to the doorway and peered out. There was no one there. She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. From here she couldn’t see the bottom because of the bend in the flight. The house was silent again. ‘Is there anyone there,’ she called. The sound of her voice was overloud and intrusive in the silence. There was no reply. Cautiously she set foot on the top step. Slowly she began to descend, wincing at the creaks and groans from the staircase beneath her. The cottage was empty. She worked for two hours in the studio, then paused to make herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She had amassed a pile of papers and notebooks and was beginning to get a feel of what had gone on. Christopher – or whoever had done the preliminary sweep of Evie’s belongings in the past – had, at least at first glance, taken everything that was obviously of potential value, that much was clear. As far as she could see, there were no sketchbooks or paintings, no drawings or notebooks with what she would describe as painterly annotations, no small sketches, scraps or doodles. But there were other things which were of value, at least to her. Notes, more letter fragments and letters from other people including some from dealers, referring to paintings she had never heard of, sometimes with quite detailed descriptions. She began to put the papers into a series of cardboard files and to these she added those she had brought back from the gallery. She would take a few back each time to scan them so that she had the complete sequence on her computer at home. After a while she stopped and straightened her back, staring round. She had barely scratched the surface of the work to be done but at the same time she had achieved enough to feel she had made a proper start. Tomorrow she would attack the pile of boxes beside the far wall. As she was tidying up, switching off the lights, she heard the sound of footsteps on the path outside. She paused, holding her breath, looking towards the door. The studio was silent. From somewhere in the distance she heard a blackbird’s harsh alarm note echoing through the garden. On tiptoe she moved towards the door and took hold of the handle. She waited for a few seconds, listening, then she pulled open the door. There was no one there. Behind her, a jar of brushes, caught by the sudden draught, rocked for a moment and fell to the floor with a crash. September 6th 1940 Ralph was standing in the kitchen looking from his father to his mother and back. ‘We need to tell her. Eddie is cheating her out of a lot of money.’ He pulled up a chair and sitting down at the scrubbed deal table leaned forward earnestly on his elbows. Dudley sat down opposite him. The dogs, Jez and Sal, threw themselves down at his feet. ‘And how exactly do you know that, son?’ Ralph felt a quick surge of his old antagonism towards his father. Always the need to doubt him, to disbelieve. ‘I was in Chi. I walked down Westgate and I saw a couple of her pictures in the window of a little gallery there. The price on them was astronomic. Far more than he is giving her.’ Rachel was leaning with her back to the sink. ‘How do we know what he is giving her?’ ‘She told me. She was so pleased. He gave her two quid for her picture of the barn with the roses growing over it. It is there, in the window priced at five guineas.’ Dudley snorted. ‘I always thought he was sharp enough to cut himself, that one.’ He sighed. ‘He has to make a turn on them, and so does the shop,’ Rachel put in. ‘That much?’ Ralph looked at his mother in indignation. ‘I would have gone in and talked to them about it but the place was closed. I will go though, another time, and find out just what is going on with Eddie. I don’t want my baby sister being made a fool of. Where is she, anyway?’ ‘She biked down to the airfield. Eddie was complaining that she wasn’t producing enough for her portfolio for the War Artists Committee. You know how much she wants to be recognised by them.’ Rachel paused thoughtfully. ‘There weren’t any pictures of the airfield in the shop, were there?’ Ralph shook his head. ‘Just farm scenes. Chocolate box stuff.’ ‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’ ‘I don’t think she would be allowed to sell pictures of the airfield,’ Ralph said thoughtfully. ‘She’s not even supposed to be there. Eddie seems convinced it’s OK, and that he can convince the WAAC that she would be a credible witness, but they are not keen at all on women doing this sort of thing. They are supposed to be painting other women, not dogfights in the sky.’ Rachel sighed. ‘She has set her sights on this. I don’t think we can stop her. And she won’t argue with Eddie. She doesn’t want to put her chances of being accepted at risk. He does seem to have influence in a lot of places. I wish he didn’t, but I don’t think we should interfere. She’ll sort it out.’ Ralph pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll speak to her when I have had the chance to go back and talk to them. Don’t worry,’ he added as his mother opened her mouth to argue. ‘I will be tactful. Besides, I don’t think Eddie is quite as high in favour as he once was. Our Evie has her eye on a new beau.’ He smiled. Dudley let out a guffaw of laughter. ‘That blond Scots boy? I saw her ogling him the other day.‘ ‘I’m not surprised,’ Rachel said with a smile. ‘He’s a real charmer.’ She went over and lifted the kettle off the hob. Carrying it back to the tap she half filled it and returned it to the stove. ‘I wouldn’t be sorry to see her distance herself a bit from Eddie but at the same time she needs to be careful. He could destroy her chances of a career in art with a snap of his fingers. He’s only got to say something detrimental to the War Artists Advisory Committee, or in one of those reviews of his, or even to the local galleries, and it would all be over for her. I know she is talented, and one day I am sure she would make her way in the art world, but at the moment she is young and inexperienced and she doesn’t know people, at least not the way he does. As long as he thinks she respects him and is fond of him he will be a good friend to her.’ ‘Do you know what you are saying, Rachel!’ Dudley burst out. ‘Listen to yourself! Give her credit for a little pride. You seem to be telling her to sell herself to the man.’ Rachel tightened her lips. ‘I am saying nothing of the sort. I am just worrying that she might spoil her chances of real success.’ She turned to her son, a touch of heightened colour in her cheeks. ‘How long have you got, Ralph? Do you want some tea?’ ‘Go on then.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘I have to be back soon enough. A cuppa with my mum and dad gets priority over Jerry and his attacks any day.’ He pretended not to see when Rachel turned away to hide her face. ‘They are giving Portsmouth a walloping at the moment but I am sure the boys can manage without me for a bit.’ He saw his father’s raised eyebrow. ‘OK, I’ve been given a few hours off. We are getting leave in short bursts at the moment. Don’t worry. I’m not playing hooky.’ He paused. He would have to leave time for another visit though, a visit to a pretty young WAAF called Sylvie who he had met at a dance in Bognor. But time enough for Sylvie once he had drunk his cup of tea. He knew enough about his mother to realise if he mentioned a girlfriend he wouldn’t get out of the door without the third degree. He sighed. ‘You do realise I might get posted to another station one of these days, don’t you?’ he said to her gently. ‘It was incredibly lucky my squadron getting posted to Tangmere. It could just as easily have been to any other station in England.’ Rachel nodded. ‘We’ll make the most of it while you’re here,’ she whispered. She cleared her throat and, turning away, walked stiffly across the kitchen. ‘I’ve some fruit cake here in the pantry. I think you deserve a bit as it’s tea-time.’ There was a moment’s silence as she clattered about out of sight. When she reappeared with a plate in her hand, her eyes were suspiciously bright. Evie had spent the morning sketching the Nissen huts and the ground crew. The squadron had taken off before she arrived and, touching down swiftly to refuel and rearm, had taken off again without her having the chance to see Tony. She had concentrated on her job, sketching furiously, making notes, planning a series of paintings which she could work on in her studio at home. The flight commander of B flight had invited her into the Officers’ Mess for a snack lunch and the chance to admire the new china someone had given them to add to the furniture which had been donated to make life more comfortable. She had accepted in the hope that Tony would appear at some point, but he had, she was told at last, landed at Tangmere with a leak in a fuel line after catching some shrapnel in the fuselage of his plane. She didn’t see him until late that afternoon when he arrived at the farm with a bandage on his arm. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said cheerily when Evie flew out to meet him in the yard. ‘A splinter, that’s all.’ She flung her arms round his neck and he let out a yell. ‘Ow! Careful!’ ‘Sorry, sorry!’ She backed away horrified. ‘Did I hurt you? Oh, Tony, I’m sorry.’ His face was white. ‘No, I’m fine.’ He managed a grin. ‘Patched up by a local body snatcher. I’m healing already. But I’m not allowed to fly for a couple of days in case I prang the old bus. So, I am all yours.’ Evie gazed at him. ‘My parents are up in the top field stooking the last of the barley. They won’t be home till dark. I should be going up there too.’ She smiled at him then she took his hand. ‘Let’s go inside and I’ll find you some beer. Then we could go upstairs if you like.’ He caught her hand. ‘Can we go for a walk first? Just stroll about. Do you mind?’ She gazed at him, taken aback. ‘You don’t want a beer?’ He smiled, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous twinkle. ‘Of course I do. And I want to be alone with you. You know I do. I just want to walk and talk first. It’s all been a bit too exciting, the last few days.’ He drew breath as though to say something else and changed his mind. ‘If we were to –’ he waved his good arm in the air as though unable to find the words to describe what was in his mind, ‘you know, make love,’ he paused again, then took a deep breath. ‘I respect your parents, Evie. And you. I don’t want us to, you know, do anything which would upset things. It’s too important we get this right.’ She grinned. ‘You old romantic! Nothing we do is going to upset things, Tony. I know I am young, but I was an art student,’ she said gently. ‘I was living in London before the war.’ For a moment he looked taken aback, then his face creased into its usual irrepressible grin. ‘That was then,’ he said. He leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘Come on.’ He took her hand and pulled her towards the door. They walked across the yard, down past the duck pond and then up the track towards the hillside where their flock of Southdown sheep were quietly grazing in the sunshine. Beyond, the South Downs stretched out from the farm east and west, whilst to the south the flat lands of Sussex spread out towards the English Channel. The farm lay in a fold of gentle hills and wooded slopes, the soft grasses spangled with wild flowers, the stubble of the fields lying gold in the afternoon sun. It was an idyllic setting, the setting Evie painted with such love in her pictures of England in happier times, England before the war. The England she no longer wanted to show. ‘Right.’ Tony stopped, faced her and put out his hand. ‘Let’s start from the beginning again. If we are going to marry, we have to be introduced properly, as if our parents were here. Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucas. Can I tell you something about myself?’ She giggled. Holding out her hand, she shook his. ‘Pleased to meet you too. Tell me everything.’ ‘I am twenty-one years old, three-quarters of the way through my law degree at Edinburgh University. If I get out of this war alive,’ he took a deep breath and went on, ‘I want to go back and finish it. It was my dream, to be a lawyer. It still is.’ He was silent for a moment. Evie said nothing. She was studying his face. ‘I am the only child of Alistair and Betty Anderson who live near Wigtown in the south-west of Scotland. They are farmers a bit like your parents except they own mountainous land instead of downs. We have a lovely stone farmhouse which has been in our family for several generations,’ he went on slowly, ‘and they are heartbroken that I didn’t want to be a farmer, but they have encouraged me to follow my heart.’ He paused and took another deep breath. ‘If I am going to be a lawyer I would have to go back to Scotland after the war, so you would have to come and live with me in Edinburgh.’ He paused again. ‘But you would love my parents, I know you would, and they would love you. We will go and see them often.’ ‘Tony, wait.’ She put her finger against his lips to silence him. ‘This is all getting a bit serious.’ ‘I am serious.’ They reached a gate in the hedge and turned through it onto the grassy shoulder of the Down, skirting a hanger of hazel trees clinging to the steeper slopes and following a sheep track towards the summit, sewn with harebells and cat’s-ears. He reached out for her hand so he could pull her behind him. ‘Come on. I want to see the view from the top.’ They made love in a shallow hollow, sheltered from the wind, serenaded by the song of a skylark far overhead. Afterwards Evie lay on her back, her arm across her eyes, sleepy and content, inhaling the smell of the soft grass while Tony sat up staring into the distance. The sound of the binder, carried on the wind from the distance, where her parents were working in the barley field far below them, was clattery but monotonous, lulling them both in the gentle warmth. They kissed long and gently then they made love again, and it was only the sound of the distant throb of aircraft engines high in the south which made them draw apart and sit up. Evie reached for her blouse and pulled it on with a shiver. ‘The first raid this afternoon.’ Tony dressed hurriedly and shaking his head sat down again beside her. ‘I wish I was down at the airfield. I hate not being part of it all.’ ‘They’ll manage without you, just this once.’ She put her arm round his shoulders, avoiding his injured arm. ‘I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Tony Anderson.’ He laughed. ‘I should hope so after what we’ve been doing.’ He picked a small blue flower out of the grass and threaded it into her hair. ‘I shall buy you a ring.’ ‘A flower will do.’ She reached across and kissed his lips. ‘Do you know what it is? It’s called milkwort. It is an emblem of eternal love.’ ‘Not really?’ She smiled. ‘No, not really. But it is for me. I shall press it and treasure it forever.’ She fell silent as the planes approached, the specks in the sky growing larger in tight formation. ‘Stukas and Messerschmitts. Where are our boys? What are they waiting for?’ He rose to his knees. Evie pulled him down. ‘Careful. They might see us!’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘I think they have their eye on rather larger targets than a couple of small people in a field. Like Southampton. Ah,’ he gave a satisfied exclamation as a formation of planes appeared high in the east. ‘At last.’ He narrowed his eyes in the glare. ‘Is that our boys or are they from Tangmere? Both probably. There. More of them. At last!’ The squadrons peeling off high over the wood had split, one section taking on the bombers heading west, and the others cutting in amongst the escorting fighters. In seconds the sky was a mass of diving and wheeling planes, the sound of engines screaming through the silence of the afternoon. They sat side by side watching in awed fascination at the battle being fought over their heads. ‘The Battle of Britain,’ Tony said at last, his voice full of awe. ‘Did you hear Churchill’s speech on the wireless when he said that? It is in full swing and I am missing it!’ ‘You are not missing it, Tony. You have a ringside seat,’ Evie said at last. ‘Think of it as research. You are watching their manoeuvring and their tactics so that you will know how to react when you are up there too.’ They both felt the visceral excitement and the breathless tension of the encounter going on over their heads. And then as suddenly as it had started it was over. The German planes one by one turned and headed south, two trailing black smoke, one spinning at last out of sight in the far distance, presumably plunging into the sea. Two of the Spitfires followed the stragglers, harrying to the last, the others, probably out of ammunition and rapidly running out of fuel, were returning to base. For a long minute the sky was empty, then a pair of swallows swooped low over the field. Evie turned to Tony and snuggled into his arms. ‘You will soon be back in action,’ she said reassuringly. Her whole spirit was crying out in denial. She didn’t want him to go, she wanted him to stay safe here with her on the ground, but she knew she couldn’t keep him with her; he was not the sort of man to be tamed. She stood up at last and held out her hand to pull him to his feet. ‘Let’s go back to the farmhouse,’ she whispered. 8 (#ulink_e00e3ab7-e0a6-588c-8e39-3fc80a266288) Tuesday 16th July Dolly Davis was standing at her kitchen window at home, the drying up cloth in her hand, staring into space. In ten minutes she would need to leave her small terraced cottage in Midhurst to walk up to the bus stop at the end of the street, ready for the long tour of local villages which would at last drop her off near Rosebank Cottage. She had been thinking hard all night and was still turning her dilemma over in her mind. Did she trust Lucy Standish? Obviously Mr Mike did. He had told her on the telephone that he had given Mrs Standish a key to the house and to the studio and had told her she could come any day she chose, every day if she wished. He had made it very plain that she, Dolly, was not to interfere or question anything the woman did and was to give her every bit of help she could. To that effect Dolly had written down some dates and facts for Lucy, sitting down the night before with an exercise book and carefully making a list in her best writing of all the dates she could remember, starting with the date Evie had bought Rosebank Cottage. She was to write down the names and addresses of anyone she thought could help with researching the book and any details of the family she knew. Mr Mike said he was going to do the same, but he knew she probably had the key to so much more knowledge about Evie than he did. She knew he was flattering her; she wasn’t born yesterday. But on the other hand he obviously genuinely wanted her co-operation. She had written down the names of Evie’s parents and grandparents, the name of the street where she had lived in London before she came to Rosebank, she couldn’t remember the number, the names of several of Evie’s friends, the ones who used to come and visit her. She no longer knew their addresses, if she ever did, but it was something to put on the list. She omitted the address of Christopher Marston. It was up to Mr Mike if he wanted to tell her about that side of the family. At last she had put aside the notebook and stood up. Painfully she made her way up the narrow staircase, cursing her rheumatism, and she walked into the small second bedroom at the top of the stairs. Since her husband, Ronald, had died she had gratefully expanded her life into this second room which had been his for so long. He had suffered privately, as he did everything, from the pain of his long illness and died quietly one night seven years ago. She had not found him, still and peaceful in his bed, till morning when he was already cold. She had waited a year, that was only decent, then she had sorted all his belongings into bags for the charity shops or for the bin men and moved some of her own things into the room, taking time to lay it out as she liked it with a comfy chair, a table and her small electric sewing machine and cupboards and a light so she could sew in there in her own domain. In one of the cupboards was a large cardboard box. She hauled it out and sat down with it on her knee. As soon as she had realised what Christopher Marston was up to, clearing all Evie’s personal stuff out of Rosebank, she had saved what she could. It hadn’t been much, the diaries, hidden in the chest of drawers in Evie’s bedroom, two small sketchbooks and the old log book which had lain under the diaries. She had glanced at the log book and frowned in disappointment. She had thought it would be Ralph’s but it belonged to some man she had never heard of. Nevertheless she tucked it into the box with the rest and that same night, quietly, after Christopher and his wife had left, their car stuffed with everything of value in the house, she carried it up the lane and lugged it home on the bus. She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. What to do? She didn’t want to ask Mr Mike. He would be furious with her for taking it all in the first place but she was unrepentant about that. She did it for Evie. Instinctively she had known that Evie would hate to have anyone, never mind her difficult and rude grandson, poring over her diaries. She glanced at her watch and pulled off her apron. Time to go. She would think about what to do during the day and make a judgement then. Lucy was already at work when Dolly arrived at the cottage at exactly nine a.m. The old lady frowned a little, but glancing quickly round she was satisfied that Lucy hadn’t touched anything or messed up the kitchen. She opened the door to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out her polish and dusters. At ten thirty she would go over to the studio and take her a cup of coffee. Until then it was up to Lucy. If she had the manners to come in and say good morning that would be a mark in her favour. Lucy had pushed open the door of the studio with some trepidation when she arrived that morning after a sleepless night. She stood in the doorway and stared at the scattered brushes on the floor. When the jar fell she had not waited to pick them up. She had slammed the studio door and locked it. When she climbed into the car she was astonished to find that her hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath she put down her bags and walked over to pick up the scattered contents of the jar. She put it back on the table and pushed it firmly to the centre, well away from the edge, then she glanced nervously round the room. Everything was as she had left it last night. Or was it? She looked at the pile of boxes against the wall. Had they been rearranged? She frowned. Perhaps Dolly had arrived early. Walking over to the wall she stooped and picked up the top box. She didn’t remember seeing it before. Her heart thumping she put it down on the table and pulled open the flaps at the top. Within moments she was completely absorbed. Amongst the shabby cardboard files she found two or three that contained flimsy carbon copies of Evie’s letters. They were smudged and faded and occasionally so faint as to be illegible. Obviously Evie went on using each sheet of carbon paper long after it was too worn to be of much use, but there was enough there to show that these were the letters she wrote to galleries and exhibition organisers about showing her work. Lucy felt a shot of adrenaline run through her as she saw the names of various paintings listed again and again, one or two of which she recognised, several which she did not. This must be an inventory of her basic exhibits, the ones she sent off round the country on tour. At the top of each letter was the name and address of the place to which they were going. She found a sequence of dates spanning some five years of Evie’s main exhibitions. Perhaps elsewhere in the studio she would find the catalogues themselves. Dolly was forgotten. This was like striking gold. An hour later Dolly arrived with a tea tray. Today there was one cup. ‘I don’t want to interrupt or get in your way,’ the old lady said coolly. Lucy looked up then she glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. She should have gone over to the cottage to say good morning. Reluctantly she pushed the files to one side. ‘You are not interrupting, I promise. You haven’t brought a cup for yourself. Can I fetch one so we can have coffee together?’ Dolly looked at her suspiciously. ‘I assumed you hadn’t come in because you wanted to be left alone.’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It was me, not wanting to get in your way. I thought you must be so used to having the place to yourself that I would be under your feet, but I would love to talk to you, when you have some time. I so much want to hear your reminiscences about Evie. You and Mike are the only people I’ve met who remember her, and you both knew her so well.’ She was cursing herself for putting Dolly’s back up again. She slipped off her stool and stood up with a smile. ‘Can I fetch that cup? There is enough in this cafeti?re for two and it smells so gorgeous.’ Dolly hesitated then she nodded. ‘No, you stay here. I’ll fetch it.’ When she came back she brought a plate of biscuits. By the time she left that evening Lucy had filled several pages of her notebook with anecdotes and she was clutching Dolly’s exercise book, but she did not know about the box of diaries. The old woman was still hedging her bets. September 9th 1940 On September 7th Churchill believed that invasion was imminent. High Command at last used the codeword, ‘Cromwell’ and service personnel were issued with side arms and live ammunition. Roads in the south were blocked and guards on the south coast were reinforced. All temporary leave had been stopped. Ralph telephoned home once or twice to reassure his mother, but patrols were constant and the pilots were becoming increasingly exhausted. There was no word from Tony. Since she was a child Evie had kept her diary under her mattress. She did not think her mother would snoop in her bedroom but she was not taking any chances, and especially not now with the new glorious secret which had overwhelmed her every waking second. She was in love, deeply and overwhelmingly in love. She could not get the thought of Tony out of her head. Everything she did on the farm, every moment she was awake she was thinking about him and at night she dreamed of him as well. And now, overwhelmed with worry, she hadn’t seen him to speak to for three days even though she had biked down to Westhampnett early and spent the whole day loitering round the airfield under the pretence of making sketches. No, not pretence. She was sketching but she had been distracted every few minutes by the possibility that he would appear. He had been declared fit to fly by the local doctor and was once again on operational standby. The squadrons were in constant action, flying out on sortie after sortie. Their lunchbreak never happened and tea was being made for them out in the dispersal huts with the WVS ladies taking their van over to them as they waited for refuelling. She saw Tony in the distance twice and each time he grinned at her and waved, but he was with the other pilots and she knew better than to interrupt or draw attention to herself. It was nearly six o’clock when Eddie drove down to the airfield, left his car by the gate and strolled in past the guard. ‘Evie?’ He stood beside her and looked over her shoulder at her sketch. It was rudimentary, concentrating on Tony, one face standing out amongst several others who were mere outlines. He made no comment. ‘Your mother asked me to come and fetch you,’ he said after a moment. She had not looked up to greet him ‘You are late for milking and she said you hadn’t done any of your chores today. She is worried.’ Evie scowled. ‘I’ll come back when I’ve finished this.’ ‘No, now, Evie. It’s late.’ Eddie saw the guard from the perimeter gate heading his way and groaned. ‘Now they are going to tell me off for coming in here. The security is appalling on this airfield. I should make a complaint to higher authorities. Only that would stop you coming down here too.’ Evie looked up at the implied threat. ‘You wouldn’t.’ ‘I don’t want to.’ He sighed. There was no point in putting her back up even further by mentioning his feelings about her visits down here to sketch Tony. ‘Come on, Evie.’ ‘I didn’t realise the time. I’ll collect my bike.’ ‘Leave it. It will be perfectly safe. I’ll run you back to save time.’ ‘No!’ Evie snapped. ‘I’ll come when I’ve finished.’ She didn’t want to speak to Eddie. She didn’t want to see Eddie. She wished she had never made love to him. If it wasn’t for his role in furthering her career, she would tell him to go away and never come back. Whatever she had felt for him in the past was nothing compared to what she felt for Tony. Her whole body yearned for the young airman in a way she had never experienced before. She was overwhelmed with longing. In contrast the thought of getting into the car with Eddie was suddenly repugnant to her. Eddie leaned across her and took the sketchbook and pencil out of her hand. ‘You will come now, Evie. I promised your mother.’ He frowned at her as she rounded on him. ‘No!’ He held up his hand before she could protest, his temper barely in check. ‘Have you any idea just how worried she gets when you are down here? You are in danger every second you are here. The Germans aim for the airfields, you know. I am amazed the CO lets you come here at all. Your mother is frantic about your safety. She doesn’t say anything because she knows you want to do your bit for the war effort, but you owe it to her to come home when you say you will. It is bad enough for her to have to worry about Ralph all day every day, up there.’ He gestured towards the clouds where a dozen or so planes were circling ever higher, small black dots heading suddenly towards the horizon as a message from ground control sent them on the right vector to encounter the enemy. She slumped back onto her seat on the old oil drum which had become her favoured perch. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ He smiled at her ‘No, well, you have now. So let’s get back and put her out of her misery at least as far as you are concerned, OK?’ Wednesday 17th July Dolly had given Lucy the address of the Lucas farm and the following afternoon Lucy drove the half dozen or so miles to the village of Chilverly, taut with anticipation. Pausing in the village to squint at her road map she turned the car up a narrow lane on the far side of the village and drove the few hundred yards to the gate at the end. There she parked and climbed out. Box Wood Farm. Evie’s parents’ farm, the home Evie had known for so much of the early years of her life. And Ralph’s home too. She shivered. She stood for a moment on the gravelled driveway studying the front of the building, aware of a sudden lump in her throat. It was a lovely traditional farmhouse, lying in the golden sunshine in a gentle basin in the Downs, the upper storeys white-painted and timber-framed, the ground floor a soft terracotta, built with ancient lichen-stained bricks. It had been separated from its land many years earlier, Mike had mentioned, and now boasted only an acre of beautiful gardens and an orchard, but, beyond the gardens, the downland fields were still populated with sheep as they must have been in Evie’s day, the short-cropped grasses interspersed here and there with patches of woodland. The front of the house was curtained with wisteria and the door decorated with urns full of geraniums and variegated ivies. Overhead swallows were threading the air with high-pitched twitterings as they swooped overhead much as they had done in Evie’s day. The door opened and a tall, thin woman appeared on the steps. ‘Lucy Standish?’ Lucy took a deep breath and smiled. She walked forward, hand outstretched. ‘Mrs Chappell? Thank you so much for agreeing to let me come.’ Elizabeth Chappell was older than she had first appeared, nearer seventy than fifty, Lucy guessed, but her fine bones and English rose complexion gave her a glow of youth which Lucy doubted she would lose even in her eighties or nineties. She followed her through into a large elegant kitchen and stared round. Elizabeth smiled. ‘A farmhouse kitchen, which it really was when we bought the house. The place was a tip. We didn’t buy it from Evelyn Lucas of course. There had been at least two other owners in the intervening years, but I like to think she would recognise it again now.‘ Lucy looked round at the butler’s sink, the dark green, four-oven Aga, the handmade cabinets, and secretly doubted if Evie would have recognised it at all. She knew Evie’s kitchen at Rosebank Cottage and she didn’t think this elegance was Evie’s thing. But then it would have been Evie’s mother’s kitchen in those days and she didn’t know anything about Rachel. Not yet. There was no mention of her in the letters so far, no clues as to what Rachel was like at all. She had only discovered Evie’s parents’ names from an offhand remark of Mike’s and then in Dolly’s helpful little list. It was rather like being shown round by a house agent. Elizabeth Chappell gave her the whole tour, room by room, finishing at last in the attic. ‘I understand this was Evelyn’s studio,’ she said as they went in. It had been laid out as a children’s playroom, complete with a model railway on the floor. ‘The grandchildren,’ Elizabeth said over her shoulder. ‘They live in London but they love coming down here. It keeps them amused all day.’ Lucy smiled. ‘I can imagine. It looks very inviting.’ Where was Evie? Where were the echoes, the memories, the hints of the room’s artistic past? The beams were still there but the walls between the stud framing of the roof were a pale blue, the floor had been sanded and sealed to a golden tan and the windows and skylights had new wooden frames with locks on their elegant ironwork latches. ‘I don’t suppose Evie haunts this house?’ Lucy asked tentatively. Or Ralph, she added silently. Why was it she felt compelled to ask that wherever she went? She softened the question with a rueful smile, implying that she was joking. To her astonishment Elizabeth nodded, her face suddenly taut with anxiety. ‘It is strange you should ask. We have often wondered. There are footsteps sometimes, you know, and Georgie, that’s my eldest grandson, who was about seven at the time, said he could smell paint up here. Can you smell paint?’ She held Lucy’s gaze for a moment. ‘No. Neither can I, but occasionally Georgie says it was very strong and oily. We took him to an art shop and he identified the smell as oil paint. None of us is artistic so he wouldn’t have smelled it here, and the house itself was redecorated a while ago and anyway house paint smells nothing like oil paint.’ Lucy felt a jolt of unease deep in the pit of her stomach. ‘No one is afraid, though?’ she asked cautiously. There was a moment’s silence. ‘Not of the smell, no.’ Elizabeth put her hand up to the necklace she was wearing over her cotton sweater and twisted it nervously. She had moved away from her visitor and was standing by the train track staring down at it as if lost in thought. I’m often alone here,’ Elizabeth went on at last. ‘My husband travels a lot.’ She paused, as if regretting that she had said too much. Lucy hesitated. ‘My husband died a few months ago,’ she said at last. ‘I know how it feels, being alone.’ ‘My dear, I’m sorry.’ Elizabeth looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘So you understand. He’s supposed to have retired but he runs a consultancy, advising people on buying overseas properties, and,’ she hesitated for a moment, then continued softly, ‘when I am here by myself, at night, sometimes I think I can hear people in the house. It is a big house for one person.’ She gave an awkward smile. ‘When it is full of family and children and my daughter’s dogs it comes alive, then it belongs to us. But when I am by myself I am sure it still belongs to the Lucases. They were here for generations, you know.’ For a moment Lucy was stunned. ‘But you said there were other families here in between,’ she said at last. ‘Yes. And of course it could have been them.’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘But it isn’t. Evie’s brother was killed, you know, in the Battle of Britain. There’s a memorial to him in the village church. I think his mother went mad with grief.’ Lucy held her breath, staring at her in horror, intensely aware of the silence around them. ‘I hear her crying,’ Elizabeth went on almost under her breath. ‘I tell myself it’s the wind in the chimneys, perhaps an owl screaming into the night, but it isn’t. It’s Rachel. I sometimes think I can’t bear it.’ She gave a small wistful smile. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. You must think I’m ga-ga.’ ‘How do you know it’s Rachel?’ Lucy asked at last. Her voice was husky. ‘I just know.’ It was a whisper. She shuddered. ‘Let’s go downstairs. Do you mind? I’ll make us some tea. Then you must see the outbuildings.’ Suddenly her voice was stronger. ‘They were all farm buildings in Evie’s day and I think you’ll see they have probably changed much less than the house has. In fact I doubt if they have changed in hundreds of years. The land itself is all owned by a huge company now. There is a farm manager who lives on an estate the other side of Chichester.’ Lucy followed Elizabeth down the two flights of stairs back into the kitchen. While they waited for the kettle to boil on the Aga Elizabeth disappeared into the old-style walk-in pantry to find some biscuits and Lucy stared round the room. With part of herself she was listening, afraid she was going to hear Rachel’s cries. The kitchen was immaculately tidy. There had only been one car outside, a smart new Mini. It was obvious that Elizabeth’s husband must be away on one of his trips. The woman was living alone in the house with nothing but the ghosts of the past for company. She looked up as her hostess put the plate of biscuits in front of her. ‘Do people in the village remember the Lucases?’ she asked, trying to change the mood. Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I don’t know. To be honest we don’t mix with the village much any more.’ She reached down the teapot from a shelf and set it on the hotplate to warm. ‘But your family come down to see you?’ As soon as she had said it Lucy regretted it. She had already guessed what the answer would be ‘They used to. All the time. But they have other calls on their time now. The children have grown out of the countryside. They want to go abroad or spend the holidays with their friends. You know how it is.’ Elizabeth helped herself to a biscuit and broke it in half, scattering crumbs on the pine table before putting it down without tasting it. She didn’t seem to notice. ‘There was a time when I could have offered you a homemade biscuit. Not any more. It’s not worth making them just for me. I bake when there is something on in the village of course. I do my bit, but even that has been taken over now by young families. The mothers are very energetic, very bossy,’ she laughed quietly. ‘They like to do things their way.’ Lucy’s heart went out to her. Behind them the kettle began to whistle. Elizabeth stood up abruptly and went over to the Aga. She made the tea and came back to the table. ‘There you are, my dear. I am so sorry; you must think I am pathetic. Drink that, and then we’ll go outside. I love my garden. It’s mine. Out there I have no sense of Rachel at all. Out there I feel as if I still have a use in the world. I’ll show you.’ Rachel. Once more she was talking about Rachel. Only in the studio was there an echo of Evie left behind. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/barbara-erskine/the-darkest-hour/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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