The Darkest Hour (48 page)

Throwing open the door of the bedroom she grabbed for the light switches and flooded the room in light. The bed was empty, still made, cold, the curtains not even drawn.

She spun round as the door to the tiny spare room opened behind her and she was confronted by the sight of Lucy, tousled with sleep, confused, wrapped in one of Evie’s Indian shawls. ‘What’s happened?’ Lucy mumbled.

Charlotte didn’t bother to reply. She pushed Lucy aside and went into the room. ‘Where’s Mike? Don’t bother to pretend he isn’t here!’

‘But he’s not,’ Lucy protested. She was waking up fast. ‘He went to stay with his mother in Brighton. What is it? What’s happened?’ Under the shawl she was naked but for her underwear. She shivered suddenly. ‘Charlotte, I wish you would get it into your head that Mike and I are not having an affair!’ Suddenly she was furiously cross. ‘What is the matter with you? We had supper because I was still working late and he suggested I stay because the cottage would be empty. Go and see. Go to Brighton. Check on him!’ She was fully awake now, pushing her hair back from her eyes. ‘This is all in your head. I am no threat to you!’

Charlotte stared at her, her mind whirling with anger and hatred. Without this woman’s intrusion into their lives Mike would be here now, in bed with her, not trailing after some stranger with an art degree!

The box of matches was next to the candlestick on the bookcase by the bedroom door. Grabbing the matches Charlotte gave an ugly laugh. ‘This will sort the problem out,’ she shouted almost incoherent with the jumble of emotions in her head. ‘This will sort out everything!’ She whirled away to the top of the stairs and ran down, leaving Lucy on the landing staring after her. Pulling the back door open she ran out onto the grass. It was wet with dew but she didn’t notice as she ran towards the studio. The door was locked and she rattled it frantically, unaware of the string of expletives pouring from her mouth. Not to be thwarted she pulled her arm back and thrust her elbow through the nearest window, swearing even harder as a streak of blood ran down her wrist.

In the house Lucy had dialled Mike’s mobile. ‘I’m so sorry to wake you, but Charlotte is here. She seems to have gone mad. I think it might be best if you come back. She’s got some matches. I am so sorry –’

She glanced out of the window and it was then she saw the streak of flame from the studio. ‘Oh dear God, no!’ she gasped. ‘Please, no!’

Pulling on her jeans and a sweater she ran down the stairs and out into the garden, not pausing to find her shoes. There was no sign of Charlotte. She ran across the grass, groping in the pocket of her jeans for the key which she had slipped in there the night before.

The studio lay in darkness. From here she could see no signs of the fire. She paused on the steps and listened, her mouth dry with fear, terrified she was going to hear the roar and crackle of burning wood. Nothing. Slipping the key into the lock she turned it and carefully pushed the door open a crack. The place was completely dark. She pushed the door open a bit further and saw the flare of a match.

Charlotte was standing inside by the broken window. She struck one match after another, her hands shaking. ‘Bloody thing! It won’t stay alight!’

Lucy walked over to her, aware of a strong smell of charring paper.

‘Give me those matches,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘Please, Charlotte. Let me have them.’

Charlotte gave a small bitter laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’ She took another match out of the box with a shaking hand. It fell to the floor and she gave an exclamation of annoyance. ‘Go away, Lucy, unless you want to get hurt!’ she snarled. Another match fell on the ground. Lucy took a step towards her. Charlotte didn’t notice. Her hands were shaking more violently now and suddenly the whole box flew out of her fingers. Matches fell in all directions and she let out a small shriek of anger. She fell to her knees, frantically trying to gather up the matches and then she was crying.

Stamping on the matchbox and kicking away the matches with her bare foot, Lucy reached for the light switches. The side window, with the broken pane, had been opened so Charlotte must have climbed in that way. She had picked up some sketchbooks and papers and piled them together, lighting them on the floor where they had briefly flared and gone out.

Almost subconsciously Lucy noticed with relief that there was nothing of value there as far as she could see and at the same moment became aware that she could hear a fire engine in the distance. She looked down at Charlotte. ‘The fire brigade is on its way. Mike must have called them from Brighton after I rang him,’ she said bleakly.

Charlotte scowled. ‘The fire went out. Even now she’s won.’ Her voice had gone flat. All the fight had drained out of her.

‘Who?’ Lucy didn’t understand for a moment.

‘Evie.’ Charlotte’s voice was full of venom. ‘She will always win.’

Outside the strobing blue light of the fire engine shone through the broken window for a moment as it drew up in the lane. It was turned off and Lucy heard the gate squeak as the first fireman ran up the path. ‘I’ll go and tell them it’s out,’ she said.

The senior officer insisted on accompanying her back to the studio to check for himself. ‘I’ve told them that it was a mistake,’ she said to Charlotte, who was standing up now, leaning against the wall. ‘You lit some rubbish in the bin without thinking.’

‘Why not tell him I was drunk.’ Charlotte didn’t try to mask her bitterness.

Lucy glanced at the fire officer. ‘I’m sorry. There was a bit of a family row. I rang her partner who is in Brighton and he misunderstood. He thought it was worse than it was and called you. I am really sorry.’

She could see the man didn’t believe her. The floor was covered in scraps of burned paper; there was no bin. He walked round the studio, turning over piles of papers, checking every corner, then he turned back to Lucy.

‘I’ll have to make a report, but I can see it was a genuine call. Conflagration extinguished before we arrived.’

Lucy managed a smile. ‘Thank you. Some of the stuff in here is quite valuable. The former owner was a famous artist so it could have been very serious.’ She hoped he didn’t hear Charlotte’s snort of disgust.

‘And you are happy for me to leave you to sort out the mess?’ he asked. He glanced meaningfully at Charlotte. ‘Are you two on your own here? You wouldn’t like the police to attend?’

‘Oh good Lord, no,’ Lucy was genuinely horrified. ‘Thank you,’ she added hurriedly. ‘We can sort this out, can’t we, Charlotte? Mike will be on his way back. He’ll be here very soon.’

The man looked round and nodded. She could see he was no fool. He probably attended scenes like this all the time – two women obviously quarrelling, a spiteful act of revenge, a dodgy box of matches and some paper which had grown damp and thwarted whatever intention there was to burn the place down. She realised she was clenching her fists and relaxed them deliberately at her side.

‘Can we offer you some tea, officer, to say thank you for coming so promptly?’ she said meekly. ‘I really appreciate it. It could have been catastrophic.’

‘Thank you, no.’ He gave her what appeared to be a genuinely friendly smile. ‘We have to get back to base.’ Already the men with him were retreating across the lawn and climbing back on to the appliance. ‘You take care now. Both of you.’ He gave one more cursory kick at the scorched paper on the floor and withdrew, leaving them alone.

Lucy bent to pick up the pieces of paper. ‘No harm done, as it happens,’ she said shortly.

Charlotte gave a sneer. ‘This time.’

Lucy straightened and looked at her. ‘Do you want Mike to dump you?’

Charlotte made no response for several seconds, then, ‘He already has,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t he?’

‘I have no idea.’ Lucy sighed impatiently. ‘I don’t know or care what is going on between you two. For the thousandth time, I have told you it has nothing to do with me.’ She began to stack the pieces of paper on the table. ‘Do you know the name of a local handyman who will come and mend the window?’ She noticed that Charlotte had taken her hand out of her pocket. It was dripping blood on the floor. ‘We had better go in and see to that cut. It looks pretty bad. Thank goodness the fireman didn’t see it or he would have called an ambulance as well. Have you any idea how lucky you are he believed me?’

‘He didn’t believe you. He knew exactly what had happened. He just didn’t want to get involved.’ Charlotte turned towards the door and headed out across the lawn. With a quick glance round to make sure everything was all right Lucy followed her, leaving the lights on and the door wide open.

When Mike and Juliette arrived forty minutes later Charlotte’s hand had been bound up and the two women were sitting in silence with cups of tea between them on the table. It was growing light and the only sound in the sitting room was from a robin singing in the rose bush near the front door. As Mike led the way in Charlotte burst into tears.

He stared at her for a moment. ‘What happened?’ His face was grey with fatigue.

‘I tried to burn the studio down.’ Charlotte’s voice was flat. ‘I’ll go and pack my things up in a minute. I know it’s all over. Evie won.’

Juliette sat down beside Charlotte. ‘What have you done to your hand?’ Blood was seeping through the bandage.

‘I broke the window.’

Lucy got up and made her way out to the kitchen. Neither Juliette nor Mike had looked at her. Wearily she put the kettle on again, wondering if anyone would notice if she crept away back to bed upstairs.

‘It looks as though you saved the day.’ Mike was suddenly behind her. ‘I knew I should have stayed here.’

She turned. ‘I am so sorry. It’s my fault.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘She still thinks you and I are having an affair.’

He gave an irritated sigh. ‘I told her it wasn’t true but she wouldn’t believe me. She’s as jealous as hell of you. But there is more to it than that, isn’t there? Ever since I first met her she has resented Evie, who in her eyes is standing between her and ownership of this cottage.’

‘But that’s absurd.’

‘No. Actually she’s right. Except that she is not the one I would choose to redesign this place should it ever need doing.’ He didn’t linger over the words, holding her eye as he said it, he merely turned away and pulled the lid off the biscuit tin. There was nothing to read in what he had said beyond the words themselves. She was astonished at the pang of regret she felt. Was Charlotte right after all? Did she, deep down inside, secretly, fancy Mike? If she did then it was obvious he did not reciprocate the feeling. Horrified at herself and her disloyalty to Larry she turned away from him.

‘You’ll need the spare room for your mother. I’ll go back to the vicarage. It’s morning now anyway.’ She forced herself to meet his eye. ‘Better I’m not here while you sort out what to do about Charlotte. Let me know when it’s safe to come back.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’ll get my stuff and leave you to it.’

When she walked down the path and out into the lane ten minutes later no one looked out of the window to watch her go.

The memorial service was at St Margaret’s Church. There was no interment, no coffin. Ralph had been shot down miles out over the Channel, and there had been no sign of him or his plane after he plunged into the sea.

The church was full. Families came from miles around. The Lucases were well known and liked, and Ralph had been popular locally. He was not the first son to be torn from a Downland family and would not be the last, but every bereavement brought a fresh wave of despair to the old men, the women, the children who had been left at home.

Rachel sat between Dudley and Evie, clutching a handkerchief, her eyes on the arrangement of winter flowers below the pulpit, the wreaths lying on the worn blue carpet of the chancel step where the coffin would have stood. She wrung her handkerchief between her hands, dabbing at her streaming eyes, unable to look to left or right, staggering to her feet with a barely suppressed sob when the vicar came in. Beside her, Dudley was stony-faced, his black tie tied too tightly round his collar, his eyes, too, fixed on the wreaths.

Behind them someone was sobbing as though their heart would break. Evie turned and glanced back. A WAAF, supported by two friends, was standing at the back of the church. She was pretty, just the sort of girl Ralph would have liked. For a second Evie wondered if she had been someone special, someone Ralph had cared about, but then her own grief swept over her again and she turned away. Whoever she was she would have to cope with her grief in her own way. Her own heart seemed to have turned to stone. She had lost Ralph and she had lost Tony, who had left without a word. What was left?

Dudley had given Evie the news that Tony’s squadron had been posted back to Scotland. He did not mention Tony’s phone call. Her grief that Tony had gone without a word was somehow subsumed in her grief for her brother’s death. Perhaps she could not bring herself to contemplate it. She would never forget the terrible scream her mother had given when the news had been brought to Box Wood Farm. Later Ralph’s CO would bring his belongings back to the farm and Rachel would put them away somewhere without looking at them. She had barely spoken since. It was Eddie who rallied round, who ordered the memorial tablet for the church, who had visited each day for long enough to make sure they were all managing to keep going.

Sitting on her bed, staring out of the window, Evie shivered. The house was cold. Snow had swept in over the Downs and her father had kept to his little office behind the dining room. Rachel had sat endlessly day after day in the kitchen, receiving her friends as one by one they called to express their condolences and bring little gifts of comfort to a family who could not imagine ever finding comfort or happiness again.

Evie’s last picture, of the mother and baby amongst the ruins, still sat on her easel. Her sketchbook lay on the floor beside her bed, filled with its drawings of the women of Southampton queuing in the evenings at the station with their bedding and their children, determined to get out of the city before the night’s bombing began. She had not lifted a paintbrush since the terrible 13th of December.