The Darkest Hour (51 page)

The first thing she had taken out of the dustiest of the boxes was a fat notebook with a cardboard cover. Inside it was full of Evie’s writing – great blocks of writing, very small, unlike her usual untidy scrawl. Lucy carried it over to the lamp, and squinting slightly, began to read.

It was a log of her paintings, each one described, dated, with a note of the place Evie had gone to make her original sketches. Biting her lip with excitement, Lucy turned the pages. There were dozens of them, page after page of detailed descriptions, the dates running from August 1940 to September 1945. Holding her breath she started at the beginning, working her way slowly in. Several had notes of how much she had sold them for, and to whom. Most of those were initialled, either WAAC, or FG, which Lucy took to mean the Fuller Gallery. Those pictures had passed through her own front door, though obviously they had sold on and presumably fairly fast. Evie must have had a steady fan base or David Fuller had had a very shrewd eye for what his customers wanted. Judging by the descriptions the pictures which went to him were more likely to be country and farm scenes and birds, whilst the War Artists were required to paint aspects of the war. Again and again there was a note about a painting of
Westhampnett, Dispersal
. Or
Westhampnett, The Officers’ Mess at Woodcote Farm,
Westhampnett, Dave and Luke, T’s fitter and rigger
. Most of these were pencil sketches, or charcoal or pastel, but some were oils. And there were portraits, some named, some, frustratingly, anonymous.

Deeply engrossed, she turned another page and stared. The entry had been crossed out with a vicious scribble but it was still legible.
Me and Tony at the Gate, August 1940, oil.
Was that their painting, the one Larry had bought? Almost certainly. Had it been crossed out at the same time as Tony had been painted out? And what had happened to the painting after that? Evie had not kept it, nor presumably had it gone to the gallery and sold on, as it had been languishing in a sale room. Lucy studied it, willing the entry to give up its secret. She turned on further. The entries went on fairly regularly with a long gap in 1941 and another in 1944.

When she had finished glancing through the list she sat back, numb with excitement. Here was a catalogue of Evie’s paintings from the most iconic period of her life, and the list which filled in some of the gaps in her diaries. How many of these paintings and drawings still existed? She thought wistfully of George and his suggestion that she photograph his paintings. What would happen to them now she wondered? They would go to Christopher, of course, and disappear from the public domain with the rest of the items he had taken from Rosebank Cottage. She thought back over the pictures Frances had shown her. None of them dated from the war years, she was pretty sure of that, or none of the ones on display. What else he had squirrelled away? Who knew?

The discovery of this log of Evie’s work explained why she so seldom mentioned her paintings in her diaries. Obviously the two notebooks ran concurrently. Did that mean there were other logs lying around, relating to her later work? Lucy felt a kick of adrenaline under her ribs. If one had turned up here, perhaps there would be others, and for a start she could look in the box sitting on the table beside her and after that in the sheds in the garden she had never even considered searching, assuming them to be full of gardening equipment. Sitting forward on the edge of the chair she reached into the box again and began systematically to unpack it, horrified to find the stuff at the bottom wet through and mildewed. Going in search of some paper kitchen towels she spread wads of them out and laid out the notebooks and papers, not daring to open them until they had dried.

Evie sat dry-eyed in her studio in the dark. Her head was reeling, her stomach sick, all her dreams and fantasies crumbling around her. She hadn’t consciously realised she still had dreams that Tony would return or that he would phone from Scotland and beg her to come north to be with him; she hadn’t recognised that even after her wedding she had prayed that somehow he would change his mind and rescue her, but it would never happen now. She would never see him again. She was married to Eddie, who had suddenly revealed himself to be far more cruel and unkind than she had ever suspected, and she had nowhere to escape to. She put her hand on her stomach, for the first time aware that she was doing it, aware that this precious little scrap of life, hidden inside her, was all there was left of Tony Anderson.

Tears were coursing down her cheeks now as she sat hugging herself in the dark. There was no sound from outside the room. At least Eddie hadn’t followed her upstairs.

Evie!

The whisper was softer than the hiss of snow which had begun to fall outside, barely touching the glass of the windows as it drifted down into the farmyard below.

Evie!

She straightened and looked round. ‘Ralph?’ Her eyes widened in the darkness.

Evie, I’m sorry—

She stood up, suddenly afraid. ‘Ralph?’ Her voice trembled.

I’m so sorry. I let you down.

She backed across the room, her eyes scanning the shadows.

I’m so sorry …

Scrabbling for the door handle she let herself out onto the landing and ran towards the stairs. She couldn’t run down, Eddie was downstairs. Instead she headed up towards her studio.

In the distance she heard the phone ringing in the hall. With a sob she let herself into the dark room and scrabbled for the light switch. The blackouts were drawn across the skylights, the room filled suddenly with cold white light. She slammed the door and stood with her back to it, her heart thudding with fear. She had imagined it. Of course she had. And even if it was Ralph’s – she balked at the word ghost – why should she be afraid? Her beloved brother would never hurt her.

‘Ralph?’ she whispered his name out loud.

There was no reply.

She was alone the next day when the pilot came. He was riding a motorbike and swept into the farmyard in a cloud of blue smoke. Evie went to the kitchen door and looked out. For the first time in ages her fingers itched for a pencil. He was a good-looking lad, red-haired, freckle-nosed, with piercing blue-green eyes surveying her from under bushy eyebrows.

‘Evie Lucas?’ he guessed, his voice hesitant.

She nodded.

He turned and reached into one of the panniers on the back of the bike and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He faced her again. ‘I’m based at Westhampnett. We took over when 911 squadron was posted back to Scotland.’

Evie swallowed hard. She had a suspicion this must have something to do with Tony.

He met her eye as if reading her thoughts. ‘I took over Tony Anderson’s room,’ he said awkwardly. ‘The squadron left in a bit of a hurry, by all accounts, and he left his log book behind. I found it on the floor behind his locker. I was going to forward it on to him. As you know, he’d be in trouble for losing it, but then –’ He stopped.

‘Then he was killed,’ Evie prompted in a murmur.

‘One of the WAAFs knew you and he were –’ Again he stopped. ‘Close,’ he went on unhappily, ‘and she thought you might like to keep it. I’m sure no one will miss it.’ He was still clutching the parcel to his chest as though afraid to offer it to her.

For a moment Evie didn’t trust herself to speak. Silently she held out her hands. He put the packet into them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Thank you.’ She managed a smile.

‘I’d better go.’ He gestured over his shoulder towards the bike. ‘The enemy are still demanding our attention.’

‘You haven’t told me your name,’ Evie called out as he turned away.

‘Josh Andrews.’ He gave her a warm smile.

She held out her hand to him. He took it and shook it hard. ‘Thank you, Josh. I will treasure it,’ she said with an effort. Somehow she held back her tears. She stood watching as he drove out of the yard then she turned back inside. She needed to hide this somewhere no one would ever find it.

Lucy had allowed herself one more night at Rosebank Cottage, alone with Evie’s memory. She made herself an omelette and then retreated to the small bedroom with the box of notebooks. One of the damp, mouldy items she lifted from the bottom of the box turned out to be an address book. Cautiously she prised the wet pages open. It was laden with addresses, all in an unknown hand. She frowned, staring at it intently, looking for names she recognised. There were no Lucases, no Andersons but there were three Marstons so perhaps this had belonged to Eddie. She looked up David Fuller and sure enough, there he was, his address the same as hers, the telephone number Chichester plus just three digits. She smiled. It was as though she had met a friend in this damp box of long forgotten papers. She tried to turn the page and it stuck to its neighbour, beginning to tear. Better to set it aside and wait for it to dry rather than inadvertently destroy some priceless piece of information.

Next she picked up a tooled leather folder, the pale dust of mildew hiding a faded green colouring which must have once been rich and elegant. Inside were several sheets of paper, old letter drafts, bills – Lucy gave a wry smile – always bills. She picked out a crumpled sheet of paper which had obviously been screwed up and thrown away and then presumably retrieved and flattened and restored to its place in the folder.

Dear Alistair and Betty,

I was so sorry to hear of Tony’s death. One of the boys from Westhampnett brought me his log book. He has the bed Tony used to sleep in. He didn’t want to get Tony into trouble and he had been going to send it on to him but after Tony died one of the girls in the WAAF told him Tony and I had been in love. I have it here and I wondered if you would like it–

The fragment of easily recognisable writing ended with a scrawl of the pen. Evie hadn’t been able to go on. Nor had she sent the log book. Presumably she had been unable to part with it after all.

Lucy wondered who Alistair and Betty were – his parents, perhaps. She glanced at the letter again. It was undated. Poor Evie. So, that was how his log book had come to be with her diaries. The love of her life had been killed and that was all she was left with.

Gently she tucked the piece of paper away. Did this explain why Tony had been painted out? In her grief Evie had not been able to bear looking at him? But surely the reverse would have been true. She would have treasured this painting and kept it close.

She leafed back through her notebooks and glanced at the photo of the painting which she kept there to remind her of any detail she might have forgotten, unlikely as it was. Every brushstroke was burned into her brain. The reflection from the desk lamp fell on the glossy surface of the print and she caught her breath. Just for a second had she seen a resemblance to Mike there in the young man’s face? She reached for her notes and scanned the dates. Could it be that Tony was Johnny’s father, Mike’s grandfather? Surely not. She sat for a while pondering on this enigma and only slowly did she become aware that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stirring as though a cold draught had found its way into the room.

Refreshed after a second spot of overdue leave Tony walked into the Mess at Prestwick and looked round. His CO was sitting at the bar nursing a glass of beer. Tony slid onto a stool beside him. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Heaven knows.’ Don gestured towards the steward to pour another. ‘Have this one on me. Good to see you alive and well.’

Tony reached for the glass. ‘Thanks. Why, weren’t you expecting to?’

Don glanced across at him. ‘You haven’t heard then? We lost OL5.’

Tony felt himself go cold. That was the Spit he usually flew. ‘Who was flying?’

‘Bob Fine.’

Tony exhaled sharply. ‘Poor blighter. Shot down?’

‘No. There was no enemy around. They were too busy beating up the poor old Forth Bridge that day.

‘Then what?’ Tony could feel the blood beating in his ears. ‘You think someone is still after me?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Don downed his drink and pushed the empty glass towards the steward for another half. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. We’ve had some suspicions that there have been possible attempts at sabotage on the planes.’ He signed for the drinks.

Tony frowned. ‘No, you don’t mean it!’

‘Reds. Communist infiltrators. They are quite strong on Clydeside.’ He paused for a moment, a grim look on his face. ‘We found a stick of gelignite strapped to an exhaust manifold. We are dealing with that, and I don’t have to tell you that that is to be kept absolutely under wraps. However, in this case, I have to consider too that you do have enemies, Tony.’

Tony nodded gloomily. ‘If it was something personal, to do with Evie, I thought it would stop after I disappeared from Sussex,’ he said bitterly.

The two men stared at their drinks in silence for several minutes then Don looked up. ‘As it happens, old boy, you are moving on again anyway. You’ve been posted away from the squadron.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘We are going to miss you, but you’ve had a long stressful time with a good many kills under your belt and it appears the powers that be have decided it’s time you had a bit of a break and that you would be a good person to teach some youngsters to fly at an operational training unit.’