The Darkest Hour

7

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.