The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ