The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ