The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

tote then she grabbed her purse out of the bag and followed him. They made their way up the lane towards the village. A cluster of houses, most built of flint like Rosebank, some old red brick and some timber framed, clustered around a small green, next to which was the village church. The thatched, picture-book country inn, the upper storey covered in hung tiles, was a few minutes’ walk further on up the lane.

      ‘So, have you found anything useful?’ He introduced her to the couple who ran the pub and they had ordered at the bar before finding themselves a table on the terrace at the back.

      ‘I’m still sorting stuff out.’ Lucy sat down in the shade of a pergola covered with yet more roses. ‘It seems to me she kept every single bill and bank statement and receipt she ever had.’

      He laughed. ‘That will make for a singularly dull biography.’

      ‘It will if that’s all I can find.’ She reached up to her dark glasses tucked on top of her head and slid them down onto her nose. ‘I hope you have lots of anecdotes you can tell me to fill out the gaps between her visits to the bank. Gossip, scandal, family rows. That sort of thing.’

      She was watching him from behind the glasses and she saw him look away suddenly. He was quite handsome, she decided, in an unorthodox kind of way. ‘All families have secrets,’ she went on gently, ‘and sometimes there is no reason for them to be secret any more. Times passes. The people involved have died.’ She paused hopefully, taking a sip from her wine glass.

      Mike sat back in his rustic chair with a sigh. Beneath him the wood creaked in sympathy. ‘I think there were family rows. The trouble is they would have been when I was too young to understand them and once I had my own life, you know how kids are, I wasn’t really interested. I loved my grandmother, but I’m afraid I was more interested in me. And so was she. She was fantastically modern in her outlook. She never talked about the past.’ He looked up sharply. ‘If I’m honest, I’d rather you stuck to the subject of her painting. You know she went to the Royal College of Art before she became a war artist? Now that is a topic people would find intriguing. She never completed the course because of the war. Instead she worked on the family farm. That is how she gained access to the airfields. Through her brother, Ralph, sketching between her stints milking cows.’

       August 27th 1940

      It had been a peaceful day compared to the last two; Tony had sat longer than usual over his lunch listening to the general discussion in the Mess about the reason for the lull. Were the Germans licking their wounds or were they planning an even more lethal raid? The consensus seemed to be with the latter view but in the meantime some of the men were planning an evening around supper at The Dolphin in Chichester. Tony found his thoughts wandering. To Evie. Again. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. That kiss, three days before, so spontaneous, so electrifying, had burned its way into his very being. This had never happened to him before. He was used to girls falling at his feet, metaphorically at least, and her chippy reaction to him had fascinated him. She was sparky, intriguing, vivacious. Nothing like anyone he had ever met before and he wanted to see her again, badly.

      ‘You coming down to The Dolphin tonight, Tony?’ One of his friends clapped him on the shoulder.

      He shook his head. ‘There is someone I want to see.’

      There was an appreciative groan across the room. ‘I thought so. The laddie is smitten!’ A voice called from the sofa by the window. ‘Money on the fact that it is our little artist!’

      Tony grinned. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘State secret.’

      ‘You’ll be wanting to buy Esmeralda then.’ Another voice. David Brownlow. From whom he had borrowed the car.

      He still hadn’t made up his mind about the little Morris, but suddenly it made sense.

      ‘A fiver, I think you said?’

      ‘Six was the deal.’

      Tony grimaced. ‘You want my shirt as well?’

      ‘Go on. You’ve got a rich daddy.’ The banter was good-natured. The men were climbing to their feet. Time to go out to the Flight hut. ‘The lady will love it.’

      Tony smiled. ‘The lady loves me!’

      Another general groan. ‘Don’t count your chickens,’ David advised gravely. ‘Even you can’t have wooed her so quickly.’ He reached into his pocket for the car key and dangled it in front of Tony’s nose. ‘Let’s see the colour of your money.’

      Tony reached into the pocket of his battledress. ‘I trust there is petrol in it?’

      It was David’s turn to look shifty. ‘Enough to get you there. Wherever there is!’ He let out a whoop of laughter. ‘I might have to ask you for a lift into Chi tonight, of course. On your way to the little lady’s farm.’

      They flew two patrols that morning; the skies were empty. When Tony set off for the farm he was in high good spirits, a bunch of flowers on the seat beside him. Evie hadn’t been down to the airfield that day but it never occurred to him that she wouldn’t be at home either. Rachel was walking across the yard, a jug of milk in her hand when he drove in and drew to a halt by the stable wall.

      ‘I’m sorry, Tony. She’s not here. She’s gone with her father to Southampton.’ Rachel waved an inquisitive fly away from her jug. ‘She wanted to do some sketching over there and grabbed the chance of the lift.’ She waited, smiling at him, seeing the boy’s face fall. There was nothing for it. Tony had to turn the car and go back to the airfield.

       September 1st 1940

      Eddie had a letter in his hand. He caught Evie’s wrist and pulled her across to the kitchen table. ‘Sit.’

      Taken by surprise, she sat. ‘What is it?’

      ‘I’ve had a letter from Sir Kenneth Clark’s office.’

      ‘About me?’ Her eyes sparkled.

      He nodded. ‘The War Artists Advisory Committee wants to see more of your work. But –’ he raised his hand as she jumped up ecstatically, ‘it has to be the kind of work that they are approving for women artists.’

      She sat down again with an angry pout. ‘I am not going to paint women in aprons.’

      ‘They don’t like the thought of you painting on an airfield, especially one that may be bombed and strafed regularly. It is too close to the action. There are male artists painting the flyboys and that is enough. I explained that you live near the airfield and technically are in just as much danger at home, and that you go to Westhampnett with your brother and are chaperoned and in no danger whatsoever, but –’

      ‘You said what?’ Now she was blazing with anger. ‘How dare you!’

      ‘It’s true, Evie. Well, more or less. They all look out for you, you know they do.’ He folded his arms. ‘It’s up to you. I can’t do any more.’ For a moment they glared at each other, then at last she looked away. ‘Don’t they want to see any more pictures of the planes and pilots then?’

      He chewed his lip for a moment. ‘I think it’s worth trying again with a new portfolio. We were stupid; we should have got you to sign the pictures with your initials. Then the issue of you being a woman might not have come up at all or not until it was too late and they had accepted you. I think the best chance now is to win them over with your sheer brilliance.’ He grinned at her. ‘So, sweetheart, have you anything new to show me?’ He stood up and wandered over to the dresser where her sketchbook lay. Picking it up he opened it and began to turn the pages. ‘You’ve torn some out.’

      ‘So?’ She was still fuming.

      ‘So, you can’t afford to waste paper. Have you anything upstairs in the studio?’ He glanced up at her. ‘Evie, you can‘t afford to