The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

the torrential rain cascading off the roof and bouncing on the paving slabs in the little garden below.

      She wasn’t sure what made her look at the studio door. It was ajar. Robin must have gone in there during the day. She walked towards it and raised her hand to push it open. At the last minute she hesitated.

      Behind her the sound of the rain faded; in front of her, the studio was oppressively silent as she pushed open the door. She peered in, holding her breath. Something was wrong. She felt herself grow cold.

      Somehow she forced herself to stand her ground and raised her hand to grope for the light switches to the left of the door. The room was shadowed by the rain clouds outside and the streams of water running down the glass of the skylights. She flipped the switches and flooded the studio with light. Moving to stand in front of the picture on the easel she gasped. Someone had painted out the figure behind Evie. It had gone.

      ‘No, it can’t be.’ She raised her hand and touched the surface of the canvas with her fingertip. The paint was dry. She found she was breathing in short tight gasps as she stared round the room. The table full of paints and chemicals did not appear to have been touched. The brushes and palette knives and swabs were all neatly stowed and clean and dry. There was nothing there to show anyone had been in there. Robin? Would he have done it? She looked at the painting again. He didn’t have the technical ability never mind the inclination to do something like this.

      She turned round helplessly.

      The skylights were illuminated suddenly by a brilliant flash of lightning and a loud crash of thunder reverberated round the room, and it was then she saw him. The tall young man she had seen in her bedroom. The blue uniform. The mournful eyes. He was looking directly at her.

      ‘Ralph?’ she whispered.

      Another crash of thunder echoed up from the streets outside, more distant this time. The lights went off for a moment. When they came on again he had gone.

       September 4th 1940

      Tony arrived at the farm as Evie was coming in from the stables. She stopped and gazed at the little car as the engine stuttered to a halt. For a moment Tony sat without moving, his head bowed with exhaustion, then he looked up and saw her framed in the stable door. His face lit up. He climbed out of the car.

      ‘Would you like to come out to supper?’ He grinned at her. ‘Please. I shall starve to death unless you do.’

      Evie laughed. ‘Why, do you plan on eating me?’

      He nodded. ‘If only.’ He gave her a cheeky smile. ‘No, I thought we would go down to the pub. It’s been a gruelling day. We’ve been up for most of it. Jerry is still active now,’ he glanced up, ‘but we’ve not been called so we’ve got a couple of hours.’

      As they stood there in the farmyard they could hear the distant thump of explosions over to the west. ‘Portsmouth is taking a beating again tonight,’ Tony commented sadly.

      Evie scanned his face, noting how tired he was, how the circles under his eyes shadowed his smile. ‘I’d love to come out with you,’ she said. ‘Wait, I’ll tell my mother I won’t be in for supper.’

      They sat opposite each other at a table in the smoky dining room at The Victoria in Bognor.

      ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Evie said. She sipped her shandy, still studying his face. She ached to pull out her pencil and sketch him.

      He smiled. ‘Not much to tell. I am – I was – a law student. Only child. Doting parents.’ He gave a little apologetic shake of the head.

      She nodded. She hadn’t mentioned the portrait. It was to be a surprise. She felt unaccountably shy suddenly, as he looked up and held her gaze. He smiled at her.

      ‘You’re beautiful.’

      She laughed. ‘Untidy. Farmer’’s hands. Dreadful clothes sense. I don’t think so.’

      ‘You have a lovely clothes sense.’ He glanced down at her frock. It was a deep blue, with a marcasite brooch at the neck. She had changed from her overalls while he turned the car in the yard. ‘One day I will drape you with furs and diamonds!’

      She giggled. ‘That sounds wonderful. But not me. I am always covered in charcoal dust and paint stains.’ She held out her hands to prove the point. They were sturdy hands, rough from the hard work around the farm and there were traces of bright blue around her nails. He caught hold of them and held them for a moment. She thought he was going to bend forward to kiss them but he sat still, staring at her face, his eyes dreamy, just holding them. She found she could hardly breathe suddenly. Her heart was thumping unsteadily in her chest as she lost herself in the blue of his eyes. It was several minutes before he looked away and at last he gave her fingers a squeeze and let them go. Far away they heard the sound of the air raid siren.

       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