The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

her. I want to write a book about her.’ She fell silent, watching his face.

      ‘You’re working on your PhD?’

      He sounded faintly patronising.

      She smiled. ‘I have my PhD.’

      She felt an altogether unworthy flicker of triumph as he acknowledged his mistake with a slight nod of the head.

      ‘This is a project for a full-length biography,’ she added.

      He said nothing for a while, frowning, then, ‘My grandmother was a very private person. She didn’t want people poking into her personal affairs.’

      ‘I can understand that.’ Lucy dropped her bag at her feet and perched on the edge of the table. She leaned forward slightly, unaware that the open-necked shirt with its rolled-up sleeves was alluring in its own understated way, as was the eagerness in her expression. ‘But would she mind now? After all, your father opened this place to the public. He can’t have thought she would object all that much or he wouldn’t have done that, would he?’

      ‘True.’ He shifted slightly. ‘I took the decision to close it because I valued my privacy. I’m more like her than my father was. Besides, he never lived here full time. That was why she left it to me. He kept an eye on it, and, yes, allowed people here, but after he died I decided to use it as a weekend cottage. I didn’t want strangers here any more.’

      ‘I wouldn’t get in your way.’

      He was watching her. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Are you a painter yourself?’ he asked eventually.

      She shook her head. ‘I’m a writer. A historian. My husband and I run, ran, an art gallery in Chichester.’

      ‘Ran?’ He had noticed the change of tense.

      ‘I suppose I still do. He was killed in a car crash three months ago.’

      She was surprised to find she could say it without faltering.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He pushed himself away from the door and seizing his tie, pulled it off. ‘So you haven’t come a long way after all.’

      ‘I didn’t actually say I had,’ she remonstrated gently.

      He gave a wry smile. ‘No, you didn’t. Sorry. You had better come inside the house.’ He was coiling the tie round his fist. Turning, he led the way out into the garden.

      Picking up her bag she followed him and waited while he locked the door behind them. As they retraced their steps into the cottage and through the living room Lucy smiled at him uncomfortably.

      ‘I am really sorry to have intruded on your afternoon off. I was going to write to you once I had spoken to Mrs Davis and seen the studio.’

      He dumped the tie on the bookshelf. The room had a homely, old-fashioned feel; at a guess, there was no woman in his life apart from the doubty Mrs Davis.

      ‘And you were hoping, presumably, that I will have lots of information about Evie to fill out your project for you.’

      She pulled a face. ‘I’m not asking you to write it for me, but obviously I would be very grateful for any pointers. As I said, apart from old exhibition catalogues there doesn’t seem to be much out there. Even the Tate doesn’t appear to know anything beyond her dates.’

      ‘Perhaps it is a pointless exercise. Perhaps there is nothing.’

      ‘There has to be something.’ She heard a hint of desperation in her own voice. Its intensity surprised her. ‘Her paintings must have a history behind them. The Battle of Britain series is iconic. The pictures of the airfield at Westhampnett, the Spitfires. Not really a woman’s subject.’

      ‘Ah well, that’s easily explained. Her brother, Ralph,’ he pronounced it Rafe, ‘my great-uncle, was a fighter pilot in a Spitfire squadron.’

      ‘I see. I didn’t know even that.’ Lucy felt a wave of disappointment. It was likely then, that the young man in the portrait was Evelyn’s brother. Somehow, already in her own mind, he was her lover, a source of mystery and romance, just as in her own mind there was now no real doubt as to the picture’s provenance. Evelyn’s story had caught her imagination in a way it had failed to before. At the beginning it had been of more academic interest, now, since she had seen the young man with his hand on her shoulder, and since seeing her studio and her home, Evelyn had become real to her.

      She still hadn’t mentioned the portrait to Michael, she realised. The fact that she owned a possible Lucas original was crucial; it had been the reason behind the decision to research Evelyn’s life, to find out where the picture fitted into her oeuvre, to date it and, since she had uncovered him, to identify the young man with his hand so affectionately on her shoulder.

      ‘Did she live here during the war?’ Lucy sat down uninvited on the arm of the sofa by the window. She felt more comfortable with her host now, more relaxed. His initial suspicion of her seemed to have lessened.

      He shook his head. ‘She still lived at home with her parents during the war. Her father was a farmer over near Goodwood. She inherited the farm after they died, then she sold up and bought this place. I can give you the address of the farm if you like, then you can go and pester them.’ His smile compensated slightly for the harshness of the words. He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation of dismay. ‘I’m sorry. I do have to get on. I’m expecting someone. If you would like to give me your address and contact details I will get in touch with some suggestions about where you could start your research if I think of anything.’

      ‘So, you don’t mind my doing it?’ She was disappointed at the sudden change of mood after he had seemed to be mellowing towards her, but at the same time elated that he appeared to be agreeing to help her with the project. She reached into her bag to find the gallery’s card. ‘You’ll find my e-mail and phone number there.’

      ‘And you are?’ He was examining the card.

      ‘Lucy Standish. I told you.’ Twice to be precise.

      He grinned, acknowledging the slight tetchiness of her tone. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t take it in.’

      And then she was outside and he had shut the door behind her.

      Walking slowly back up the lane she noticed a car parked in the lay-by behind her own. A woman climbed out, locked it and turned towards her. They approached one another, exchanged the rather awkward smiles of strangers in a situation where they cannot avoid acknowledging each other, and passed. The woman was tall, slim and elegant in a pale silk shift dress. There was a large designer tote on her arm. Her car, Lucy couldn’t help noticing as she pulled out her car keys was a BMW Z4. She couldn’t resist a glance behind her. The woman was climbing the steps to Rosebank Cottage.

      So there was someone in his life after all.

       3

      

       August 6th 1940

      ‘Evie?’ Ralph found his sister in the dairy. At twenty-one, he was two years older than Evelyn and had always enjoyed his role as her big brother. ‘I’ve asked my station commander and he says he can fix it for you to go and sketch over at Westhampnett. I know it’s not Tangmere as you asked, but it’s a satellite field and only a couple of miles away. He reckons if you come to Tangmere people might ask why a squit of a girl like you was there. There are too many big brass there with it being the local sector control. He suggested that Westhampnett might be less conspicuous and a bit safer as a place to draw. There is a Hurricane squadron based there.’

      ‘I don’t want a safer place, Rafie!’ She glared at him.

      ‘I’m