The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

thank you for arranging it!’

      ‘Get off!’ He pushed her away good-naturedly. ‘You smell of cow. Don’t say anything to Dad. I’m not sure he would approve and I know he will worry. You’ll have to find an excuse to leave the farm for the afternoon.’

      ‘That will be easy.’ She was glowing with excitement, her golden-blond hair mostly hidden by the scarf knotted round her head. ‘I’ll think of something. There are loads of things I need to collect in Chichester. I can do that first to justify using the petrol. It will give me an excuse to be out for a bit. Once I know where to go I can bike over there.’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘How’s it going? We see the enemy planes, watch the fights. There are so many of them, Rafie. I can’t bear to think of you up there. Dad was listening to the wireless last night –’

      ‘I’ve got a few hours off, Evie.’ Ralph spoke sharply. ‘Leave it. I don’t need the official commentary.’

      ‘Sorry.’

      He shook his head. She could see the exhaustion in his face now she looked more closely, the strain in his eyes. As always when she felt a strong emotion she found her fingers itching to pick up a pencil; it had always been her way of dealing with things, even when she was a small child. Sternly she pushed the longing aside.

      ‘I’ve finished here. I’ll go and wash. Come into the kitchen and we’ll see where Mum is.’ She stacked the dropped bucket by the door and headed out into the yard. Tearing off her scarf she shook out her hair in the sunshine. ‘I’ve had a letter from an art student friend, Sarah Besant,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘They are talking about evacuating the Royal College of Art for the duration. They are tired of having their windows blown out! She thinks they are going to go up to the Lake District.’

      Ralph gave a sharp laugh. ‘That will shake up the locals a bit, won’t it?’

      ‘Students and locals, both.’ Evie smiled.

      He glanced at her fondly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back and finish the course? I had thought it meant everything to you, getting into the RCA.’

      She folded her arms. ‘I’m needed here. I can always go back after the war.’

      He sighed. She was needed on the farm because he wasn’t there. It was that simple. But he couldn’t be in two places at once. He was no longer a farmer, he was a pilot now, first and foremost. His father had resumed the running of the farm and he needed Evie to help him. Even so, Ralph couldn’t bear to think of her stuck here when she could be back in the college, studying the painting she loved so much.

      ‘Mum and Dad would feel much better if you were out of it all. If they are going to evacuate the college it would be so much safer,’ he persisted.

      ‘No, Rafie. You are not going to change my mind. It wouldn’t feel right, leaving Daddy running the farm alone. I can paint as well as helping him. I’ll find a way.’ She glanced up. He followed her gaze and for a moment neither spoke. Small white summer clouds dotted the clear blue of the empty sky.

      Ralph had joined up in 1938, much to his father’s disgust. His only son had turned down the opportunity to go to university after he took his Highers and had instead immersed himself in the farm, but suddenly he was turning his back on his destiny for the sake of a bit of excitement in the RAF. Father and son had not always seen eye to eye – Dudley preferred the old ways on the farm – if it was good enough for your grandfather it is good enough 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