The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

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 she has ever been that popular as a painter. The others, the ones in the cottage, were left to my cousin.’

      Charlotte found herself wandering round the room fingering the furnishings and picking up ornaments, deliberately putting them down in different places, well aware that next time Dolly came in she would return them to their original arrangements, exactly as Evie had left them years before. Bloody Evie! This could be such a pretty cottage without her malign influence hanging over everything. Ideally they should take everything out into the garden and burn it. Mike would never agree, of course.

      She looked at the various bits of furniture. Perhaps instead she could persuade Mike to store it in the studio, to allow them to go and buy some really beautiful modern bits, choosing them together, changing the whole feel of the place. That would be a start. Who knew? Maybe that would be enough. He would begin to see the place as theirs rather than Evie’s. She smiled. Maybe it was time to begin dropping hints that dusty chintz and threadbare rugs were not the way they wanted to start life together.

      ‘Mike!’ she called now. ‘Mike, I’ve had an idea.’ She went through to the bathroom and perched on the edge of the old chipped roll-top bath. Part of her made a mental note to find out about re-enamelling as she bent to drop a kiss on Mike’s forehead as he lay, knees bent almost to his chin, eyes closed.

      ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea. Why don’t we do some sorting out? I’ll help you. Go through the house and put all Evie’s stuff out in the studio. Then you can get your widow woman to sort through it all. It will give her whatever it is she wants and give you some space to call your own. This is such a small house!’

      She paused, holding her breath, trailing a finger through the foam on the bath water, then as the silence became intolerable she bent to kiss him on the mouth. With a shout of laughter he grabbed her and pulled her into the bath on top of him, slopping water all over the floor.

      It was a long time later as they lay naked on the bed, watching the light leach out of the evening that he answered her question.

      ‘You know, that might be a good idea. I do feel a bit overpowered by Evie when I’m here. It is still so much her house,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She can keep the studio. That seems fair. But you are right. She is swamping me. Why don’t I ring Lucy Standish next weekend and tell her she can start as soon as she likes. If she is here during the week when we are in town we needn’t see her or get in each other’s hair.’

      It was only later he wondered what Dolly Davis would think of the plan.

       August 10th 1940

      Enemy planes had been attacking since dawn. As Ralph’s squadron scrambled for the third time in quick succession he felt his head throbbing with the strain. His stomach lurched as it always did with a lethal cocktail of excitement, adrenaline and good old-fashioned nerves. The ground crews had prepared the aircraft in record time, checking for damage, refuelling, rearming, restarting the engines ready to go. His own rigger and fitter were there, the men who kept his Spitfire flying. He acknowledged their smiles, their thumbs up; there was nothing for him to do but grab his Mae West and helmet, hop up onto the wing, slide into the seat, buckle up, and thrust the throttle forward as the planes swiftly taxied out, turned one after the other into wind, thundering across the airfield and up into the sky. He adored this moment, the feel of the joystick in his hands, the exhilaration of flying the small, fast, single-seater fighter, hearing the throaty roar of the powerful Rolls Royce Merlin engine. As always he felt a sudden expansive rush of joy as the wheels folded neatly into place and locked and the thrill as one after another the planes climbed swiftly up and away.

      He heard the squadron leader’s voice crackle in his ear. ‘Squadron airborne.’

      Concentrating on his place in the formation, he gently corrected his position every now and then, relaxing slightly, allowing himself to enjoy the skill and the plane. Another crackle and this time it was Control. ‘One hundred and fifty plus bandits approaching at angels twelve, vector one twenty. Over.’

      Angels. Ralph gave a grim smile. Every thousand feet an angel. Who thought that one up? He hoped he would not one day find out. He felt his stomach tighten. Higher and higher still. Time to turn on the oxygen. Ahead he could see them now, a cloud of black dots, getting ever larger, rank on rank of them, fighter aircraft escorting the serried lines of bombers. Mainly Dornier with Messerschmitt in attendance by the look of things and here was he, one of a squadron of only twelve planes. But they could do it. They would be joined by other squadrons from other airfields and they would chase the bastards away.

      They would.

      He was feeling cold now, and icily calm.

      And then they were amongst the enemy.

      ‘Break! Break!’ The shouted order came over the RT. None of them needed telling. Forget the careful formation. From now on it was every man for himself. His thumb on the gun button, Ralph soared in pursuit of an enemy plane, aware only of his target as he threaded his way through the hundreds of speeding dodging spiralling aircraft, watching forward, port, starboard, above, below, behind.

      Far below in the farmyard Rachel