The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine
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was in my bedroom.’
‘Then we’ll look there first.’ Phil stood up.
She had left the lights on upstairs. The room was empty, her bed in disarray but there was nothing there to frighten her. After looking round, searching the second bedroom and the bathroom they turned and trooped down to the first floor again. Then they went into the studio. In the beamed roof the areas of glass reflected back the spotlights against the black of the night outside, the painting a silent witness on its easel.
‘So, if he didn’t look like this chap or Lol, what did he look like?’ Robin glanced at her.
‘He was someone else. Not this man in Evie’s picture. Same uniform. Completely different face.’
‘Did he try and speak to you?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You think he was a ghost?’ she whispered.
Robin put his head on one side for a moment, considering. ‘I’m not sure what I think. Most likely you are right and he came from your dream, but dreams are supposed to carry messages sometimes, aren’t they?’
She was feeling confused. ‘He didn’t say anything. I was in such a state of shock. I was sure he was my imagination. It was only when I came back in here and looked at the picture again that I realised that it was a different man and I started to panic.’
‘Intriguing.’ Phil took a slow thoughtful sip from his mug. ‘Is he somewhere else in the picture, do you think? Behind her other shoulder?’
Robin frowned doubtfully. ‘There is no room. Look at the composition of the painting. This was how it was supposed to be when she painted it. Without him there she is standing too far to the left. There is a huge empty space behind her. I’ll bet that is what Lol noticed. It would have looked wrong to him. He had a fantastic eye. He would have seen that something was off balance. Perhaps that’s why he thought that it wasn’t a Lucas after all. She must have changed her mind after painting him there. Perhaps they had a row.’ He reached over and caught Lucy’s hand. ‘You know what this means, Luce, don’t you? You have to find out the whole story. Who were these men and what did they mean to Evie? Perhaps this guy wants you to write your book.’
Glancing at her sideways, noting her white face, he gave her a reassuring grin. ‘Are you going to be OK here on your own tonight? Why don’t you come back with us?’ He had only just stopped himself from saying, ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want you to write it.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I can’t leave the place, Robin. You know I can’t.’
‘Then we’ll stay here.’ Ever practical, Phil reached over with the kettle and topped up Robin’s mug. ‘Kip down in the living room.’
‘Would you?’ She didn’t mean to say it. It had slipped out before she could stop it. She didn’t like to admit how rattled she still felt by what had happened. Standing there with them in the room with her was one thing. Being alone in the house with its flights of creaky stairs and squeaking floorboards was quite another.
‘Of course we would. If your boy in blue tries anything we’ll give him a surprise.’ Phil gave a small snort of laughter.
She smiled. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘Always.’
‘But thank you.’
August 13th 1940
On June 18th Churchill had made his speech informing the country that the Battle of France was over and that the Battle of Britain was about to begin. For weeks the country waited, then, on August 13th the first massed attacks began. Huge formations of German fighters and bombers started to thunder remorselessly in over the Channel, some bound for London, some for Dover, Southampton and Portsmouth, but most, specifically and unerringly, for the chain of airfields defending southern England, and Ralph was in the front line.
Evie was sitting outside A Flight hut on an empty oil drum when the phone rang in the hut. All round her men paused in what they were doing. She stopped drawing, her hand poised above the paper, counting under her breath.
She could hear the mumble of the voice in the dispersal hut then the phone slammed down and the single-word shout. ‘Scramble!’
It was the third that day.
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her hand steady on the paper as she went on with her sketch. These lads had become familiar to her; they smiled at her and exchanged jokes as they waited between sorties. They were friends. And some of them were almost certainly not going to come back. In the previous three days eleven of the pilots had been killed and the majority of the planes damaged or destroyed. The surviving men were exhausted. The ground crew had barely finished refuelling the surviving planes, rearming the guns. The pilots had scarcely had time for a cup of tea. She sharpened her pencil and turned the page, forcing herself to concentrate on what she was doing, not letting the adrenaline get to her. She must not show her fear for them. Her job was to be invisible; to be utterly professional. Lightning charcoal sketches, a man pulling on his flying helmet, another knotting a scarf round his neck. The tractor dragging the refuelling bowser out of the way. Engines starting, the chocks being snatched from the wheels, the blur of propellers, as they gained speed and then they were gone, the remaining flight of Hurricanes, not even a full squadron now, swooping up into the air as in the distance she heard the air raid sirens start to wail.
Behind her, one of the riggers stopped to look at her page of drawings. ‘There is a new squadron coming in this afternoon. 911 Squadron. Did you see the two big Harrows that flew in this morning with the advance ground troops and all their gear?’ he said. He waved and she glanced at the two large planes parked side by side near the line of trees. ‘It’s a Spitfire squadron, like your brother’s. Something new here for you to draw. Our chaps will be glad of a break, poor bastards. Jerry has really been going for us these last few days.’
She looked up at him and managed a smile. ‘Our boys will cope.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ The man pulled an oily rag out of a pocket in his battledress and wiped his hands. He looked up at the sky where already they could see the approaching attack. As they watched, the neat formations of fighters heading in from Tangmere to join their own boys began to break up and within seconds the sky was full of action.
‘Suppose we’d better get ourselves ready for them when they come back,’ he said with a sigh.
Evie watched him depart, sharing his anxiety; within seconds she had sketched the man’s retreating form, the slump of his shoulders, the angle of his head as once again he glanced up at the sky. Evie followed his gaze, aware for the first time of the swallows which swooped and dived over the airfield, oblivious of the drama in the sky far above, and in the corner of the page she drew a small bird.
Only moments later two planes broke free of the mêlée and Evie was aware of men appearing from the various huts staring upward as the dogfight swooped low overhead. The guns rattled as the two planes dodged and wove around one another, the RAF roundel and the square black crosses clear; a Hurricane versus a Messerschmitt 109. Evie found she was holding her breath. They were so close now she thought she could see the men inside, then they soared upwards on and on up towards the sun. A final blast of firing and suddenly it was over. The German plane veered away and down, flames pouring from the fuselage. It was heading straight for them. She watched, her mouth dry, unable to move, only faintly aware of the shouts near her, of men running, of the tortured scream of the engine and then the plane was down, crashing in flames barely fifty yards away on the far side of the hedge. For several seconds she was paralysed with terror. She found she had dropped her sketchbook and pencil; she had forgotten to breathe. Men ran across the field towards the wreck but there was nothing they could do. The man inside had never stood a chance. Taking a long deep breath she dashed the tears from her eyes angrily. He was the enemy; she shouldn’t be upset.
Only five of their own planes returned from the