The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine
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have been taken just before he died. He looks so happy.’ Or did he? Was that wistfulness there because he had a premonition of the future? She bit her lip.
‘Where did you find them?’ Dolly was frowning.
Lucy pointed at a cardboard box.
‘So, she’s been through the desk as well.’ Dolly glared at the box.
‘I’m sorry. Was it private?’
‘Not from you.’
They looked at each other in silence for a moment and Lucy realised that her tears had unlocked something in Dolly’s reserved manner. They were allies now, against Charlotte Thingy.
As though sensing she had unbent too far Dolly straightened her back. ‘I’m afraid you are going to have to leave,’ she said. ‘I’m going home now and I need to lock up.’
Lucy’s heart sank. ‘Of course.’ She glanced round the studio. ‘I haven’t really started,’ she said helplessly.
‘I usually come in on Tuesdays and Fridays,’ Dolly stated firmly. ‘You’re welcome while I’m here. I arrive at nine and leave at four thirty.’
Friday. The day of the auction.
With Robin’s co-operation, she had planned to set blocks of time aside, a week or two at a time, to go through the archive. If she could only come once or twice a week it would take forever.
‘I’ll do my best to be here,’ Lucy said. ‘If I can’t make Friday I’m afraid it will have to be next week.’
August 24th 1940
Eddie counted out four crisp white fivers and folded them into her hand. ‘More where that came from, Evie. Keep up the good work, sweetheart.’ He drew her into his arms again and pulled her against him. ‘They’ll take as many of those small paintings as you can produce.’
Evie pulled away. He smelled of cigarettes and there was a taint of stale alcohol on his breath even though it wasn’t yet five o’clock.
‘That’s great Eddie, thanks.’ She tucked the notes into the pocket of her dungarees. ‘Are you staying for supper?’ She had just finished milking when he had arrived.
He shook his head. ‘Best get home.’ He paused for a fraction of a second. ‘You haven’t been down to the airfield for a couple of days.’ He glanced down at her shrewdly. ‘Is there a problem?’
She shook her head. ‘There is so much to do here. There are only so many hours in the day, Eddie.’
‘Yes, well, there is a lot to do there as well. Don’t forget, I’m going to need a portfolio to put in front of Sir Kenneth Clark at the WAAC.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m working on it.’ She gave him a playful push. ‘Go on. Go home. I’ll do some more work once I’ve scrubbed the dairy.’
Did he not realise, she wondered as she waved him away just how hard she worked on this bloody farm, doing the work of at least two land girls, and how hard it was to build up a portfolio if he kept selling her paintings as fast as she produced them?
It was nearly dark when at last she wandered, exhausted, back towards the farmhouse and pushed open the door.
Tony Anderson was sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea with her mother. She stopped dead, staring at him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to have my portrait painted.’
‘You can’t just turn up!’
He looked at Rachel. ‘Tell her. What else can I do? We’re on call nearly all the time. I’ve done five sorties today. We’ve only been stood down tonight because the battle was so fierce this afternoon the Hun have gone home to lick their wounds. But if you’re not willing –’ He stood up.
‘Evie,’ Rachel cried. ‘Tell him you’ll do it. The poor boy has been waiting hours. You can draw him down here in the kitchen while I heat up some soup for you both. I know you can sketch while you eat, I’ve seen you do it before.’
‘You haven’t been over to the airfield,’ Tony interrupted accusingly before Evie could reply. He held her gaze steadily. ‘I thought under the circumstances you might come to me.’
‘What circumstances?’ Rachel put in sharply. She had stepped into the larder and reappeared with a large earthenware pot of soup covered with a muslin cloth.
‘I promised him I would draw him,’ Evie snapped at her mother. She turned to Tony. ‘I couldn’t leave the farm. I’ve been so busy.’ She was feeling unaccountably under siege, embarrassed and angry at his attentions and feeling worse because of her mother’s amused gaze. She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘All right, I’ll sketch you now, late as it is.’ She heaved another sigh, this one even louder.
‘Thanks.’ He was trying to look humble now, a smile trembling behind his eyes.
There was a sketchbook on the dresser. She grabbed it and opened it at a clean page. ‘Sit down. Here, under the lamp.’
He sat down obediently, an elbow on the table, chin on hand, profile raised to the lamplight. ‘Will I do?’
‘You’ll do.’ Now suddenly she was trying not to laugh, her irritation evaporating. She couldn’t work out how she felt about this man. She had never met anyone like him before. His merry blue eyes, his sense of fun, his soft Scots accent, his stunning good looks and his cheeriness in the face of threat all intrigued her. Was he so stupid that he didn’t understand the danger all round him? Wasn’t he afraid? She knew Ralph was afraid. That was why he was so brave.
Then she realised what it was that was different about Tony. Eddie and Ralph were men. Tony was still a boy.
‘Go to bed, Mummy!’ It was midnight. They had finished their soup ages ago and Rachel was still sitting over her book in the corner. For the hundredth time her eyes had closed and she was nodding closer and closer to the volume in her lap. She hadn’t turned a page in half an hour.
Tony glanced over his shoulder quickly then resumed his pose. ‘I don’t need a chaperone, Mrs Lucas, honestly. I’m sure I could fight her off.’
‘Tony!’ Evie was squinting down at the page. ‘Stop wriggling.’
He gave her a broad smile. ‘Can I look yet?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed and dropped the pencil. ‘Yes, you can look.’
He stood up and walked round the table as with a groan Rachel closed her book and levered herself out of her chair. They both stood staring down at the sketch.
‘That’s brilliant!’ Tony exclaimed. ‘Almost as handsome as the real me. Not quite, that’s not possible, but it will do. When will you paint it?’
Evie was staring up at him, blinking. ‘When will I paint it?’
‘Aye. Fill in the colours.’
Just in time she saw the twinkle, the twitch of his mouth. Reaching over she slapped his hand. ‘I’ll paint you when I think you deserve it. Until then you have a finished pencil sketch by the soon to be famous Evelyn Lucas, which will one day probably be worth hundreds of pounds. Here. Take it with you and get back to the base. I’m sure you should have been in hours ago.’
‘Just like in school. You’re right.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘But I’ll show matron the picture then she’ll promise not to beat me with her slipper.’ He took the sheet of paper from her. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you up so late, Mrs Lucas, I really am.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘But it was worth it. I’ll send this to my parents and they will treasure it.’ For a second he was serious. ‘If anything happens to me –’ He paused and left the rest of the sentence unfinished.
Evie