The Darkest Hour

  Dear Alistair and Betty,

  I was so sorry to hear of Tony’s death. One of the boys from Westhampnett brought me his log book. He has the bed Tony used to sleep in. He didn’t want to get Tony into trouble and he had been going to send it on to him but after Tony died one of the girls in the WAAF told him Tony and I had been in love. I have it here and I wondered if you would like it–

  The fragment of easily recognisable writing ended with a scrawl of the pen. Evie hadn’t been able to go on. Nor had she sent the log book. Presumably she had been unable to part with it after all.

  Lucy wondered who Alistair and Betty were – his parents, perhaps. She glanced at the letter again. It was undated. Poor Evie. So, that was how his log book had come to be with her diaries. The love of her life had been killed and that was all she was left with.

  Gently she tucked the piece of paper away. Did this explain why Tony had been painted out? In her grief Evie had not been able to bear looking at him? But surely the reverse would have been true. She would have treasured this painting and kept it close.

  She leafed back through her notebooks and glanced at the photo of the painting which she kept there to remind her of any detail she might have forgotten, unlikely as it was. Every brushstroke was burned into her brain. The reflection from the desk lamp fell on the glossy surface of the print and she caught her breath. Just for a second had she seen a resemblance to Mike there in the young man’s face? She reached for her notes and scanned the dates. Could it be that Tony was Johnny’s father, Mike’s grandfather? Surely not. She sat for a while pondering on this enigma and only slowly did she become aware that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stirring as though a cold draught had found its way into the room.

  January 30th 1941

  Refreshed after a second spot of overdue leave Tony walked into the Mess at Prestwick and looked round. His CO was sitting at the bar nursing a glass of beer. Tony slid onto a stool beside him. ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Heaven knows.’ Don gestured towards the steward to pour another. ‘Have this one on me. Good to see you alive and well.’

  Tony reached for the glass. ‘Thanks. Why, weren’t you expecting to?’

  Don glanced across at him. ‘You haven’t heard then? We lost OL5.’

  Tony felt himself go cold. That was the Spit he usually flew. ‘Who was flying?’

  ‘Bob Fine.’

  Tony exhaled sharply. ‘Poor blighter. Shot down?’

  ‘No. There was no enemy around. They were too busy beating up the poor old Forth Bridge that day.

  ‘Then what?’ Tony could feel the blood beating in his ears. ‘You think someone is still after me?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Don downed his drink and pushed the empty glass towards the steward for another half. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. We’ve had some suspicions that there have been possible attempts at sabotage on the planes.’ He signed for the drinks.

  Tony frowned. ‘No, you don’t mean it!’

  ‘Reds. Communist infiltrators. They are quite strong on Clydeside.’ He paused for a moment, a grim look on his face. ‘We found a stick of gelignite strapped to an exhaust manifold. We are dealing with that, and I don’t have to tell you that that is to be kept absolutely under wraps. However, in this case, I have to consider too that you do have enemies, Tony.’

  Tony nodded gloomily. ‘If it was something personal, to do with Evie, I thought it would stop after I disappeared from Sussex,’ he said bitterly.

  The two men stared at their drinks in silence for several minutes then Don looked up. ‘As it happens, old boy, you are moving on again anyway. You’ve been posted away from the squadron.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘We are going to miss you, but you’ve had a long stressful time with a good many kills under your belt and it appears the powers that be have decided it’s time you had a bit of a break and that you would be a good person to teach some youngsters to fly at an operational training unit.’

  In the village of Prestwick a shadowy figure let himself into the phone box and allowed the heavy door to swing shut behind him. He took a deep draw on the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth before feeding some change into the slot and dialling a number. When a voice answered the other end he pressed button A and waited for the change to drop. ‘Hello?’ he glanced over his shoulder to check the street was deserted in the winter’s darkness. ‘Just to let you know, Anderson wasn’t flying yesterday after all. He was on leave. It was another pilot who was killed so your target is still with us. Do you want us to try again?’

  There was a moment’s silence then a quiet laugh echoed down the line. ‘No, I don’t think we need to bother you further. One wasted plane is enough. Tony Anderson is dead to us. That is all that matters.’

  Saturday 7th September

  Christopher Marston had hired a van to bring the most valuable items away from his father’s house as soon as the police had moved out.

  ‘Are you sure you can do that?’ Frances had asked as he climbed out and went round to open the doors. Ollie, newly returned with his sister from their stay with the grandparents, had gone with him and the boy glanced at his mother with something like scorn.

  ‘Why not?’ he said.

  ‘What about things like probate?’ Frances asked.

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder with a look of utter disdain. ‘Those bloody fools know nothing about art. They wouldn’t be interested. Besides, these were all rightfully mine anyway. The lawyers can quibble over the house and the furniture if they want to but not Evie’s pictures. I want them out of sight. The only one they know about is Chanctonbury Ring, and that is badly damaged so I doubt if it’s worth anything. Anyway they have taken it away in case it’s a murder weapon. ‘Here, Ollie, help me with this.’ He handed a box to the boy. ‘Put it in the hall. Frances, go and make yourself useful by putting the kettle on and stop wittering!’ He was tired and more stressed by the expedition to his father’s house than he would like to admit. Poking round in his father’s bedroom and study had been an unnerving experience. As he walked round the house, he had had the feeling his father’s eyes were following him everywhere he went.

  He reached into the van for another box of framed sketches and followed Ollie indoors. The boy was just about old enough to be useful now. God knew where Hannah was.

  Put them upstairs, out of sight.

  The voice in his ear was quiet but insistent.

  Don’t leave them lying around where anyone can see them.

  Christopher looked round. ‘Ollie?’

  The boy had put the box down and gone back out to the van for another.

  Christopher put down his own load and retraced his steps to the door. He was imagining things.

  Don’t be a fool. Anyone can see them there.

  Christopher turned round indignantly. ‘Frances!’ he bellowed. There was no sign of her. The hall was empty. Outside he could see Ollie’s back as he bent to pick up something out of the van. The boy was straining to pull it towards him. He was out of earshot; Frances was presumably in the kitchen. Christopher turned away from the door and walked to the foot of the stairs. ‘Hello?’ He called. ‘Who’s there?’

  There was no reply.

  Was it his father’s voice he had heard? He shivered as he looked round again, perplexed, then with a shake of the head he walked out to the van and reached for one of the larger frames he had stacked in the back. ‘Give me a hand with this big one, Ollie.’ It had been hanging in his father’s bedroom over the fireplace, one of the war paintings of a Spitfire with the letters OL5 painted on the fuselage. The blanket he had so hastily wrapped round it had fallen off. He stared at it. The pilot was standing by the plane, helmet and goggles in his hand. He was looking out of the picture smiling towards the viewer – or the painter. Evie.

  He was blond, cheerful, his hair blowing into his eyes and Christopher too was struck suddenly by how much the young man looked like his cousin Mike. He stared at it for several se
conds and then he gave a quiet chuckle.

  ‘What is it?’ Ollie looked at him, Ollie who was squarely built, dark of hair and slightly swarthy of skin like all the rest of Christopher’s family.

  ‘Who does that remind you of?’ Christopher asked, pointing.

  Ollie stared at the painting. ‘No one. Should it?’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘No, of course not.’ He pulled the blanket over the picture again. ‘Come on, give me a hand with this. We’ll stow it in the attic for now until I decide where to hang it.’

  It was later when Ollie was ensconced in front of his laptop in his bedroom that Christopher took Frances upstairs to the attic. ‘Look at this.’ He had leaned the picture against the wall with three others of the larger ones from George’s collection.

  Frances studied the painting for several seconds in the harsh light of the naked bulb.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  She glanced at him. ‘You think he was Johnny’s father?’ she said at last.

  ‘So, you can see the likeness?’

  She nodded. She glanced at him nervously, unsure what else he wanted her to say.

  ‘It looks as though my grandfather reared another man’s child as his own. Do you think he knew?’

  Frances hesitated. ‘Johnny was very fair, certainly, and George was dark-haired like you,’ she said cautiously.

  Christopher let out a cynical laugh. ‘No wonder George didn’t get on with his brother. They had different fathers. That explains a lot.’

  ‘It’s only guesswork but if you’re right it would certainly explain the difference in colouring. He did look like that young man. Do you know who he was? Do you think George knew?’ Frances stepped closer, peering at the face of the pilot.

  ‘I don’t know. He had the picture in his bedroom in pride of place. Would he have done that if this was the family cuckoo in the nest? So, Granny was a bit of a goer in her time!’

  Frances smiled. ‘She was a very attractive woman.’

  ‘I suppose so. When she was young, anyway.’ He turned away from the picture. ‘What that Standish woman would give to know that little piece of gossip, if it’s true, eh?’ He paused and turned back towards her. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said softly, ‘because if I found out that you had told her, Frances, your life would not be worth living. Do I make myself clear?’ He didn’t wait to see her frightened nod. He was already descending the steep attic stairs.

  ‘Mum.’ Ollie came into the kitchen as Frances was preparing supper. ‘You know what you said about probate and Grandfather’s will?’ He sat on the edge of the table and picked an apple out of the fruit bowl. ‘I think Dad burned the will.’

  ‘What?’ Frances turned to face him, shocked.

  ‘I didn’t think about it till you said that, but when we went into the house Dad went straight into the study and began to go through the desk. I had never been there before but he seemed to know his way round. He was really hurrying and impatient and cross. Then he found this envelope and opened it. He skimmed through whatever it was and swore. Then he laughed. He saw me watching and he told me to go and get everything off the walls upstairs and stack them in the hall but I kind of hung around.’ He took a bite of his apple.

  ‘And?’ Frances had laid the vegetable knife on the kitchen island.

  ‘And, he burned it. In the fireplace. He was very pleased with himself then he stirred up the ashes and he chortled.’

  ‘Chortled?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So, if it was George’s will he hadn’t left the stuff to your father, had he?’ she said.

  Ollie shook his head ruefully. ‘No, I think he might have left the paintings to the nation. He muttered something about “if the country wants them the country can bloody well buy them”.’ He shook his head in confusion. ‘Should I have tried to stop him?’

  ‘No, darling.’ Frances sighed. ‘Nothing will change your father’s mind once he has made it up. Don’t mention this again. Forget it. What will be will be.’

  ‘Why do you stay with him, Mum?’ Ollie hurled the apple core towards the bin. It hit the lid and bounced off. He didn’t move.

  ‘Yes, Frances, why do you stay with me?’ The cold voice from the doorway made them both jump. Ollie slid off the table and backed away towards his mother.

  ‘Dad! I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Clearly.’ Christopher walked into the room. Frances took a step backwards.

  ‘Leave us!’ he shouted at Ollie.

  The boy jumped again but he straightened his shoulders. ‘No, Dad. I’m not leaving Mum. I am not going to let you hit her again.’ He clenched his fists.

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’ Christopher advanced on the boy threateningly.

  ‘I am going to stand up to you.’

  Christopher smiled. ‘Are you indeed?’

  He looked from his wife to his son and back, then he shook his head. ‘Plenty of time to sort you two out,’ he said calmly. ‘Thank goodness Hannah has more sense than to defy me.’ Turning on his heel he walked out, leaving them staring after him in silence.

  ‘You can’t stay, Mum,’ Ollie whispered at last after the door closed. ‘Surely you can see that?’

  She picked up a dishcloth and nervously wiped her hands. ‘I’ve no choice, Ollie.’

  ‘Everyone has a choice. He’s a bully and a bastard!’ He walked across and retrieved the apple core, tossing it into the compost bin by the sink. ‘Can’t you see? If you stay, one day he might really hurt you badly.’

  February 10th 1941

  Eddie was out the whole time now, returning late at night, often after Evie was in bed. She turned her back to him as he climbed in beside her, clenching her fists in misery, lying tense and angry until he began to breathe evenly. Only then would she turn on her back and lie staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening for the roar of night-time bombers heading west towards Portsmouth and Southampton.

  She hadn’t been spying deliberately when she found the photo. He had left a jacket on the back of a chair and, going to hang it up, she had almost stepped on his wallet as it tumbled out of the pocket. She picked it up and was about to put it on the chest of drawers when something made her open it. There were several five-pound notes folded inside, a couple of receipts and some stamps, and there, in an inner pocket, the photo of a young woman she did not recognise. She was glamorous, with tightly permed dark hair, full lips and large dark eyes. In her hand a long cigarette holder caressed her mouth suggestively. Evie turned the picture over and read the inscription, cold shock washing over her as she stared at the bold writing.

  To my darling Eddie, from Vinnikins, Arundel, June 1940

  He had an art scout in Arundel, she knew, a woman who looked for pictures for him. From time to time she rang the farm and he would listen and make notes and smile and promise he would go and collect whatever it was she had found. The way he had described her she was middle-aged, plump, widowed. Lavinia Gresham. That was her name. Evie had spoken to her several times, taken down details of some sketches she had found, passed the message on to Eddie. Vinnikins indeed.

  She even knew the woman‘s address. She had seen it scribbled more than once on labels and in notebooks lying on Eddie’s desk in what had once been the dining room of the farmhouse but which was now his den.

  It was several days before she managed to get the loan of her father’s car on the pretext of picking up some special pastels at a studio supplier in Arundel. Her father would never check up; he would never be sufficiently interested. Besides, he refused her nothing these days.

  She found the cottage easily and parked outside, walking up the garden path without hesitation. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say or do; part of her was hoping Lavinia would turn out to be the woman Eddie had described and not the vamp in the photograph. When she opened the door Evie’s heart sank. She was every bit as glamorous as her picture, if not more so.

  For a moment the two women looked at
each other. ‘Evelyn.’ Lavinia obviously recognised her. It was almost as if she had been expecting Evie. She turned and led the way into the sitting room. ‘I knew you would come one day,’ she confirmed. ‘Did Eddie tell you about me?’

  Evie perched on the edge of the sofa, pulling her dress down over her knees as though trying to hide the evidence of the growing baby.

  ‘No, he didn’t. He doesn’t know I’ve come.’

  ‘How did you find out then?’

  ‘He carries a snapshot of you in his wallet.’

  Lavinia suppressed a smile. ‘So, why are you here?’

  Evie shook her head slowly. ‘I’m not sure. It was a shock when I realised he had a girlfriend, then I asked myself if I really cared after all. Does he love you?’

  Lavinia gave her a searching glance. ‘I don’t know, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  The other woman nodded at once. ‘He’s the only one for me.’ She heaved a sigh, then she shot another quick look at Evie from under her eyebrows. ‘He told me about your fella getting killed. I’m sorry.’

  Evie put her hand on her stomach. ‘I’ve known Eddie much longer than I did Tony. Eddie was sort of the boy next door.’ She gave a wistful smile.

  Lavinia nodded. ‘It’s the sort of thing he would do. Give another man’s child his name. He’s a good bloke.’

  Evie stared at her. ‘You know?’

  She nodded. ‘He told me everything.’

  ‘And you don’t mind him marrying me? Didn’t you want to marry him yourself?’

  Lavinia shook her head slowly. She stood up and walked across the room to stare out of the window towards the distant view of Arundel Castle beyond some old willow trees. ‘I’m married already. My bloke is overseas somewhere. He and I don’t keep in touch.’ She turned and came back to resume her seat. ‘For all I know he is dead.’

  ‘And you would have married Eddie if you had the chance?’