He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘He’s still a human being. You wouldn’t be you, Evie, if you were dancing with glee. But if it hadn’t been him, he would have shot down one of our boys, we both know that. Maybe more than one. Your young friend from this afternoon perhaps.’
She glared at him. ‘I suppose so.’ She looked back at her sketchbook. ‘You’d better go, Eddie. I’ve got to help Mummy downstairs and then if I’ve got time I’ll come up and do some more work here.’
‘If?’ he said, with not altogether mock indignation. ‘You’d better find some time. I’ve got an investment in these pictures, don’t forget.’
It was dark outside by the time she returned to her makeshift studio. She made sure the blackout was secure then switched on the lights, flooding the table with cold white light.
She reached for her pencil. Since the incident on the airfield with the young pilot she had been itching to draw him, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had even noticed his golden good looks. The sketchbook lay open at her drawings of the crashed Hurricane in the middle of the airfield, the smoking shell of the Messerschmitt beyond the hedge. She folded the page back and looked down at the clean new sheet in front of her. They had started limiting the size of newspapers the year before, but so far there had been no more mention of paper rationing. Even so, she was going to have to be careful not to waste a single piece.
His insolence, that was what she remembered most clearly, his cheeky smile, the sparkling blue eyes, the wild hair springing up as he pulled off his helmet and goggles.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he had said and she had let fly. Instead of smiling and welcoming him to Sussex she had called him a selfish inconsiderate clod and probably more besides. She couldn’t remember.
Her hand hesitated over the paper as she ran through in her head the things she had said and she blushed; here alone in the empty studio, she blushed at the memory. Why? Why had she been so angry and why so rude when for all she knew, as Eddie had just reminded her so sanctimoniously, the young man was quite possibly about to die for his country.
Tony. She remembered his name too. ‘Hi, I’m Tony.’ And he had held out his hand.
‘Thanks a lot, Tony. You’ve ruined a day’s work, Tony. Why did you have to taxi up here instead of down to the other end of the line, Tony?’
She had seen his face fall. He had been the one to blush. Then mercifully for them both someone had yelled his name from the Nissen hut behind them and he had raised his shoulders, then his hands, in a gesture of surrender. ‘Sorry,’ he had said and he had turned away.
And now she could picture every detail of his face in her mind, every freckle, every stray corkscrew spring of his curly hair, every quirk of his mouth.
With an exclamation of impatience she leaned forward over the table, her elbow on the page itself as if to hold it in place and she began to draw with swift sure strokes of the soft pencil.
Sunday 7th July
‘I can’t find her card.’ Mike Marston was rummaging through the pile of post and papers on the kitchen table at Rosebank Cottage.
‘Whose?’ Charlotte was arranging some flowers in a blue pottery vase.
‘The woman who wants to write about Evie. She gave me her card. God, what was her name? Why do I keep forgetting it?’ He lifted a pile of magazines off a chair and looked under it. ‘I hope Dolly hasn’t thrown it out.’
‘Dolly never throws anything out,’ Charlotte commented tartly. ‘If she did we might have a bit more room.’ She rammed a vivid blue stem of delphinium into the vase.
Mike stood up and watched her for a moment, amused. ‘You don’t have to attack the poor flowers. You’ll find they surrender quite easily if you push them in gently.’
She swore under her breath. ‘They might surrender to you. They are out to get me! I am not the domesticated type, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘I’d noticed.’ He laughed.
She glanced up at him suspiciously. ‘You sounded as though you meant that.’
‘I did.’
There was a split second’s silence. He reached over and touched her hand. ‘I don’t go out with you for your domestic skills, Charley, and you know it!’ He caught her fingers as she reached for a rose and swore. ‘You can snip off the thorns, you know. Then you won’t get pricked.’
She sighed. ‘So, who taught you that? I know. Don’t tell me. Evie. Right?’
He gave a rueful nod. ‘She loved flowers.’
She found the card on the dresser propped against a jar of peppercorns and for a moment she held it in her hand, staring down at it, studying the small sketch of the shop front, the elegant italic script, the name The Standish Gallery, and on the back the name, hand-scrawled in ballpoint. Lucy Standish. Her brow was furrowed in thought. He was looking the other way. She could drop it down the back of the line of old cookery books and it would be gone forever. She pictured the woman’s shadowed, melancholy face and straight dark hair and gave a small satisfied smile. Was there any danger? None at all.
‘Mike.’
He looked up and she held out her hand. He grinned and took the card. ‘Glad one of us is organised.’ He reached for the phone. She watched as he waited for the call to connect and registered by the slight slump of his shoulders that it had gone to voicemail.
‘Hello Mrs –’ He paused and looked at the card. Then he turned it over to where she had written her name on the back. ‘Mrs Standish, this is Mike Marston. I’ve been thinking about our discussion the other day and I was wondering if you would like to come over here again so we can work out some modus operandi. I’m sorry for the delay in contacting you. I’ve been rather busy.’ He looked at Charlotte and winked. ‘Give me a call. You have my number here.’ He hung up.
‘Have you given her your mobile number as well?’ Charlotte queried.
‘No. She rang the house when she first got in touch. Better that way, then she can speak to Dolly.’ He stood for a moment looking round the kitchen. ‘Your idea of putting Evie’s stuff in the studio will take an awful long time. Hadn’t we better make a start?’
He walked through into the sitting room and surveyed it rather hopelessly. ‘There is such a lot. I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Why not leave it to Dolly and me?’ Charlotte brought in her vase of flowers and put them down on a side table. She stood back to admire the effect. ‘We could go to the supermarket now and collect some cardboard boxes. In fact, after this weekend, why don’t we leave the whole thing to Dolly, then as you suggested Mrs Standish can come over during the week when we’re not here? We don’t want to waste our precious weekends.’ She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and carefully blotted a drop of water which had fallen onto the table from the rose petals. ‘You have told Dolly what you plan to do?’
‘Well,’ he hesitated.
‘Oh, Mike!’
‘I did hint at it, just to test out her reaction.’
‘And what did she say?’
Mike gave a rueful smile. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’
5
August 22nd 1940
It was Ralph who introduced them properly. He finally persuaded Evie to go with him to the pub.
‘Eddie is more like a slave driver than a –’ he was saying as they climbed into his car. He drove an ancient cream three-wheeler Morgan which was his pride and joy. He stopped suddenly mid-sentence and she looked at him quizzically.
‘Than a – ?’ she echoed.
‘I was going to say boyfriend,’ he said at last.
‘Is he my boyfriend?’ she repeated softly. ‘Yes, I suppose he is. I’m sorry. I know you don’t like him.’
‘I never said that.’
‘You don’t have to.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘Dear Rafie, I can read you like a book. Daddy doesn’t like him either. Not really. And you’re right, he does make me work hard and just occasionally, yes, I do feel a bit put upon, and yes, I would like to go to the pub with my big br
other.’
It had been a hard week. Tangmere had been targeted and it had received several direct hits. Parts of the aerodrome had been reduced to a mass of rubble. Many planes had been lost when the hangars were destroyed. There had been nonstop sorties as the waves of attack came over, but a blessed interval of quiet followed. It had been a baptism of fire for the new squadron at Westhampnett. There had been no night raids here, however, although everyone expected them soon, and a night off for a jar and some female company seemed like a really good idea for the exhausted pilots and ground crew alike.
Ralph took her to The Unicorn in Eastgate Square, a favourite with the pilots. The pub was noisy and very crowded. It was stuffy and hot inside and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He bought Evie a drink, then they ducked out through the blackout curtains which hung over the door of the lobby and went to stand on the pavement outside. Within minutes a group of young men in RAF uniform had joined them.
‘So, Ralph,’ the voice behind Evie was cheery, the accent Scots, ‘are you going to introduce me to the lady?’
Evie turned, the half-pint glass in her hand slopping shandy over her shoes.
‘Hi, Tony.’ Ralph slapped him on the back. ‘Evie, this is Tony Anderson. One of the boys from Westhampnett. Tony, my sister, Evelyn.’
‘Your sister!’ Tony echoed with a huge grin. ‘Wow!’
Ralph smiled happily.
Evie scowled. ‘What he means is, we have met before. Flying Officer Anderson ruined one of my pictures.’
‘Oh, come off it. It was hardly ruined,’ Tony exclaimed. ‘A wee bit of dust, that’s all.’
‘A wee bit of dust, as you called it,’ Evie repeated, repressively, ‘can destroy a picture if the paint is still wet.’
‘True.’ Tony nodded thoughtfully with a wink at the bemused Ralph, ‘but you were only doing some quick pencil sketches. I remember most particularly.’
Evie gaped at him. ‘You noticed?’
‘Of course I noticed. To make amends, I will buy you a drink. But that is all,’ he added severely. ‘I will not grovel for the rest of my life.’
Evie stared after him as he headed towards the door and vanished into the smoky interior of the pub.
Ralph laughed. ‘So, you two have met before.’
Evie nodded. ‘But I am not going to let it spoil my evening.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Ralph raised his glass as another group of RAF officers headed their way. ‘Let’s see if we have more success here. Have you met my flight commander?’
By the time Tony threaded his way back through the crowds with Evie’s glass in his hand she was engaged in animated conversation with Alan Reid. Tony elbowed his way to her side and pushed the glass towards her. ‘Thanks.’ She took it and turned back to Al with a smile.
‘Evelyn!’ Tony called out. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
She glanced back at him.
‘If I concede that a small amount of dust from the airfield may have sullied your pristine sketches will it appease you if I allow you to draw my picture?’
Her eyebrows shot up as she stared at him.
‘Go on,’ he grinned. ‘This is not an offer you can afford to turn down.’
She tried not to smile. ‘What if I told you I had already done it?’
He gave Ralph and Al a sidelong look. ‘Ah, well, I suppose I am irresistible. I shouldn’t really be surprised if you have.’
Ralph gave a snort of laughter. ‘Give up, Evie. I think you’ve finally met your match!’
Monday 8th July
Lucy waved the customer out of the gallery with a smile. He had been uncertain and unhappy, dithering between two pictures, not sure if the recipient of his gift would like it, angling to have her promise to give his money back if he had to return it. Which she would do, of course, but she would far rather he didn’t feel he had that easy option. The small watercolour under his arm was one of several Larry had picked up at the last auction he had attended before his death. She looked at the empty space on the wall where it had hung and sighed. She had to get in some new stock and soon. At the end of the week perhaps she would go to the country house sale she had spotted in the paper only that morning. Friday, the announcement had said and it specifically mentioned pictures. A good call perhaps.
She tucked the cheque the man had given her into the little cash box in the drawer in the desk. Robin would be furious with her for letting him take the painting without clearing the cheque first. Larry would have been too. The purchaser had looked honest but neither of the men would have taken him at face value. Not these days. Well, she had.
She noticed suddenly that the light was winking on the answer phone and she leaned across to press the button. It was Michael Marston. She rang back at once but there was no reply. It wasn’t until the next morning that she managed to get through to Dolly Davis. Mr Michael, she was told, would be in London for the next two weeks, but he had left instructions that Lucy was to be given access to the studio in the garden. She arranged to go the next afternoon.
‘He’s got this idea in his head that you can sort through all her stuff,’ Dolly said with a look of sour incomprehension as she opened the studio door and pushed it back against the wall. It was raining gently and the garden smelled of fresh grass and roses and honeysuckle. She reached up to turn on the lights and ushered Lucy in. The huge table which before had borne only an open empty sketchbook and some tubes of paint was now laden with dusty boxes and piles of books. More boxes lined the walls, accompanied by suitcases and even a couple of hat boxes.
‘You can look through everything but you mustn’t take anything away,’ Dolly went on, and by the set of her jaw Lucy could tell she intended to enforce that instruction personally. She wondered in sudden amusement if the old lady intended to search her before she left each day. She watched as Dolly turned and went out, closing the door behind her. Through the window she could see her stooped figure tramping across the wet grass towards the kitchen door.
Lucy stared round in awe. She had moved from having virtually no information about Evelyn Lucas at all to being given access to possibly the entire archive still in existence.
When Dolly returned after an hour or so with a cup of tea and a slice of lemon drizzle cake Lucy wondered if she had passed some kind of test. She had stacked the books on one side – very few novels, she noticed, mostly books on art, some technical manuals, exhibition catalogues, some brochures, biographies of famous artists – and she had shifted most of the cardboard boxes and baskets and bags either to the top of the bookcase or onto the floor in front of it. In this way she had managed to clear the table again, leaving it free to examine each item in turn. There appeared to be hundreds if not thousands of letters, not from Evelyn herself sadly, as far as she could see at first glance, but replies from other people, which was almost as good; bills, bank statements, most of which seemed to demonstrate a distinct paucity of funds and all kinds of other remnants of a busy life. The two portfolios, stacked against the wall behind the door had proved, to her intense disappointment, to be empty.
Lucy looked up as the door opened. Dolly set down her tray in the middle of the newly cleared space. There were two cups and two slices of cake.
Lucy smiled. ‘I’m amazed that Mr Marston has trusted me with all this. And truly honoured.’
‘He must have liked the look of you.’ Dolly slumped down on one of the two straight-backed chairs near the paint-splashed deal desk. She was in her eighties, Lucy guessed, but energetic and fit enough to keep the cottage spick and span. ‘It’s been something he’s put off doing again and again. And if it hadn’t been for that woman he’d have gone on putting it off.’
Lucy frowned, puzzled. ‘That woman?’
‘Charlotte Thingy.’ Dolly grimaced. ‘She’s behind this. Hard as nails, she is. She’s not interested in poor Evie. She just wants the space cleared so she can makeover the cottage. She’s even emptied the upstairs drawers.’ She pointed to the two su
itcases under the table. ‘Poor Evie’s personal things. Can’t wait to get shot of them. Not that it didn’t need doing, you understand. Of course it did. But she should have left it to someone who cared. I offered, but oh no, she had already done it. Shoved it all in a great heap. No doubt next time she comes the rest of Evie’s things will all be pushed out here as well.’
Lucy thought it best not to comment. She reached for her cup. ‘I’m not sure where to start. There is so much more than I expected. This will take me weeks, months, to go through.’
Dolly nodded. ‘As I said, it’s time someone did it. She deserves some recognition. I was with her here for the last forty years of her life, you know. I looked after her so she could paint. Right up to the end she was working. Her eyes were as good as someone half her age.’
Lucy looked down at the slice of cake on her plate with an absent frown. ‘I didn’t realise she was still painting. There are so few of her works on the record. What happened to them, do you know?’
‘Christopher took them.’ Dolly grimaced.
‘Christopher?’
‘Christopher Marston. Her other grandson. Mr Michael’s cousin.’
Lucy gave a secret smile. Christopher obviously did not merit that honorarium of Mr.
‘He took the paintings,’ Dolly went on. ‘Mr Michael got the cottage. That was the arrangement.’ She pursed her lips.
Lucy digested that piece of news with disappointment. So, that explained the lack of paintings and sketches in the house.
‘He took her diaries too. Everything he could lay his hands on that wasn’t screwed down,’ Dolly went on. ‘I told Mr Mike but he wasn’t interested. He said Christopher was welcome to them. He said it was what Evie wanted. He said it was the cottage itself that mattered to him because that was where she had been happy. Christopher would have sold it.’
Lucy was studying her face, noting the anger and frustration there.
‘Did Christopher sell the paintings, then?’ she asked quietly.