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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 suitcases 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.
Dolly shook her head doubtfully. ‘I suppose so. I don’t know. They were never mentioned again. But I’ll bet madam there,’ she gestured over her shoulder towards the cottage, ‘will want to know where they are once she realises how valuable they were.’
By ‘madam’ Lucy assumed she meant Charlotte Thingy. She hid a smile.
When Dolly had removed the tray she worked on for several hours, sorting through the different boxes. The suitcases poignantly contained a selection of clothes, underwear, nightgowns. Lucy could understand Charlotte’s indignation if these were still in place in what must have been the main bedroom in the cottage. She hadn’t been upstairs but it looked as if there wouldn’t be more than two rooms up there. She pushed the cases against the wall. Somehow touching Evie’s clothes was unbearably sad, but it brought her closer. She reached for another box. This seemed to contain the contents of a desk, perhaps the desk she had seen in the sitting room of the cottage. Stationery: unused notepaper and envelopes, cards, ancient fountain pens, old keys, stamps, a clip containing bills and receipts, all dating – Lucy turned them over carefully – from the summer before Evie died. And there was a tin box. She opened it and found it full of black-and-white photos of a young man. The top two snaps were of him in RAF uniform. In one he was leaning against a small three-wheeler car, in the other standing beside a single-seater aircraft, painted in the familiar brown and green camouflage with the RAF roundel and a large number painted on the side. A Spitfire. She stared at him for a long time, gently running her finger over his face, then with shaking hands she turned the pictures over and looked at the back. Only one was labelled. Rafie, it said and Summer 1940.
When she looked up her eyes were full of tears. She had recognised him at once. ‘Ralph?’ she whispered.
There was no reply.
She had been right in her guess. The shadowy figure she had seen in her bedroom was Evie’s brother.
She looked at the pictures again and picked up the others with unsteady fingers. There he was as a baby, a child, and as a boy in school uniform. Always the same wistful smile, the hair flopping in his eyes, the affectionate gaze directed at whoever was taking the picture.
She hadn’t realised that Dolly had come back in until the woman approached the table.
‘Sorry.’ Lucy brushed the tears away.
Dolly looked down at the photos. ‘Are those of Mr Ralph?’
Lucy nodded.
‘He was killed in the war,’ Dolly shook her head again. ‘Evie never talked about him, you know.’ She gave Lucy another curious glance.
Lucy gave an apologetic smile, aware suddenly of the tears on her cheeks and how odd they must look. ‘It seemed so sad. This picture must 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 walked with him to the door. The two dogs appeared from one of the sheds and she sent them back with a click of the fingers. By the light of the faint moonlight in the yard she could see a small open-topped car parked near the barn. He followed her gaze.
‘I borrowed it. Brilliant little runabout. 1927 Morris Cowley. Chap at the base wants six quid for her. If I buy her I’ll take you for a ride. If you’re good.’ He sighed. ‘So, I’d best be going. The last couple of mornings they’ve been calling us at four a.m. Thanks, Evie.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. Before she could turn away he had bent to kiss her lightly on the lips, then he was sprinting towards the car. She saw him pack the drawing away carefully then he made his way to the front and bent to the starting handle. The engine caught almost at once and he vaulted into the driving seat.
The blacked out headlights barely gave him any light to see by at all as he reversed and turned before heading down the lane.
She put her fingers to her mouth, staring after him. The touch of his lips had sent a shockwave through her system which had for a moment left her incapable of coherent thought.
6 (#ulink_bbab531f-4bad-59f0-b4d8-e0df759bf233)
Friday 12th July
‘I thought you weren’t coming down this weekend.’ Dolly had opened the door to Mike with a duster still in her hand. It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon.
‘Charlotte had to cancel our trip abroad. She was summoned to some sort of conference she couldn’t get out of. It’s a shame but we’re rescheduling our break.’ Mike dropped his briefcase and holdall and looked round. ‘Is Lucy Standish here? I didn’t see her car in the lane. I thought this would be a good chance to talk to her and see how she is getting on.’
Dolly frowned. ‘She couldn’t come today. There was some auction she had to go to, apparently.’
