The Darkest Hour by Barbara Erskine

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.