‘Tony, wait.’ She put her finger against his lips to silence him. ‘This is all getting a bit serious.’
‘I am serious.’ They reached a gate in the hedge and turned through it onto the grassy shoulder of the Down, skirting a hanger of hazel trees clinging to the steeper slopes and following a sheep track towards the summit, sewn with harebells and cat’s-ears. He reached out for her hand so he could pull her behind him. ‘Come on. I want to see the view from the top.’
They made love in a shallow hollow, sheltered from the wind, serenaded by the song of a skylark far overhead. Afterwards Evie lay on her back, her arm across her eyes, sleepy and content, inhaling the smell of the soft grass while Tony sat up staring into the distance. The sound of the binder, carried on the wind from the distance, where her parents were working in the barley field far below them, was clattery but monotonous, lulling them both in the gentle warmth. They kissed long and gently then they made love again, and it was only the sound of the distant throb of aircraft engines high in the south which made them draw apart and sit up. Evie reached for her blouse and pulled it on with a shiver. ‘The first raid this afternoon.’
Tony dressed hurriedly and shaking his head sat down again beside her. ‘I wish I was down at the airfield. I hate not being part of it all.’
‘They’ll manage without you, just this once.’ She put her arm round his shoulders, avoiding his injured arm. ‘I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Tony Anderson.’
He laughed. ‘I should hope so after what we’ve been doing.’
He picked a small blue flower out of the grass and threaded it into her hair. ‘I shall buy you a ring.’
‘A flower will do.’ She reached across and kissed his lips. ‘Do you know what it is? It’s called milkwort. It is an emblem of eternal love.’
‘Not really?’
She smiled. ‘No, not really. But it is for me. I shall press it and treasure it forever.’ She fell silent as the planes approached, the specks in the sky growing larger in tight formation.
‘Stukas and Messerschmitts. Where are our boys? What are they waiting for?’ He rose to his knees.
Evie pulled him down. ‘Careful. They might see us!’
He gave a humourless laugh. ‘I think they have their eye on rather larger targets than a couple of small people in a field. Like Southampton. Ah,’ he gave a satisfied exclamation as a formation of planes appeared high in the east. ‘At last.’ He narrowed his eyes in the glare. ‘Is that our boys or are they from Tangmere? Both probably. There. More of them. At last!’
The squadrons peeling off high over the wood had split, one section taking on the bombers heading west, and the others cutting in amongst the escorting fighters. In seconds the sky was a mass of diving and wheeling planes, the sound of engines screaming through the silence of the afternoon.
They sat side by side watching in awed fascination at the battle being fought over their heads. ‘The Battle of Britain,’ Tony said at last, his voice full of awe. ‘Did you hear Churchill’s speech on the wireless when he said that? It is in full swing and I am missing it!’
‘You are not missing it, Tony. You have a ringside seat,’ Evie said at last. ‘Think of it as research. You are watching their manoeuvring and their tactics so that you will know how to react when you are up there too.’
They both felt the visceral excitement and the breathless tension of the encounter going on over their heads. And then as suddenly as it had started it was over. The German planes one by one turned and headed south, two trailing black smoke, one spinning at last out of sight in the far distance, presumably plunging into the sea. Two of the Spitfires followed the stragglers, harrying to the last, the others, probably out of ammunition and rapidly running out of fuel, were returning to base. For a long minute the sky was empty, then a pair of swallows swooped low over the field.
Evie turned to Tony and snuggled into his arms. ‘You will soon be back in action,’ she said reassuringly. Her whole spirit was crying out in denial. She didn’t want him to go, she wanted him to stay safe here with her on the ground, but she knew she couldn’t keep him with her; he was not the sort of man to be tamed. She stood up at last and held out her hand to pull him to his feet. ‘Let’s go back to the farmhouse,’ she whispered.
Tuesday 16th July
Dolly Davis was standing at her kitchen window at home, the drying up cloth in her hand, staring into space. In ten minutes she would need to leave her small terraced cottage in Midhurst to walk up to the bus stop at the end of the street, ready for the long tour of local villages which would at last drop her off near Rosebank Cottage.
She had been thinking hard all night and was still turning her dilemma over in her mind. Did she trust Lucy Standish? Obviously Mr Mike did. He had told her on the telephone that he had given Mrs Standish a key to the house and to the studio and had told her she could come any day she chose, every day if she wished. He had made it very plain that she, Dolly, was not to interfere or question anything the woman did and was to give her every bit of help she could. To that effect Dolly had written down some dates and facts for Lucy, sitting down the night before with an exercise book and carefully making a list in her best writing of all the dates she could remember, starting with the date Evie had bought Rosebank Cottage. She was to write down the names and addresses of anyone she thought could help with researching the book and any details of the family she knew. Mr Mike said he was going to do the same, but he knew she probably had the key to so much more knowledge about Evie than he did. She knew he was flattering her; she wasn’t born yesterday. But on the other hand he obviously genuinely wanted her co-operation.
She had written down the names of Evie’s parents and grandparents, the name of the street where she had lived in London before she came to Rosebank, she couldn’t remember the number, the names of several of Evie’s friends, the ones who used to come and visit her. She no longer knew their addresses, if she ever did, but it was something to put on the list. She omitted the address of Christopher Marston. It was up to Mr Mike if he wanted to tell her about that side of the family.
At last she had put aside the notebook and stood up. Painfully she made her way up the narrow staircase, cursing her rheumatism, and she walked into the small second bedroom at the top of the stairs. Since her husband, Ronald, had died she had gratefully expanded her life into this second room which had been his for so long. He had suffered privately, as he did everything, from the pain of his long illness and died quietly one night seven years ago. She had not found him, still and peaceful in his bed, till morning when he was already cold.
She had waited a year, that was only decent, then she had sorted all his belongings into bags for the charity shops or for the bin men and moved some of her own things into the room, taking time to lay it out as she liked it with a comfy chair, a table and her small electric sewing machine and cupboards and a light so she could sew in there in her own domain. In one of the cupboards was a large cardboard box. She hauled it out and sat down with it on her knee.
As soon as she had realised what Christopher Marston was up to, clearing all Evie’s personal stuff out of Rosebank, she had saved what she could. It hadn’t been much, the diaries, hidden in the chest of drawers in Evie’s bedroom, two small sketchbooks and the old log book which had lain under the diaries. She had glanced at the log book and frowned in disappointment. She had thought it would be Ralph’s but it belonged to some