The Bannister Girls

by Jean Saunders

  Angel tried to find topics of conversation with Rose, but Louise clearly found her a great embarrassment, because of Stanley’s recent commission. She had heard that very morning that he would hold the rank of Major, and he had told her jovially on the telephone that he was to get a desk job somewhere near the south coast of England, and it was unlikely that he would ever leave British shores.

  Louise was thrilled and relieved when she heard, but seeing Rose Morton’s pretty, pale face and sad eyes, she felt a strange sense of shame, and a fierce wish after all, that Stanley could come home a hero.

  Clemence had risen to the occasion as Fred had known she would. By the end of the day, one would have thought that Lady Bannister herself had graciously issued the invitation to Rose to accompany them all to Somerset.

  ‘We hope to move down to Meadowcroft at the end of next week, Rose dear,’ she said kindly. ‘Can you be ready by then?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rose gave the quick tight little smile that vanished as soon as it came. ‘There’s nothing to keep me in London. The movement will go on whether I’m here or not. I do appreciate your generosity, Lady Bannister.’

  Clemence smiled back uneasily, thinking it a pity that young women should be so passionate about politics and the like these days. And all those girls they called canaries, having their skin dyed yellow by the dreadful TNT that Fred had spoken about, and content to wear those terrible mob caps over their hair, and the uncomfortable oilskins or overalls when they worked. So unladylike. So undignified.

  War did that to people, of course. It stripped one of one’s dignity. Knitting diligently and pouring tea at railway stations was quite quite different, but just as vital…

  At least Angel seemed more docile today, Clemence thought with some relief. She resolved to keep a stricter eye on Angel in the future. One never knew who one’s daughter might be meeting in these dreadfully modern days of going without a chaperon.

  A letter arrived for Angel on the day before they left for Somerset. Thankfully, her mother was ensconced with her knitting circle when Sophie handed it to Angel on a silver salver. Her heart leapt as she saw the same forceful square handwriting that she would know anywhere now. Some of Jacques’ flowers had already started to fade, no matter how hard Angel had tried to keep them alive. But one of the pink tea roses was already pressed between the pages of her heavy Bible.

  The letter was dated on the morning they had parted. Incredibly, it had taken five days to cross London, its envelope crumpled and dirty. She threw the envelope onto the fire, and concentrated on the words, hearing his voice as she did so.

  ‘My dearest Angel,’ she read, feeling her pulses race at the endearment. She read it several times before going on to the letter itself.

  ‘Perhaps it is improper for me to address you so. Perhaps you hate me for leaving you as I did. I pray that it is not so, chérie. I could not bear to say good-bye, and there was so little time that morning. It is my greatest wish that one day we shall be together. We knew each other for such a brief while, yet I feel that I have known you always, loved you always. I cherish the hours that we shared, for they meant all the world to me. You gave me something to come back to, Angel. Something to fight for. I shall take your memory into the sky with me. I believe that I also take your love as a talisman. I leave you mine.

  Ever Yours, Jacques.’

  Angel’s breath was tight in her throat when she finished reading. There was so much more that he hadn’t said. She knew that it was unwise to give military details away, even in a personal letter. But she had already guessed that he was flying to France the day after they had met. One day out of their lives was all they had had. She sent up a silent prayer that it was not all they would have.

  She pushed the letter into the pocket of her skirt as she heard the knitting ladies preparing to leave the house. This was their last meeting at Bannister House, and Clemence had particularly asked that Angel should bid them good-bye with her mother. It was the done thing, and Clemence was a stickler for doing things right.

  Angel tried to compose herself, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt, nor her eyes as bright. Despite the poignancy of the letter, her blood sang in her veins, for Jacques was as much in love with her as she was with him. She no longer tried to deny it, nor to pretend that it couldn’t happen in a moment. And one day, they would be together for always…

  ‘Angel, dear, please try to pay attention when Mrs Moncrieff is speaking to you,’ she heard her mother’s cool voice when she had seemed dazed for several minutes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Moncrieff!’ Angel’s face went scarlet then, knowing she would be reprimanded later, and wanting nothing to spoil this joyous day.

  The lady laughed indulgently, her eyes twinkling. ‘Angel probably has a young man on her mind, which is far more interesting than a group of virtuous elderly ladies! I know that look in a young gel’s eyes, and good luck to you, my dear.’

  ‘Nonsense, Violet, Angel’s far too young to think of anything like that,’ Clemence said crisply.

  Mrs Moncrieff touched her lips to Clemence’s cool cheek.

  ‘My dear, it’s a healthier occupation than throwing oneself beneath the King’s horse, wouldn’t you say? The sooner you get dear Ellen out of the clutches of those awful women, the better. Find her a husband to keep her in order.’

  Clemence kept the smile firmly fixed on her face. Violet Moncrieff was an old friend, and therefore entitled to be freer with her advice and opinions than most. All the same, some things were private family matters, not to be bandied about publicly.

  One of those matters was Ellen’s involvement with the suffragette movement. Another was the undoubted glow on Angel’s face at this moment, which she too began to recognise with alarm. In fact, it had hardly left the girl since the arrival of that extravagant bouquet of flowers from an unknown admirer. Clemence resolved there and then to investigate further.

  Violet finally left the house, and Clemence gave a sigh of relief. Good Works were all very well, but nothing could compare with the peace and quiet of one’s own home. She turned resolutely to Angel, just as the girl gave a great sneeze, fumbling in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief.

  As she dragged it out, a piece of paper went flying to the floor, and Clemence bent to pick it up. Seeing the handwriting, she too knew it at once. She heard Angel give a little cry, but it was too late.

  Clemence held the letter out of Angel’s reach, scanning it in mingled horror and misbelief.

  ‘Please give it to me, Mother. It’s mine, and it’s private,’ she said in a high, tortured voice.

  ‘I have no doubt of that,’ Clemence said shrilly. ‘It seems I can no longer trust my own daughter. I’m appalled by the contents of this letter! Am I believe that you have been so – so wicked as to be – intimate – with this man?’

  Despite herself, Angel felt a wild desire to laugh. How absurd to defile that glorious night in Jacques’ arms by calling it wicked! But then that other word – that delicious, awesome, and scary word – sent her thoughts scattering to a direction she had never even considered until now.

  She knew very well that to be intimate with a man meant taking the risk of becoming pregnant. To be disgraced in society, and to shame one’s entire family. The thought of it dried the saliva in her mouth, and made her heart thump sickeningly.

  ‘Mummy, you have no right –’ Angel whispered.

  ‘I have every right!’ Clemence was outraged at her daughter’s apparent admission. ‘Please go to your room until your father has seen this disgusting piece of literature, and we decide what’s to be done about it.’

  Angel looked at her wordlessly. Jacques’ letter had given her hope, support and love, and without it she was lost. But her mother’s face was implacable. Angel turned and rushed out of the room, knowing that the fatuous phrase of feeling as though one’s world was falling apart, was a truism after all.

  Chapter 5

  Black clouds scudded across the d
awn sky, and there was a smell of rain in the air. It made no difference. Jacques de Ville’s flight was scheduled to leave for France that morning, to report to Brighton Belle, the code-named headquarters of his squadron. The base was very near to the Belgian border, and previously Jacques had only flown as crewman on the recce trips over enemy lines.

  Now, he was a pilot in his own right. The all-too-brief training over the skies of Salisbury Plain was over, and he was at the controls of his own two-seater aircraft. His observer and gunner, Phil Brakes, was seated in front of him. The brief fear that shivered through Jacques was quickly smothered, giving way to exhilaration. The aircraft was his responsibility, and two lives depended on his skill.

  He prodded Phil, who gave him the thumbs-up sign as the propeller was swung by the ground mechanic, and the shuddering engine notes nearly deafened him. The machine shook and throbbed as if threatening to tear apart at any moment, but as it did so, Jacques felt excitement overtake all other emotions.

  In his eyes, to fly was the nearest thing to heaven, literally and metaphorically. To soar into the clouds was a sensation unknown to most. To experience the dense sea of cotton wool below, and then to emerge into brilliant blue skies and stunning sunlight was to be humbled by eternity and the vastness of space.

  His artistic eye could appreciate the spectacular scenario; the temperament of his race could tighten his throat and make him wish he had a poet’s words to express his feelings as the aircraft trundled over the uneven grass, preparing to take off, the others in his flight gathering behind him like attendant worker bees…

  Not everyone saw things the way he did, of course. He knew better than to enthuse too lyrically about the changing skies as he flew into the sun or back to base through a vaporous indigo evening.

  But most of his squadron pals were eager for his sketches of themselves lounging nonchalantly against their craft, to keep as souvenirs or to send back home to wife or sweetheart. They were only just discovering that they were the elite new breed of heroes … Jacques smiled thinly as the six craft in his flight moved forward along the flattened grass in ragged formation, preparing for the long slow invasion of the sky.

  ‘Bloody olive oil!’ Phil’s voice yelled back at him as the spurt of oil from the engine drifted back into their faces as usual, ingraining their skins almost before they were airborne. ‘No wonder most of us have the daily shits! They say the poor bloody infantry are suffering with dysentery in the trenches. They should try swallowing this muck.’

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, then you won’t swallow so much of it,’ Jacques shouted forward, his voice almost lost in the roar of the other aircraft beginning to bounce skywards towards the grey sheen of the English Channel.

  ‘Is that an order, Cap’n?’ Phil said in his cracked Norfolk accent.

  ‘No! Just common sense!’

  Jacques swore loudly as the aircraft dipped and shuddered alarmingly in a pocket of turbulence. The first few minutes were always hazardous, hard on the nerves as the heart palpated and hands grew sweaty as the pilot tried to keep the joystick steady and the wings level.

  And then, as though drifting into another world, the turbulence ended; you were above the clouds; you were floating; and seemingly the only living thing in the universe.

  ‘Bloody well done, Cap’n Jax,’ Phil’s faintly sarcastic voice bellowed. ‘We’ll be over Jerry’s tail before we know it.’

  ‘I hope not. We only have to report to base, not get caught up in a fight.’

  ‘Not much point in being fitted out with a machine gun then, is it?’ Phil was in a belligerent mood, his fingers happy on the trigger, his keen eyes already scanning the skies for a hint of silver against the sun that might indicate an enemy aircraft ahead. Jacques gave a short laugh.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that. Let’s get this little war horse safely to France first.’

  Phil snorted in reluctant agreement. Despite the deceptively easy flying now, all Jacques’ concentration was needed in controlling the dangerously flimsy machine that often seemed to have a will of its own. It only took a second’s relaxation for the wings to dip and the horrors of a dive begin. Even in training, in the safe skies over Wiltshire, Jacques had seen pilots go into a spin and crash to their deaths before ever seeing enemy action. He knew the risks.

  All the same, his thoughts wandered a little. Ever since meeting Angel Bannister and that one emotional night they had spent together, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He had dearly wanted to call on her, but official orders had put that right out of the question.

  As it happened, bad weather had stopped the squadron departing that same morning, but they were all confined to base until they were given orders to fly out. It was an entire day and night of frustration and waiting, closeted with other officers and men in steamy, dank-smelling mess rooms, and he had whiled away the time in sketching and writing to Angel.

  He had despatched one of the bored mechanics into the city to order the flowers to be delivered to Angel’s house, later entrusting the letter to the same young mechanic. Once the squadron had left for France, God knew how long it had been before the boy thought of posting it.

  But in his breast pocket now, Jacques had the perfect likeness of Angel next to his heart, and thanked God for the talent that meant he could at least keep her image near to him, if not her sweet warm self.

  He had known many women, and there were plenty who had wanted to marry the handsome young de Ville, whose family home was a gaunt gothic chateau south of Bordeaux, and who had excellent social connections. No doubt it had been a bitter disappointment to many a French maman when his father had agreed to Jacques being educated in England in deference to his mother’s death-bed wishes.

  Comte de Ville had made no protest at his son’s own request to remain in England and serve with the Royal Flying Corps when it was first formed, knowing of Jacques’ obsession with all things that flew. For him, there could have been no better choice.

  Strange how a war could be the catalyst to fulfil a man’s ambitions, Jacques thought briefly. To meet the one girl with whom he wanted to share his life … and to be flying an aircraft over his own country in a way he had never imagined in his wildest dreams…

  A week or so later, Jacques wondered grimly if this was really his vocation after all. The pleasure of flying for its own sake was unchanged, but the dark side of war was revealed to him hourly. Each flight in the squadron flew in shifts, on recce work at first, and ever-increasingly in fighting combat with the fast little German planes that seemed to fill the sky like irritating insects, but with far deadlier effects.

  Already, several of his pals had been shot down. He had seen one of the planes of his own flight, engulfed in orange flames as the short fuel lead from the tank to the engine exploded. He had seen the observer’s hands tear at his face and been near enough to hear him scream in agony, the pilot losing control as the burning oil spattered over him and the aircraft plunged to earth, producing a great dazzling fireball beneath Jacques’ own plane.

  ‘Christ almighty, let’s get out of here,’ Phil had croaked, his usual cheerfulness swept away.

  ‘Not yet!’ Jacques had sworn profusely, which was the only way to vent his feelings at that moment. ‘We’ll get the bastard who killed Browning first.’

  They had wheeled around, the sunlight dazzling them, the German plane heading towards them like a dart. But somehow they had avoided the impact, and Phil had swung the machine gun like a mad thing, blasting furiously, until they had seen the enemy go down with a whine of black smoke, to crash near Browning’s wreckage. The German pilot scrambled out of his cockpit seconds before it exploded, and they had seen scattered fuselage and burning fabric set his clothing alight so fast that he quickly resembled a demented fried skeleton.

  Only then did they fly away from the scene, with Phil cheering wildly that that had got their first Jerry, and Jacques so sick inside that he could hardly see the sky for the memory of that inhuma
n thing that had changed so frighteningly from a man.

  ‘Get her up, Cap’n!’ Phil was still drunk with success. ‘Let’s get up among the angels and head for home and put a cross on the side of our cockpit for one enemy less to worry about!’

  Up among the angels … it was ironic that his gunner should have used those very words. It reminded Jacques of Angel … and right then he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of her. She was everything that was gentle and good … and what they had just done to another human being was beyond all dignity, and should fill them with shame.

  On that same day, the Bannister family was preparing to move en masse down to Meadowcroft. Angel was still in disgrace, but Clemence had decided that things being what they were with this dreadful war, the girl would obviously be far better off well away from temptation, and that the serenity of the country would work its own healing for whatever ailed her.

  Obviously, Clemence could see that Angel was far from her usual self, but any thought of this – man – having despoiled her was put bluntly to rest by Angel herself telling her mother in a brittle manner that the monthly visitor had arrived, and so she need have no fears of becoming an early grandmother.

  Clemence was scandalised at Angel’s very turn of phrase. The girl seemed to have lost control of her speech and all sense of decency, let alone her morals, and Clemence completely failed to see or hear the hurt in her youngest daughter.

  The cramps in her belly had awoken her during the night before they were to leave for Somerset. Angel knew she should be overcome with relief, for the alternative was unthinkable. But in her heart, she felt more than just relief. She had lost all that she had had. For a little while, she had still had a part of Jacques with her. Now she had nothing. That beautiful night might never have happened. She was as she had been before. It was over.

  And now she had to face the long bumpy ride down to Somerset with her stomach tied in knots, and the misery of not knowing what had happened to Jacques, or if she would ever see him again. The flowers had wilted and died, save for the one she had pressed. The letter had been confiscated, and no amount of tears and pleas would make Clemence agree to give it back to her.