‘Don’t you dare. Just come back as soon as you can. I’ll be here, Freddie,’ she said, her voice threatening to break, because what troubled him, troubled her. She hugged him swiftly, not allowing the sentiment to show.
‘You know I’ll always be here.’
Chapter 11
Black didn’t suit the older Bannister girls. It drained Louise, and made Ellen look harder and squarer. By contrast, Angel looked stunning, her long fair hair swathed into a discreet knot beneath the veiled black hat for the solemn occasion of Stanley’s funeral. Clemence too, her smart black costume softened with pearls, looked elegant and queenly. Sir Fred fidgeted awkwardly in the front pew of the village church where Louise had insisted Stanley be buried rather than anonymously in London.
Fred wished himself miles away. He wished he didn’t have this bloody guilt feeling over where he’d been when the telephone message had come through to him. He wished he didn’t have to tramp over the frosty, slippery Somerset earth behind the coffin draped with the Union flag, flanked by the small group of military dignitaries who had arrived that morning.
Fred was feeling more of a hypocrite than ever before, because he had always despised Stanley, and now he felt obliged to grip his daughter’s trembling arm and mutter platitudes at her snuffling tears.
‘It’s sensible to plant him here,’ Ellen had breathed to Angel when the coffin had been lowered, and they had all walked dutifully around the hole to peer down into it. ‘He’s just as likely to be blown up all over again in a London churchyard, and there’d be hardly anything left of him next time. It’s only bits and pieces now –’
‘Ellen, for heaven’s sake!’ Angel said, scandalised at the brittleness in her sister’s voice. ‘Have some compassion for Louise! I don’t know what’s got into you lately.’
‘Louise doesn’t need compassion from us. She’s getting all she needs from Haggis Dougal,’ Ellen muttered.
Angel refused to speak to her after that. Ellen was becoming impossible. Everyone was in a heightened state of nerves, but Ellen was just about the end.
What neither Angel nor anyone else knew, was that Ellen was being bombarded by attentions from Andrew Pender, the Cornishman, who knew a good thing when he saw one, and sized up Ellen Bannister immediately. A fine beauty, just ripe for the plucking, and untouched by human hand, if he was any judge. And he considered himself an expert when it came to women.
It was fortuitous after all, that his Conchie protestations had brought him away from his home county, where things had been getting a little sticky with all this patriotism nonsense, and even more so in his personal life. Being sent off to do his duty on this sleepy little Somerset farm had sounded a bore, but Ellen Bannister was going to change all that. Andrew had every confidence in it.
There was now the question of what to do with Louise after Stanley had been disposed of, as Fred put it to himself baldly. Of course, she would stay at Meadowcroft as long as she wished, but once they all went back to London after the war…
Louise and Stanley had had their own home, and presumably she would want to live there on her own. Or she may not. She may well prefer to come back to the fold, and remain a war widow for the rest of her natural. A prospect that made Fred go cold, picturing the future with Louise and Clemence constantly together…
Stanley had been dead for two weeks when Louise startled them all by announcing that she had to get right away for a while. By then, Fred had returned to Yorkshire, and Clemence put down the socks she was packing in tissue paper for the troops, and looked at her eldest daughter in amazement. Louise’s cheeks were quite pink, as though she had been steeling herself for this moment, as indeed she had.
‘Mother, I know you may think it odd, but I can’t bear everyone looking at me with such sympathy. You’re all being very kind, but I simply can’t cope with it all. And when I go to the village, it’s ten times worse. People either stare or look away in embarrassment, but I know they’re talking about me all the same. I don’t want to feel an object of pity, Mother. Please understand.’
‘Of course I do, darling.’ Clemence’s heart went out to her, standing tall and slender in her unflattering black, and sensing how her pride would be affected by village folks’ stares. One had one’s dignity to consider, after all. ‘But in a few weeks from now, people will have other things to think about. They’re naturally sad for you, Louise –’
‘I don’t want them feeling sad for me!’ Louise’s hands were clenched tight at her sides, her well-shaped nails digging into her palms. ‘You know that Dougal is leaving here next week, don’t you? He’s asked if I would care to visit his family in Scotland for a few weeks as a sort of recuperation. It’s all perfectly proper, Mother –’
‘Are you out of your mind, Louise?’ The socks and tissue paper slid to the floor with a little rustling noise as Clemence rose from her chair to face her daughter. ‘Of course you can’t go off to Scotland in the company of a young man! Whatever are you thinking of?’
‘I’m thinking of recovering from the shock of losing my husband,’ Louise said deliberately and with great solemnity. ‘I’m thinking of accepting a friend’s kind offer to stay with his family, not to set myself up as his paramour, and you insult me by suggesting otherwise. I was not asking for your permission, Mother. I was informing you of my intentions.’
Clemence’s mouth dropped open at the sudden edge in Louise’s voice. This was not the rather colourless daughter who had complied so dutifully when Clemence had found a suitable husband for her. This was a defiant young woman, more in the mould of her strong-willed sisters than the Louise who had been such a perfect echo of herself.
Before she could speak, Louise had rushed over to her and put her arms around her. Her voice was muffled against Clemence’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy. But I’m not your little girl any longer. I’m a married woman who has to learn to be alone from now on, and to make her own decisions. Dougal will telephone his parents in Edinburgh and ask them to speak to you. But that is as much as I will compromise.’
‘Compromise! It seems a very apt choice of word, Louise.’ Clemence twisted it bitterly to suit the waves of shock running through her. ‘Can you not see how it will look to be running off with this – this man, so soon after dear Stanley’s death?’
Louise moved away from her mother. Her eyes were sorrowful but filled with a determination Clemence couldn’t miss.
‘Sometimes I think you don’t know me at all, Mother. You’re just not listening to me. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and nor do I intend to. I have to get away, and this is my salvation.’
Angel had come into the room at the tail end of the conversation, and quickly got the gist of it. Clemence immediately appealed to her, futilely hoping for some support from Angel as to the wickedness of it all.
‘I could drive you and Dougal, if you like,’ Angel offered instead. ‘It will give me some long-distance driving practice. I can be your chaperon, if Mummy thinks you need one.’
Clemence threw up her hands.
‘I might have expected something like this. Has my entire family taken leave of their senses?’
Angel felt briefly sorry for her. The world was changing so fast, and despite her good intentions, in some respects Clemence was totally unable to keep up with it.
‘Wouldn’t you rather I drove them to Scotland than let Louise travel alone with Dougal, Mother?’ She hoped the Sunbeam would be up to such a journey, they would obviously need to do it in easy stages, if Louise were to accept the offer.
‘Thank-you, darling.’ Louise hugged Angel in a rare rush of affection. ‘I accept your offer unreservedly. I’ll ask Dougal to put through the call to his parents this evening. You’ll be here, won’t you, Mother?’
Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged Clemence out of doors in the circumstances, but she merely pursed her lips and nodded silently. It must be some kind of post-bereavement shock, she decided. Dear Louise would never normally act so
irresponsibly. And perhaps it wasn’t so awful, after all. Perhaps when she saw the fellow in his own home, with his family, she would realise just how marked was the difference between them, and be more than thankful to come home. There couldn’t be any real attachment between Louise and Dougal Mackie. Clemence simply closed her mind to such an absurd possibility.
Ellen half-heartedly pushed away the strong arms holding her, feeling the rich low laughter vibrating in the male chest so close to her own body, and sending the oddest sensations through every vein, every pore.
It was dark and pungent in the hayloft, and she had come in here at Peter Chard’s request, climbing the rickety ladder carefully, her skirts held above her ankles, to take stock of the bales of straw for winter feeding for the animals.
And there, waiting for her, was the handsome Cornish-man, and now here they were, tumbling in the musty hay like two wanton village lovers, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or scream or shout…
He saved her the trouble of deciding by covering her mouth with his own, in a long open-mouthed kiss that was nothing like Ellen had ever been kissed before. His body was a weight she found heavy and sensual on her own, the sound of his breathing suddenly rasping and hoarse, and hot on her cheek. He raked his hands through her hair that had somehow come unpinned and fell about her shoulders.
‘God, but you’re the most devilishly handsome woman I’ve ever met, little Ellen,’ Andrew muttered into her neck, where the pressure of his lips made her shudder delightfully.
‘Handsome? Is that good?’ She felt so strange and elated at this unexpected encounter with him, and the fact that no one in their right minds could call her little passed completely unnoticed. Nor did she think of it as a bit of patronising male seduction patter – then.
Andrew’s low laugh throbbed against her breasts again. She felt the deep rumble of it against her, and then the caress of the small firm breasts that had never known the feel of a man’s hand before. Shivers ran deep and strong inside her. She should protest. She should thrust him away from her. God knew she was probably strong enough to cope with this. But somehow she didn’t feel strong and capable any longer. She wasn’t the Ellen who had marched with the Women’s Movement in London, carrying banners, shouting slogans, receiving insults as to her suspect gender, and hurling them back in language no lady should even know, let alone use…
She felt … as Andrew wanted her to feel. Little and protected and wanted … and a woman…
‘Handsome is very good, sweetheart,’ he whispered against the skin at her throat that had somehow become exposed as his experienced fingers undid the fabric of her high-necked blouse. The fingers stroked gently, knowing that if he went too fast she would fly like a frightened bird, yet the ache for her was becoming unbearable. He had to know more of her. He had to possess her…
Ellen felt the hand slide down the length of her body while his mouth still covered hers with kisses, interspersed with sweet whispering against her lips. And oh, it was so tempting to just let it happen, this thing that was reputedly more stupendous than a flight to the stars. This was love, and she yearned to know its mysteries…
The dimness of the hayloft was split by a wide shaft of light as the barn door below was unceremoniously thrown open. Motes of dust danced in the thin February sunlight. The two people above had been too absorbed in their own pleasures to be aware of the rumpus outside, but now both sat up with a shock as the screaming began.
Andrew cursed loudly, while Ellen re-arranged her clothes quickly, and simply wanted to die as she looked down into the good-looking, disbelieving face of Peter Chard, glimpsing the agony in his eyes.
She didn’t register it for more than a second, because her attention and that of Andrew Pender’s was totally taken up by the young woman yelling furiously at him in an accent similar to his own.
‘So I’ve tracked you down at last, you bastard! I’ll have the law on you for tricking me, though mebbe I’m in time to save your latest floosie from the mess you’ve got me into! Married me, so-say, and left me with a babby, Miss, saying he was going off to enlist, only I had me doubts about that, knowing him for the snivelling coward that he is. All his guts are in his trousers, and that fizzles out soon enough. There ain’t nothing of the real Conchie about this one. The truth is he’s too yellow to fight for King and country! And he’s already got a proper wife and kids down Penzance way, and I’ll have him up before the Magistrate on a charge of bigamy if ‘tis the last thing I do!’
She began to wail in a fury, while Ellen sat rigid with shock. It couldn’t be true! But one look at Andrew’s grey face, and she knew that it was. All his vitality had died, and he looked hunted and pathetic, and she felt sick at the sight of him. And even worse at the name the Cornish girl had called her.
His latest floosie … she was swallowed up by shame. What an idiotic, gullible fool she was to have fallen for his line. In a rage, she suddenly leaned over and wrenched at his long dark hair, nearly pulling it out by the roots, dimly aware of the girl below screeching at her to grab him where it hurt most, and put the bastard in queer street for a while.
Peter was up the ladder in seconds, pulling her away from the cowering man. Ellen knew she acted like a street-woman, and she didn’t care … she didn’t care … she felt the stinging slap on the side of her face, and it was Peter’s way of showing that he did care.
‘Remember who you are,’ he snapped at her. ‘There are better ways of dealing with this. Tidy yourself up before you go into the house and telephone for the constables. We’ll get this fellow taken in custody and arrange for the young woman to be sent home on the train. There are legal matters here that others can sort out. It’s nothing to do with us.’
He spoke with harsh authority, and Ellen nodded dumbly. He would despise her now, and she didn’t blame him. He had always thought her so strong, and now he knew how weak she was. She couldn’t look at him, nor at the other swine who had so nearly seduced her. Love died as quickly as it had flamed, and beneath all the humiliation she suffered, it was a thought that could still astound her. What use was love, after all, if it was so fleeting an emotion? She should be thankful to the Cornish girl, but she couldn’t look at her either. She pinned her hair as best she could with shaking hands, climbed down the ladder with legs that felt as though they didn’t belong to her, and ran towards the farmhouse.
She made two telephone calls. One was to the constables to come to Chard Farm at once. The other was to Rose Morton in London, begging her to let her come and stay at the old shared house for a while, since she needed to sort herself out. Ellen had never begged for anything, but if she ever needed sanctuary, it was now, and Rose gladly forgave her everything and welcomed her back to the fold.
She was gone before the constables arrived, and before she had to face any of the three people in the barn again.
‘I suppose life is a little easier now,’ Clemence admitted to her only chosen confidante among her knitting circle ladies. Mrs Fitzwarren was ‘county’, and therefore a suitable companion and helpmeet on the circle afternoons at Meadowcroft. Mrs Fitzwarren usually arrived long before the lesser ladies, to take up their clacking needles and chatter in their country accents in the fine drawing room with its chintz furnishings and deep carpets, waited on by the Bannister maids with afternoon tea and buttered scones.
‘But for all your girls to have left at the same time must have been a wrench for you, Lady Bannister,’ commented Mrs Fitzwarren. Not for them the easy first-name terms of village folk. Etiquette was still to be observed in the best houses, and was all the more precious because so many people seemed to be throwing aside the old values.
‘Well, of course, Ellen was always very self-willed, and her roots are very much in London and her business affairs. I doubted that a farming life would suit her for long.’
Mrs Fitzwarren nodded sympathetically at the controlled voice of her hostess, learning nothing from the careful words. Clemence had seethed to the point of
apoplexy at Ellen’s sudden departure with only a note to say she was desperate for her old life, and not to think too badly of her for going back to London. But no one would ever guess it.
‘And the others –’
‘Dear Louise simply had to get away, of course. It was understandable, and Angel is such a dear to accompany her. The Highlands of Scotland will be very beneficial to Louise after the shock of poor Stanley’s death. Such a blessing that dear Mr Mackie could accompany them for protection.’ She neatly twisted the truth of it to her own satisfaction. She had repeated the phrase so many times, she began to believe it herself.
‘Will you have some more tea before the ladies arrive, Mrs Fitzwarren? Cook has made some splendid seed cake, and we might indulge in a slice, if you wish.’
Knowing the lady’s sweet tooth, Clemence deftly moved the conversation away from her girls. They had all behaved so badly that she didn’t even want to think of them any more, let alone discuss them. She smiled blandly, and Mrs Fitzwarren privately assumed that the few tales going around about the upsets at Meadowcroft must be wrong after all. Either that, or dear Lady Bannister should have been on the stage for the fine performance she was giving!
Already, the raging battles at Verdun were becoming no more than fading newspaper reports in the minds of folk who weren’t actively involved or who had loved ones at the Front. It was frightening, Angel ruminated, but it was even possible to get used to reading of enormous casualties, of mud and still more mud, of privations and barbed wire and yet more mud, where the soldiers trampled over one another to go ‘over the top’ of the trenches, and slither back down with bullets shattering their faces. How easy it was to become complacent when every day reported the same thing, the same horrors, the same mounting lists of the dead, with only the names differing.
She shivered to think of Margot’s young brother Edward caught up in such horrors. He was such a boy, always ready for a lark. Little more than a year ago, she remembered his birthday party at Margot’s elegant home, and the way the so-correct public schoolboys had been allowed to let their hair down in games of charades and find-the-thimble and other harmless pursuits. And now he was a soldier, hard and tough as soldiers must become, and how could he possibly change so overnight?
The Bannister Girls Page 15