The Bannister Girls

by Jean Saunders

  A year ago … her heart jolted as she drove steadily through the changing countryside, with Louise and Dougal in the rear seats of the Sunbeam. They conversed quietly, and she was left with her own thoughts. This time last year she had been caught in a miserable downpour of rain, and looked into the eyes of a handsome Frenchman who was to change her life.

  Jacques … the longing for him swept over her in a surge of pain. How long before she saw him again? Would she ever see him again? Or was the Kaiser’s lust for power going to destroy something more beautiful than she had ever imagined?

  To her wild relief there had been a short note from Jacques before they left for Scotland.

  ‘My heart aches for the lovely memories of Verdun,’ he had written. ‘My family spent some time there when I was a boy, and to think of it so desecrated now is to feel they are tearing at the very soul of France. Forgive my eloquence, chérie. Only to you can I say the words that are in my heart. Remember that I think of you always.’

  Such a short, poignant letter. She had wept over it, sensing all the things he didn’t say. So many other women must receive such letters, hiding the fear from their loved ones, the hopelessness of a war that seemed to be going nowhere. She had squared her shoulders, and got on with the business of packing her clothes for the journey north. This much she could do for Louise, and whatever Clemence’s thoughts on it, she intended driving the couple to Edinburgh.

  As it happened there was no need for her to go so far. Dougal’s father had business in Newcastle-on-Tyne, and would meet them there and take Dougal and Louise the rest of the way. It was a long enough journey for Angel, despite stopping at a wayside inn overnight, and she was thankful when they arrived at the plush hotel in Newcastle.

  Dougal’s father was clearly a prosperous man. Angel hid her slight surprise, feeling guiltily that like Clemence, she had assumed that everyone who spoke without proper King’s English diction, must be less well-connected. She couldn’t have been more wrong. The older Mr Mackie was a director of a Scottish newspaper, and it was clear that he and his wife welcomed the bereaved friend of their son, and would make her comfortable in their estate just outside the city of Edinburgh for as long as she cared to stay.

  It was all said in the natural way that moneyed people spoke, and Angel knew that Louise would be in good hands. It was too soon to think beyond the friendship between her and Dougal, but privately Angel thought they were well-matched.

  She hugged her sister when they parted after a night spent at the Newcastle hotel, waving her off in the smart Bentley motor with Mr Mackie at the wheel. Angel’s eyes were misty. Dougal’s war was over. However embittered he might feel, his family would be thankful to have him back safely with only a stiffened arm to remind them. And together, he and Louise might well find solace as well as love.

  Her restless thoughts roamed on as she began the long drive home again. There was no hurry, and the crisp panorama of the northern countryside in its mantle of frost and lingering snow was enchanting. Where the snow melted in the thin sunlight, evidence of an early spring made itself felt in the lacy network of tiny buds on trees and hedgerows. It was so hard to think of the war raging in France, yet so impossible not to think of it, and to compare it with the lovely peacefulness here.

  They had all made an early start, and it was mid-morning when Angel reached the Yorkshire town with the familiar name. Bannister Textile Works was situated here. She had never seen the place. On an impulse, she asked directions and drove towards the imposing red brick building.

  What fun it would be to call unexpectedly on her father. How delighted and surprised he would be! Clemence had declared that she had no intention of telling him of Angel’s decision to drive her sister north, washing her hands of the whole foolhardy scheme.

  She parked the Sunbeam, and walked up to the entrance, her boots scrunching on the hard-packed ground. There was a small office inside the building, and a bored typist looked up curiously at the beautifully dressed young woman standing in front of her.

  ‘Is Sir Frederick Bannister available, please?’ Angel asked the girl.

  ‘No, Miss. He’s not coming in today. Were you seeking employment?’

  Even as she asked, the girl looked doubtful. This one was not the usual kind who sought work on the looms or machines or in the packing sheds. After her brief disappointment, Angel hid a smile. This visit was to be a surprise, and she had no intention of giving away her identity.

  ‘No, but I did want to see him especially. It’s a purely private matter.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ the girl said in her flat nasal accent, glancing Angel up and down. She shrugged. It was no concern of hers. ‘I can give you the name of the hotel where he stays, if you like. He’ll no doubt be doing some paperwork there.’

  Five minutes later, Angel was following the girl’s directions. The hotel was some miles away from the factory, and the manager looked at her blankly when she enquired after Sir Fred Bannister. He recognised the educated accent, and came to a decision.

  ‘Sorry, Miss. I can give you a telephone number where you can reach him, if it’s urgent.’

  It was all very odd. Angel began to feel as if it was some kind of detective work, tracking down her father. She looked at the number the manager scribbled down for her, and he suddenly took pity on her.

  ‘I can’t give you the address, Miss, but young Georgie over there might be able to help.’

  The young boy sweeping the hotel lobby glanced up. Angel went across to him and asked her question. He glanced at the hotel manager, who nodded slightly.

  Oh aye, Miss. I know of it, because me auntie lives nobbut a spit away from the cottage, and I memorise numbers. It’s me hobby, see?’

  ‘Can you tell me the address?’

  ‘Oh aye, ‘tis Beckside Cottage, about three mile from here as the crow flies. Turn left at the bridge and follow the road. You can’t miss it.’

  Angel thanked him and went out into the sunlight. It was getting even odder. What was her father doing at Beckside Cottage, whatever it was? Perhaps it belonged to one of the outworkers he employed, and he needed to check up on orders or something.

  She found the old stone cottage easily, sitting square and solid beside the small running beck. Around the back of it, she could glimpse the nose of her father’s Daimler jutting out from its parking place. Angel’s heart began to beat unevenly. She left her car in the lane, and began to pick her way carefully towards the front door, tapping the well-polished knocker.

  A woman opened the door, well-rounded, still pretty in late middle-age, her bright eyes smiling in polite enquiry at the visitor. Behind her, Angel could feel the warmth of the snug interior, the whole place emitting an air of comfortable friendliness.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for my – for Sir Frederick Bannister. I was told he might be here.’

  Caution made her refrain from giving her name immediately. But then several things happened at once. She saw recognition surge into the woman’s eyes. They hadn’t met before, but Harriet realised she should have known Fred’s youngest daughter at once from his loving descriptions of her.

  And behind her, dressed as casually as ever in his second home, and giving everything away in an instant, Fred suddenly appeared, to gape in mingled pleasure and horror at Angel’s shocked and disbelieving face.

  Chapter 12

  Margot Lacey exclaimed in amazement when she opened the door of the Norfolk family home and saw Angel standing on the doorstep. At her feet was a small travelling bag. Outside in the road was the Sunbeam car, dusty from long spells of driving.

  ‘Darling! What on earth –’

  ‘Can I come in, Margot? I’ve got to talk to you.’

  The instant Margot heard her speak, she knew something was badly wrong. Angel normally spoke in a lilting voice that was unconsciously sensual and appealing, but now the voice was husky and near to breaking. Margot drew her inside at once, and led her to a small drawing room.


  ‘Mother’s taking a nap, so we shan’t be disturbed. Now tell me what’s happened. Has Louise gone berserk or something?’

  Angel looked at her blankly for a moment. Almost guiltily, she remembered the recent bereavement, about which she had naturally informed her friend. Already, the sadness of Louise’s new status of widowhood seemed years ago. Her shocked thoughts made no proper sense, and she had to force them to be sequential, like a child memorising facts.

  Because of Stanley’s death, Louise had decided to go to Scotland to Dougal Mackie’s family. Because of that, Angel had offered to drive them north, and had decided to pay a surprise visit to her father. Because of that…

  Suddenly she was weeping uncontrollably, and Margot’s protective arms were around her.

  ‘Hush now, darling, it can’t be as bad as all that, surely. Whatever it is, old Margot will share it with you. All for one and one for all, and all that rot, remember?’

  Angel gave a deep sob and searched for a handkerchief. She had never intended to let go like that. It wasn’t done. Clemence would hate to see her like this … thoughts of her mother almost made her howl afresh, but instead, she took several long shuddering breaths, and faced Margot with huge drowned eyes.

  ‘Margot, do you still want to go to France? I mean, now, this week, today!’

  Margot stared at her. Whatever had happened was obviously too traumatic for Angel even to talk about it. Oh God, it wasn’t her flyer, was it?

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Good. In case you’re wondering how I got here, I’ve taken Louise to Scotland and come here via Yorkshire, so I’m feeling all in. I’ll have to let Mother know what we’re planning to do, of course. It’s rather a sudden decision.’ She stopped abruptly, and Margot could hear the strain in her voice.

  But she had to ask. ‘Darling, is Jacques all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?’

  Angel still had the strange huskiness in her voice, only now it was tinged with a strange bitterness. It wasn’t directed solely at Jacques. It encompassed the entire male species, but Margot wasn’t to know that.

  ‘He’s written a few times, and he says he loves me, so I presume he’s all right – as far as any woman can tell when a man goes away. He might be in the throes of a wild affair by now, for all I know. He might even be dead!’

  She ended on a strangled note, and after the initial shock, Margot decided it was best not to pursue this line of questioning.

  ‘And you’re really prepared to go to France? What about your mother? She’s not going to like the idea –’

  ‘Father will persuade her,’ Angel said, more cynically than usual. ‘I promise you, Margot, Father won’t refuse me anything just now, I’m sure of that.’

  It was odd how a small thing like Angel referring to Sir Fred as ‘Father’ instead of the old loving ‘Daddy’ told Margot instantly that it wasn’t Jacques who was having some wild affair. But surely not Sir Frederick Bannister?

  Margot remembered his twinkling eyes, and the way he liked to catch a pretty girl’s eye at a party, so that she was obliged to smile back at him. He could often be seen twirling his moustache in the presence of ladies in the manner of a wickedly attractive Victorian roué. Margot had never thought of the similarity before.

  The sly old devil, she thought, with half-grudging admiration. No one could blame him really. He and Clemence were so mismatched. She with her airs and graces, and he with his earthy appeal. But Angel had clearly had one hell of a shock, and wasn’t prepared to tell any more at the moment.

  And knowing Angel as she did, Margot guessed that presumably finding her father in some cosy affaire d’amour, had sharpened her own guilt over her meetings with Jacques. She gave her friend a hug and spoke cheerfully.

  ‘You’ve picked a good day to arrive. Everyone’s gone out to a country fair, except for Mother and me, so we can slum it in the kitchen and make tea for ourselves. Do you want to stay a few days while we decide what to do, or do you want to go back to Meadowcroft immediately? You’ll need some fresh clothes, presumably.’

  She prattled on, ignoring the bleakness in Angel’s lovely eyes, and gradually, over steaming cups of tea, Angel’s nerves relaxed a little. Margot left her alone for a few minutes while she took some tea upstairs to her mother. And alone, Angel took stock of herself.

  What an immature fool I’m being, unable to handle this situation, she thought in a rush of self-censure.

  Rushing down here in a blue funk, after confronting her father with that woman. Harriet Garth. Hardly the name for a mistress. Her nerves flinched as she thought the word. Mistress. Her father had a mistress, and was clearly so well ensconced in the little cottage that it had probably been going on for years. Angel had felt as betrayed at the knowledge as if it was her own husband, instead of her father.

  As yet, she refused to let herself wonder how her mother would react if she ever knew. Telling her never entered Angel’s head. It would be too painful and embarrassing for her, and too humiliating for Clemence. In a way, it only emphasised the superficial relationship Clemence had with her daughters. It was so hard for her to show love, which was where she and Fred differed so much…

  The scene at the cottage was etched sharply in her mind. The shock on Fred’s face, the dawning realisation on the woman’s. And Angel herself, suddenly staggering as her legs seemed to turn to jelly beneath her, so that the woman held her arm and helped her inside to a chair. The woman smelled of health and fresh air, and the sight of her father’s portly stomach and unbrushed hair, in an open-necked shirt with its rolled-up sleeves, reminded her of a farmhand.

  How appalled Clemence would be to see him so inelegant. The incongruous thought had swept through her mind, even through all the other, more disgusting thoughts.

  ‘Fetch her some brandy, Harriet,’ Fred had said quietly. ‘God knows what she’s doing here, but she obviously needs it.’

  His heart ached at the sight of his daughter. Her beautiful skin was the colour of porcelain now, the deep-hued eyes even darker with pain and shock, the soft mouth trembling as she felt the cool glass touch her lips and swallowed the bitter spirit. She choked on it, brushing the woman’s hand away.

  ‘Feeling better, my dearest girl?’ Fred spoke to her as he always had. His feelings for her hadn’t changed, nor ever would. While Angel … he couldn’t bear the look in her eyes as the faint tinge of colour came back to her cheeks.

  ‘How could you?’ Her voice was a thick throb of sound. ‘I’ve taken Louise to Edinburgh and thought I’d give you a surprise. I never expected – I can’t believe – and don’t call me your dearest girl ever again! Somebody else has obviously taken that title from me!’

  ‘Angel, no one will ever take your place in my heart.’

  Fred spoke quietly, refusing to be angry. He felt more sorrow than anger. All these years he and Harriet had harmed no one, and now, through no fault of theirs, the one he loved best in the world was filled with hurt and pain. She looked so young, so vulnerable and untouched. She didn’t understand about loving and needing. How could she know of the void in his heart that Harriet filled?

  ‘And what about Mother’s place?’

  Angel hardly understood just why she wanted to hit out so bitterly. She felt shock, yes. She felt a fierce loyalty to her mother, and the family as a unit. She felt almost hatred that these two could be cosily enjoying themselves while others lost everything, husbands, sweethearts, fathers … and shamedly, Angel knew there was also a burning feeling of resentment that her father should be free to indulge himself, while young men such as Jacques de Ville was God knows where, being blown to bits perhaps, as Stanley had been blown to bits.

  The woman suddenly spoke up. Angel hadn’t looked at her again, and Harriet’s voice was steady and calm.

  ‘Your mother’s place is the same as it has always been, Angel. Your father and I have never disputed that, nor ever will. I give him a refuge when he comes to Yorkshire, and an ear to listen when he wants to talk. I
know so much about you, lass, and I grieve for your finer feelings now. I feel that I’ve shared so much of your young life, from your catching the measles on holiday when you nearly died, to every graze on your knees when you were such a tomboy and wouldn’t stay out of the treehouse at Meadowcroft. Is it asking too much for your father to have someone to share such times, to laugh and cry over the memories with him?’

  Angel had glanced at her then, seeing the warm compassionate woman that she was. Homely and yet sensual, a loving companion for a man whose wife could rarely be bothered to give an ear to listen when he talked. She felt a brief flicker of sympathy, but she wasn’t ready to understand, and she didn’t want to forgive. As yet the grief was too raw for her to let go of it. She got to her feet, swaying a little, ignoring Harriet.

  ‘You have a wife to share your memories, Father. The memories you made together, which you seem to have conveniently forgotten. I’m leaving now –’

  ‘You can’t! Not like this. I won’t allow you to drive when you’re so distressed, Angel –’

  She looked at him, her expression totally blank. It tore at his heart to see it.

  ‘You can’t stop me from doing whatever I want to do, ever again, Father. You’ve lost that right.’

  She turned and rushed out of the door, seeing the woman put a restraining hand on Fred’s arm as he would have gone after her. She went blindly to the car, and grated the gears before driving off so fast that the wheels spun and skidded on the gravel road. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to get away.

  She headed south, not knowing where she was going. She hadn’t meant her last words as a threat, or a hint of blackmail, but while the Sunbeam hurtled along the roads, the solution gradually came to her. She couldn’t go home yet. She couldn’t face her mother, knowing what she knew. Nor could she go to Hampstead. Their London house would be cold and bleak.