The Bannister Girls

by Jean Saunders

  Angel’s heart beat sickeningly fast as she climbed down stiffly, obliged to help Jones with the men, though most were able to walk unaided and were going home on compassionate leave. Once they had reported to an orderly by way of Jones’ hesitant French, Angel left them and found the Mother Superior’s office. Hands trembling, she knocked on the door.

  ‘Entrez,’ came the brisk response, and Angel entered a sparsely furnished room with thick stone walls, made even more atmospheric by the coifed and black-robed figure seated magnificently behind an ancient desk. The ambience of historic France seemed strangely personified in this quiet room, and for no particular reason, Angel felt a sudden terror, as though she were about to be guillotined.

  Chapter 19

  The Mother Superior gave the young woman a polite smile, and looked at her enquiringly. Angel explained who she was in fluent French, and her reason for being here.

  ‘Ah yes!’ The nun was clearly relieved at being addressed in her own tongue, but her expression changed slightly, her smile a little uneasy. ‘You have been highly recommended to us, Mademoiselle Bannister, and I’m sure you will be an asset in the Abbey, my dear, since we speak very little English.’

  ‘Thank-you,’ Angel said. ‘But Mother, please tell me – the Frenchman you have here – you know how anxious I am to see him, since I think he may be my fiancé –’

  The nun rose. Angel was surprised to see how tall she was. She towered over the low furniture like some great eagle, Angel thought.

  ‘My dear, I am sorry to have to give you bad news –’

  Waves of nausea swept over Angel. Dear God, surely nothing had happened to Jacques after all this time, when she had not even been permitted to visit him…?

  ‘I am afraid that the man you came to see discharged himself from the hospital two days ago. I’m so sorry. You should have been informed, but we have been so terribly busy this past week that I’m afraid it was overlooked.’

  Angel stared at her in disbelief. Jacques was well enough to have discharged himself? Why hadn’t she been informed of such an improvement? Her thoughts were so muddled she couldn’t take it all in.

  ‘So his memory has returned?’ The words seemed to be dragged from her. She saw the nun shake her head.

  ‘No. He was certainly much more lucid of late, but we still have no idea who he is, nor how he arrived here.’

  Angel sprang to her feet, tears of frustration and disappointment making her forget her manners. ‘Then why could I not have come to see him? I could have told you –’

  She felt the cool hand of the nun on her arm, and subsided onto the chair again, trembling with this new shock. She was certain she had been so near to being with Jacques again, and now all her hopes were in ruins.

  ‘Mademoiselle, it was Papillon’s insistence that he should see no one, as well as our wish. He was badly burned, and although the scars have faded, his mind was tortured. In his more sensible moments, he begged for no prying eyes until he was whole in mind and body. We could only respect those wishes –’

  ‘Even when you knew that there was someone who might have identified him?’ Angel cried bitterly. ‘Someone who was in anguish, believing him dead? What kind of a God is yours, Mother, if you think He would have been proud of such actions?’

  The nun didn’t answer, and incredibly, Angel could see that her words had hardly touched her. Such people were beyond human feelings, she wept, but why should they believe themselves nearer to God than boys who were torn apart by war, and young women hardly out of school who tended them so tirelessly? What did this person know of the love that flowed between a man and a woman? How could she have any knowledge of how badly Jacques would have wanted her, needed her?

  ‘Please compose yourself, my dear, and I will show you the note that Papillon left behind.’

  Angel raised streaming eyes to the calm face of the nun. It was all the more incomprehensible to her that the woman didn’t take offence, that Angel could rage and scream, and it would all be accepted passively. It wasn’t human…

  ‘There was a note?’ she said raggedly. ‘If it was Jacques’ handwriting, then I’ll know it –’

  ‘You may not. His hands often shook abominably, presumably when he relived what had happened to him, the truth of which is sadly still locked away in his memory. I fear he was in an agitated state when he left the Abbey, and the writing is barely legible. The Sisters and I fear for his safety, and I assure you we pray for him constantly.’

  Angel wanted to hear nothing of prayers at that moment. She took the piece of paper offered to her, burning to find some clue in the note that this was truly Jacques’ writing, but there was nothing. It consisted of shaky scratchings of a child, or worse, of a senile old man. It merely thanked the Sisters, and beneath the words was a crude drawing. A bird soaring into the sky above some low hills, seeming to have arched doors fashioned into their bases.

  Angel stared at the drawing, willing some message to come to her through it. She frowned, deep in concentration, and at last, as if out of a mist she seemed to hear Jacques’ voice, speaking softly and nostalgically…

  ‘One day we’ll go to my home in Bordeaux together, chérie. I’ll show you the vineyards, and the deep, dark cellars beneath the hills where the wine is stored at a constant temperature. If the Germans ever reached so far into France, we would always have a refuge beneath the hills.’

  ‘I know where he’s gone,’ Angel said tremblingly. ‘And I know that he was Jacques de Ville.’

  The Mother Superior looked at her sorrowfully.

  ‘We suggested that name to him after the doctor at Piersville passed on your message to us, Mademoiselle. There was no flicker of response at all. I beg you not to build up your hopes. The man is gone –’

  ‘Then I will go too!’ Angel said passionately.

  ‘I fear that you will not. You have been transferred to us for a purpose.’ Suddenly, the nun’s attitude changed. Her voice was brisk and commanding. It was enough to make anyone cower, and if Angel had been the cowering sort, she would certainly have shrunk beneath the stare of those stern eyes. The imagery of the eagle became even stronger.

  ‘But you must see that I can’t stay –’

  ‘I see nothing but a nurse who has been sent to us from Piersville hospital to replace one of our own. A nurse we badly need, Mademoiselle, who offered to translate for her own people. Are you intending to change your mind so callously?’

  Angel closed her eyes for a brief moment. The eagle’s eyes were boring into hers, sapping her will, filling her with guilt that she could desert all the wounded who needed her, for the sake of one man, whom she loved…

  ‘I’ll stay!’ The words were dredged out of her. ‘As long as you promise me that I can have some leave as soon as possible, and go in search of Jacques. You can’t be so heartless as to deny me that!’

  The nun’s smile returned, and it was suddenly a face filled with sweetness and compassion. Angel blinked. Had she merely imagined the domination of moments ago? Or had it been her own conscience directing her?

  ‘Just as soon as it’s possible. You have my word on it. And now, let us see about introducing you to the Abbey of St Helene, and to the Sisters. I hope that you will be very happy here with us.’

  Angel followed her numbly, all feelings of purpose gone, her spirit quenched. What was the use of protesting? Her own personal battles were futile, compared with the magnitude of the war, and the overwhelming officialdom that went with it.

  ‘Dearest Mother’ … Angel bent over the writing paper in the bad light from her little window in the cloisters, and began a letter to Clemence. Guiltily, Angel realised she had been neglecting this link with home. So much had happened in recent weeks, but at least she had news to tell that wasn’t altogether depressing.

  ‘I hope you’ll have heard from Ellen by now. She’s not the best of correspondents, but I urged her to write and tell you that she’s happy and well. I know this to be so, because she’s here in F
rance, Mother! She arrived at Piersville hospital a few weeks ago, wanting to help in any way she could, and Sister Yard gave her some office duties.

  ‘It was so wonderful to see Ellen, Mother. We fell on one another like long-lost souls. It was like the old days to be able to reminisce about home, but we were only together for two weeks, because I was transferred to this new address, quite some distance from the Front Line. The nuns here care for long-term convalescents and those who are in need of special care, such as the badly burned or those who have become mentally ill because of the effects of gas or shell-shock.’

  Angel felt tears blur her eyes for a second, knowing it was Jacques’ condition of which she spoke. Jacques who was in her heart, and would always be…

  ‘We are terribly busy, Mother. The number of wounded brought in is staggering, and the dreadful spring weather makes us even more miserable, though it must be a hundred times worse for the poor boys at the Front. When it’s not raining, we have sleet or even snow. The old Abbey would be very picturesque, were it not for the grimness inside its walls. The nuns are so patient and good, and I help by translating for them. They speak very little English, so you see, my French lessons were not wasted, after all!

  ‘I have a little leave due to me at Easter, but the journey home and back would take too much of it, so I shall spend it in France. There are still places to visit that are untouched by the war, and Paris is not too far away. They say the city is still lovely, despite the food shortages and the fear for loved ones. So don’t worry about me, Mother, nor about Ellen. One day we shall all be together again, and what tales we shall have to tell.

  ‘Take care of yourself, and of Meadowcroft. How I miss it when I talk to the soldiers of home. My best love as always.

  ‘Your loving daughter,

  Angel.’

  She re-read the letter quickly, knowing she had made no reference to her father, and hoping that Clemence would assume that she had written to him separately as she had often done in her schooldays.

  ‘Dearest, Darling Daddy, your best girl is waiting impatiently for a letter from you…’

  She bit her lip, folded Clemence’s letter quickly, and put it in an envelope. She didn’t want to think of those other days. Instead, she would think about Easter, when she had been promised some leave, and rather more than she had intimated to her mother. Ten whole days! Ample time to beg a lift to Paris in one of the Red Cross lorries that were always going back and forth. And then to take the train for Bordeaux, and to find Jacques.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She must find him. She must know for certain what had happened to him. If he had been well enough to travel, then some of his faculties must be returning to him. And his rough sketch the Mother Superior had given her, of the hills and the arched doors that Angel was sure led to the cool dark wine cellars, had given her the first real clue that instinctively, Jacques had known he was going home.

  She waited for her Easter leave with a gnawing impatience, knowing she must not neglect her duties here, and knowing too that the time would pass quicker if her hands were kept busy. And they were always busy at the Abbey. Casualties arrived constantly. Sometimes they would come in an ambulance from Piersville, and it would be driven by someone she knew, bringing a note from Ellen.

  ‘How are you, old thing?’ Angel could almost hear her sister’s breezy voice as she read the words. ‘Our war here is much the same as when you left it. What stinking weather. We have to cut the boots off some of the poor devils, so caked in mud it’s a wonder they could ever lift their feet. I’m on the wards now. Sister Yard praises my strong muscles, which makes me feel like a prize bull on market day. Still, it keeps me fit. How goes it, darling? Any news of J? You know I’m longing to hear.

  ‘Fondest regards, Ellen.’

  She made no mention of Peter Chard, and Angel wondered if she’d written to him yet. She wrote back to Ellen whenever she could, needing to feel close to someone, because then she wouldn’t feel quite so much in limbo.

  And at last the longed-for leave arrived. She climbed into the Red Cross lorry that was going back to Paris after bringing much-needed supplies to the Abbey, and gave a great sigh of anticipation. At last she was on her way!

  The driver gave her a typically French smile, the appraisal in his eyes taking in everything at once about this elegant young Englishwoman with as much chic as a Parisienne. It still shone through, despite the rigours of hospital life, and the driver appreciated the fact that she was sitting beside him.

  ‘I am Henri, Mademoiselle Bannister,’ he spoke in French, since it seemed to be her second language. ‘We have some hours to be together, so forgive the informality.’

  ‘Of course. And I am Angel.’

  She smiled back, thinking briefly that this war had done much to sweep away the sort of stuffy conventions when lack of introductions restricted friendships. Such etiquette would undoubtedly return after the war, but it all seemed so petty when the hand a nurse held might be lifeless within minutes, and all a soldier needed was to hear a caring voice speaking his name…

  ‘Staying in Paris, are you, Angel?’ Henri was prepared to chatter to this pretty young travelling companion, and she shook her head as they drove through sheeting rain, their wheels throwing up showers of mud on all sides.

  ‘I’m taking a train to Bordeaux as soon as I can –’

  ‘Won’t be one today.’ Henri shook his head decisively, and Angel stared at him in dismay. ‘It’ll be too late when we arrive, chérie. First thing in the morning will be a different matter.’

  ‘But I hadn’t planned to spend a night in Paris!’

  He gave a low chuckle. ‘It’s unusual to hear a pretty young Mademoiselle say so! Everyone loves a night in Paris!’

  ‘But I have to get to Bordeaux as quickly as possible,’ Angel spoke desperately.

  He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow morning, the train will get you there quicker than any other means, unless you have your own private car and are prepared to travel through the night!’

  Angel blinked back the tears of frustration, knowing that what the man said was probably true. And she didn’t have her own private car. Memories of the reliable little Sunbeam came longingly to her mind.

  But she had to be sensible. If tomorrow morning’s train was the only means of reaching Bordeaux, then she must make other arrangements for tonight. The thought daunted her for a minute. She glanced at the profile of the man sitting beside her. A family man, she hoped, who would not take her words amiss.

  ‘Do you know of a small hotel where I can get a room for the night, Henri?’

  ‘Better than that. I know the owner of a safe café who rents out rooms to students. It’s very near the railway station you’ll need for the train to Bordeaux, which makes it useful for the students going home from the universities and the Sorbonne. I can take you there, if you wish.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, thank-you.’ There was so much kindness in the midst of a war. You had to endure it to realise it, Angel reflected.

  It was almost dark when they arrived in Paris. Ghostly outlines of the monuments she remembered from another part of her life, the Eiffel Tower, the brave Arc de Triomphe, the wide, beautiful river Seine with its bridges, the gothic structure of Notre Dame … everything seemed to conspire to thicken her throat and fill her with nostalgia for times past … and even more than that – the sheen of rain on the streets reminded her vividly of a night in London, when she had first met Jacques de Ville and lost her heart.

  ‘Are you all right, Angel?’ Henri glanced at her, suddenly silent, and she nodded.

  ‘Just remembering Paris as it was,’ she spoke with an effort, realising how gloomy it all looked now. Where was the sparkle of Paris, the gaiety and vitality, the brilliant lights? All dimmed for the duration…

  ‘We all remember,’ Henri said quietly. ‘But she’ll live again, I promise you. Now then, I’ll take you to the café and see you settled, and then be on my way.’

  She looked at
him, solidly respectable, and probably wanting to get back to his family, like everyone did.

  ‘I’m very grateful.’

  ‘We’re Allies, aren’t we?’ He was cheerful now, and she gave a small laugh.

  ‘We’re friends,’ she corrected him.

  They called at the station first to check on the train times for Bordeaux. It was all very haphazard, but there was one due at six-thirty in the morning, which would hopefully reach Bordeaux by early evening. The clerk said dourly that there was no certainty in anything these days.

  Angel thanked Henri for all his help and entered the café on his recommendation. It was a small place, run by a Monsieur and Madame Dupont. The room Angel was given was spotless, with several pictures of saints above the bed and wash basin. She wasn’t a Catholic, but they gave her comfort.

  When she went for her evening meal, there were red checked cloths on the tables, wine bottles as candle holders with the stalactites of melted wax adorning them, and an old man playing plaintive tunes on an accordion.

  Students laughed and chatted, lovers in corners looked into one another’s eyes in the candleglow, oblivious to everything around them. The essence of Paris survived among all its privations.

  But it was wiser not to go out at night. Angel stayed in the café, drinking in the sounds of the music and the quick city accents of those around her. If she half-closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it was another era, when she came here with her parents and sisters, and everything was new and wonderful to a young English girl.

  She slept fitfully. Street noises woke her several times; the rumble of lorry wheels as soldiers were taken through the night towards the Front Line; the hurtling of a train as it went through the railway station.

  And then it was morning. Almost before it was light, Angel was awake, dressing quickly, and eating the early breakfast provided for her. She crossed the street to the grand edifice of the station. The clerk was still grumbling, resigned to expecting delays, commenting that if an ambulance train arrived, then ordinary passenger trains must wait. It was the war, he said expressively, rolling his eyes and spreading his hands as his shoulders hunched up into his chin.