The Bannister Girls (15 page)

Angel frowned and then nodded.

‘Margot will receive a telephone call while Mother's out,' she said swiftly. ‘Auntie will be ill, and since Margot's mother wrote to tell her Margot was staying at Meadowcroft, Auntie said she would be so cheered up to see her niece, and her friend would be welcome to stay a few nights
at her home as well. How does that sound?'

‘It sounds as though you should be in the acting profession, darling. Are you sure you haven't done this kind of thing before?' Ellen queried admiringly. Angel went a fiery red.

‘Does it sound too awful to you? No matter how badly I want to see Jacques, all these lies are wicked, aren't they? Will St Peter bar me from entering the pearly gates, do you think, Ellen?'

She spoke facetiously, but there was an underlying worry in her words. Religious instruction was too deeply ingrained in her upbringing for her to practise deceit with any degree of comfort. Ellen squeezed her hand.

‘I think even St Peter would understand, darling. What's the old saying? Love makes the world go round. Without it, none of us would be here at all, would we?' She stopped, suddenly round-eyed, as a thought struck her. ‘Oh, Angel, you will be careful, won't you?'

‘Of course.' Angel's voice was muffled, her face more scarlet than before as she thrust the letter into its envelope. There were some things she was definitely not prepared to discuss yet, not even with Ellen, with whom she seemed to have found an unexpected rapport lately.

‘Then you can count on my help,' Ellen said more cheerfully. ‘When the time comes, I'll support the fact that Margot had this telephone call from Auntie in Wiltshire – providing Margot agrees, of course. What will you do with her while you and Jacques are canoodling?'

‘I haven't got that far! But she'll agree, I know she will. Margot will see this as a tremendous lark.' She could be sure of that. ‘And talking of Peters – which we weren't, strictly speaking, how does yours feel at being invited to the royal tea party on Sunday?'

To Angel's surprise, it was Ellen's turn to go pink.

‘He's not exactly
my
Peter. He's an independent spirit, like me – like
you
. I enjoy his company enormously. He thinks
for himself, and I admire that. He believed in what we were doing with the group, and he knew when it was time to stop.'

‘Well. He's obviously got quite a champion in you.'

Ellen laughed. ‘And he's quite capable of coping with anything Mother deals out to him. He won't be demoralised by the Chinese silk afternoon gown and the flawless pearls and the wafer-thin sandwiches served up on the best china!'

Sunday afternoon followed the pattern of Ellen's words so exactly that she and Angel found it hard not to keep looking at one another and exploding into undignified laughter. And it would all have been such a shame, Angel thought generously. Clemence really was being the gracious hostess to perfection.

The cream Chinese silk afternoon gown gave her an added elegance, as did the flawless strands of pearls around her neck. Peter Chard was offered the plate of wafer-thin sandwiches time and again, and did his best to hook his finger into the tiny handle of the bone china teacups … he and Sir Fred had the same difficulty and exchanged the same sympathetic glances.

‘You realise, of course, that one doesn't really care for one's daughters going into commerce, Mr Chard,' Clemence spoke with the cool self-confidence of breeding that somehow completely exonerated the snobbery in her words.

‘I do realise it, Lady Bannister,' Peter replied gravely. ‘I think this war has much to answer for, when we must call on our young women to perform work normally done by men. Ladies such as yourself are to be greatly admired, for being unafraid to move forward with the times.'

Clemence looked at him thoughtfully. If she detected a snuffle into Sir Fred's teacup, she chose to ignore it.

‘In what way, Mr Chard?' Clemence said pleasantly.

Peter put down his cup and saucer with relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ellen and Angel, both in their pretty afternoon tea dresses, and nearer to the window was
the other sister, Louise. They were like beautiful butterflies, he thought suddenly, and yet there was more strength of character in the one dear to him, than would be imagined by onlookers to this little cameo scene.

Of the others, he wasn't so sure, though Ellen had already hinted that her sister Angel was less of a flippity schoolgirl than a few months ago. He halted his wandering thoughts and looked their mother directly in the eyes.

‘Ellen has told me much about you, Lady Bannister. Of your knitting circles and your care for the returning wounded. That a lady in your position should be so concerned is a tribute to British womanhood, and for what it's worth I salute you.'

Fred cleared his throat noisily. ‘I think it's worth a great deal, my boy. And what of you? Did you not feel the urge to go to war, or does your farming interest prevent it?'

Peter smiled slightly.

‘My farming interest, as you put it, Sir Frederick, is my life's work. I am no gentleman farmer, but one who must work hard for every penny. The country needs farmers to provide food. Even so, I would have enlisted but for personal reasons.'

Louise's cup clattered into her saucer.

‘You're not one of those dreadful Conchies, are you, Mr Chard?' Her voice was sharp and accusing.

‘Don't be so objectionable, Louise,' Angel said shortly. ‘Do you think Ellen would be friendly with someone like that?'

‘I really don't know. After the exhibition I witnessed last week, and all her other activities, nothing would surprise me. Ellen makes friends with the most impossible people –'

Clemence gave her daughter a freezing look.

‘I think you had better apologise for that remark, Louise. It's most unlike you, and I trust that Mr Chard will overlook it.' She turned to Peter. ‘We're all tense these days, Mr Chard, and the only excuse I can offer is that Louise is feeling
so disappointed because her husband was expected home this weekend, and has had his leave cancelled.'

She looked pointedly at her eldest daughter.

‘All right, I'm sorry,' Louise muttered. ‘But I would still like my question answered.'

Peter looked at her with more interest. This one wasn't as spineless as she looked after all. Given the right company and the right circumstances, Louise would probably be as forthright as her sisters.

‘The answer to your question is that I'm not a conscientious objector, Miss Bannister. A farming accident makes me less than perfect in the eyes of the military, I'm afraid.'

Despite himself, Peter couldn't stop the small edge creeping into his voice. No one knew that he had tried to enlist, only to be told brusquely that because of the weakness in his leg he could not be considered a whole man. It had been a bitter blow to his pride.

‘Does that satisfy you, Louise, or would you like Peter to explain further? I'm sure we could produce his doctor to confirm it, if you insist,' Ellen said sarcastically.

Louise was hot with embarrassment. ‘Don't be ridiculous. I do apologise, Mr Chard. One is in such confusion these days.'

‘Think no more about it.' Peter smiled easily as she retreated behind the safety of her mother's affectations.

Clemence came to a decision about the self-assured young farmer, and her middle daughter's association with him.

‘Then if that's all settled, perhaps you would tell us more about the work that Ellen would be expected to do for you, Mr Chard.'

‘Certainly.' He managed not to look at Ellen at that moment, but they both knew they had won. ‘And I would be honoured if you would call me Peter.'

Clemence nodded graciously. She listened intently as he outlined the need for proper farm accounting books to be kept, and in the process found a growing respect for her
daughter who apparently was capable of dealing with such things.

While Ellen could hardly keep from laughing out loud. She was actually going to work for Peter Chard, with her mother's approval! She hadn't anticipated much argument from her father. As long as Clemence was satisfied that all was well, then Fred would go along with her decision.

She would work in the little room Peter used as an office, and sort out the enormous muddle of his books and papers. She would be a part of something solid and continuing, and it gave her such an astonishing feeling of well-being that she wondered why on earth she hadn't got what was termed ‘a proper job' before!

It would hardly take up all of her time, and she knew that. She might get bored with it. It wouldn't be as exciting as campaigning or rallying, but it was a step towards her own independence, and as such she treasured it.

The expertise with which Jacques de Ville landed his aircraft was second nature to him now. For a few seconds he sat with his gloved hands gripping the joystick, as if he was still somewhere above the clouds, and not safely on terra firma after all. It was only when he heard Phil Brakes yelling at him that if he was ever going to turn off the bloody engine they could get started on their few days' leave, that Jacques let out a long-held breath without even realising he had been sitting so motionless.

They were on British soil. They were in the pleasant green of an English airfield, with the scented summer grass of Wiltshire beneath them. He switched off the engine, and the quiet was like balm to his senses.

There were no blasts from enemy guns. No shells bursting all around him. No skimming the Front lines and the trenches in his flimsy and battle-scarred machine to report back to Brighton Belle on the air raids he and his wing had performed. No need for pride in assessing the number of Jerries he had slaughtered, or the enemy aircraft he had sent down in a whine of smoke and flame, trying not to imagine the German pilot's frenzy to get out, nor to hear his screams as his skin shrivelled like blackening paper scorched to a cinder in the fireplace. No sightings of the British Tommies and his own countrymen being torn to shreds beneath him in the midst of a brilliant red-orange glow that lit the sky and silhouetted remnants of bodies being flung into the air like
rag dolls. No scenes of tattered corpses spread-eagled on barbed wire in No Man's Land between the lines, hanging like pathetic bits of discarded washing. No more fear…

‘Are you going to sit there all day, Cap, or are you coming in to report? I've got me a nice little popsy tucked up and waiting for me, even if you don't!'

Phil's voice penetrated through the temporary deafness that always came after flying. Phil's oil-blackened face peered at him from the outside of the plane, and Jacques forced a grin to his lips, chapped from exposure to the air. They had three days' leave, and with the kind of desperation that every serviceman recognised, they were determined to forget the war for that brief while. If it were possible…

He scrambled stiffly out of the cockpit, slapping Phil on the shoulder in the strange wartime camaraderie that knit them together closer than Siamese twins. They knew more about one another than their own relatives.

Each loved and hated the knowledge. It was a responsibility that neither could shirk. If one of them met with disaster, the other would go through fire and hell to see that their nearest and dearest were informed. But that day was far away from the here and now, and Jacques spoke with forced heartiness.

‘I hope she's worth it, Phil. And don't do anything I wouldn't do,' he said as they headed for the operations room.

‘That gives me plenty of leeway then,' Phil said cheekily. He eyed his leader enviously. ‘If I had your luck with that little beauty you told me about, I might never report back. Seeing her, are you, Cap?'

‘Perhaps.' Jacques held up two crossed fingers. Phil chuckled, his round face mischievously owl-like now with the white circles around his eyes where he had removed his goggles.

‘Garn. A bloody good-looking Frenchy like you! ‘Course you're seeing her, and good luck to you. Still, I reckon I'll be
having just as good a time with mine. They're all the same beneath the blankets, when all's said and done.'

He whistled jubilantly as they reached the door of the operations room, and Jacques gave a sigh of relief. Phil was a good pal, one of the best, but he was in no mood to listen to his coarseness right now. And he was trying hard not to admit privately that he was suddenly nervous at the thought of seeing Angel Bannister again.

Apprehensive might be a more accurate way to describe how he felt. What if he had glorified in his mind their one magical night? What if they looked at one another and each saw a stranger? What if she didn't come to the Swan Inn? He could hardly blame her. He presumed too much. He should never have written to her in the way he had, baring his soul, his heart.

She had never written to him – that was his fault, for not giving her his field address, but how did he know if she had wanted to write to him? He knew nothing about her, except that she had felt so gloriously right in his arms. And Jacques de Ville, who rarely felt uncertain about anything, was filled with anxiety and self-doubt for the first time in his life.

Well, he wouldn't have to wait much longer to find out if she was coming or not. A few more hours, and he would know … a few more hours to find heaven or hell…

Margot had been installed at Meadowcroft for two weeks, and was pondering on whether or not she was really enjoying life with Angel's family. It wasn't that she minded the country all that much. It was just that time seemed to slow down so drearily, and she and Angel had always had such fun at college, where everything had moved at a fast pace.

And in London, of course – dear old London – everyone was so much busier and keener and – well, less
countrified
. There was no other way of putting it. Not that she would upset darling Angel for the world by telling her so.