The Bannister Girls (38 page)

‘If you've brass to pay, you can always find it!'

He mimicked her accent. Everyone was aware of food shortages now. There were queues at food shops, scarcely any butter to be found; beans were ground up and mixed with wheat flour to make ‘war bread'. Potatoes were in short supply and seed potatoes or peelings were cut up into little pieces for planting. Parks were dug up and planted with food
crops. It was good for tightening your belt, if you needed to tighten it…

‘I'll be ready in fifteen minutes,' Harriet said.

‘Make it ten. You've already got your glad rags on.'

They both knew she was in her smartest clothes because she'd been to see the specialist. If her dress was slightly creased from lying on the bed, it didn't matter. The crazy mood took hold of them both. Tonight they would both pretend that whatever tomorrow held, it would never come.

Hours later, Fred murmured into the back of her neck as he held her safely curled against his chest in the comfortable double bed.

‘Promise me you'll let me send you to a Swiss clinic if necessary, sweetheart. They can work miracles, and there's no need to worry about the cost –'

She turned round in his arms in the darkness, putting her soft fingers against his lips.

‘No, Freddie,' she said gently. ‘I wouldn't go to Europe in the middle of a war. Besides, I'd feel as if I were deserting a sinking ship if I left Yorkshire. This is my home. It's where I live and where I'll die, and I don't want to hear any more about a Swiss clinic. If God intends a miracle for me, then He'll send it wherever I am.'

She shifted round again, settling comfortably into Fred's lap, and he felt the unmanly sting of tears on his eyelids. Harriet's was a simple faith. He wished to God he could share it, without ever realising the irony of his thoughts.

Telephone communication between Jacques' unit and the Abbey of St Helene was infuriatingly unreliable. If Angel did manage to get through, it was often to be told that he wasn't there, which made her all the more anxious and certain that he was flying again. It was what he intended, but the possibility of another crash terrified her.

But the Royal Flying Corps didn't turn their backs on good pilots just because they'd once gone down in flames.
Survivors were considered lucky. Angel had to keep reminding herself of that…

If he was there when she telephoned, there was so much crackling they couldn't hear one another, or they were inexplicably cut off and the line was out of order for the rest of the evening. It seemed simpler to depend on letters than to phone, but she missed the sound of his voice telling her instantly that he was all right.

They managed to meet a few times, but not as often as Angel had hoped. It had seemed so easy, but Piersville was nearer to Brighton Belle than the Abbey, and now that she was here, the nuns had no intention of letting her go. She had proved her usefulness in translating for the wounded British soldiers, and here she would stay.

In June there was a letter from her mother. Angel smiled, sensing the indignation in Clemence's words.

‘Louise is expecting a baby at Christmas. Clearly, it happened almost as soon as they were married, which seems to be indecent haste. Dear Stanley was impeccably correct in such matters, but I suppose the Scots have different ideas.

‘One does one's best for one's daughters, but there's no guarantee how they will turn out. That is not meant as a slight to you, Angel dear, but it really is too trying that none of you is at Meadowcroft now, and I do feel the strain of the war is making me feel quite poorly.

‘However, your father and I are delighted at your news, and at the very eloquent letters from Jacques and his father, the Comte de Ville. Such a charming man!'

Angel was overjoyed about Louise. How wonderful to carry your husband's baby and to feel the living proof of your love … she decided to write to Louise that very night. But the smile on her lips faded as she re-read Clemence's letter.

It was so unlike her mother to be so griping. Clemence was adamant in keeping a stiff upper lip, and never letting anyone see when one felt unwell, or was less than serene in
one's thinking … to admit that she often felt poorly and that she felt the strain of the war was a little alarming.

From anyone else, Angel could have smiled and made some sharp comment that they should come to a French hospital to feel the strain and horror of the war … but from Clemence, she knew that things must be much worse than the words actually revealed.

In her next letter to Jacques, she hoped she didn't sound too anxious over her mother, nor too gushing over Louise, but she needed to feel near him through the sharing of family news, if by no other means.

The war dragged on. Casualties passed through the hospitals like an endless production line. The Germans continued to use mustard gas, the results of which made raving idiots out of men too weak to tear the rotting cloth of their uniforms away from their burning skin.

Hospitals nearer the front line, such as Piersville, simply couldn't cope with the numbers, and instead of caring solely for convalescents, the Abbey was sent increasing numbers of gas cases. Some of the nuns who helped remove the tattered clothes from the pathetic bodies, developed chest troubles and streaming eyes. They as well as the men, became yellow and dazed from the lingering fumes. The blisters on some of the nuns' fingers were huge and seeping, and the war seemed to produce nothing but more proof of cruelty and inhumanity.

Ellen arrived at the Abbey on one of the ambulance night runs, begging a lift as helper with some of the stretcher cases. She sought out her sister as soon as her charges were allocated beds, given half an hour before returning to Piersville.

‘It's so good to see you!' Angel said delightedly. Being together again was like finding water in the desert. She never realised how much she missed her family until such times. But Ellen had a special reason for wanting to see Angel.

‘I've heard from Mother this week,' she said. ‘She's got
shingles, poor thing, and she sounds so distraught. It would almost be laughable if it weren't so awful. Are you due some leave, Angel? Couldn't we go home together and cheer her up? We've both been working nonstop since Easter.'

‘I'm sure the nuns would agree to it, especially if Mother's really ill,' Angel said slowly. She glanced at Ellen, knowing that her face was falling a little.

‘Darling, I know what you're thinking. The last thing you want is to leave France now, when you've found Jacques again. But I really feel we have to go. You know how pathetic Mother's been on the rare occasions she's been ill. She does need someone, Angel, and Dad's always so damned busy in Yorkshire.'

Angel avoided looking at her. It was so tempting to blurt out the truth. To say bitterly that Fred was too damned busy with his lady love to care what was happening to Clemence … but she knew that wasn't strictly true. Fred had always been considerate to his wife. It was Clemence who hadn't wanted the boisterous affections of a loving husband…

‘Well?' Ellen persisted. ‘Will you ask the nuns for leave? I'm getting away the day after tomorrow. I'm sure I can get a lift here, and we can go to the coast together in one of the empty supply wagons.'

‘I'll find out right away. Of course we must go if Mother needs us, Ellen.' She pushed all other thoughts from her mind. Clemence's misery was very evident in her letters.

The day after tomorrow. Time enough to let Jaccques know what was happening. No time to see him, though, but she mustn't think of that. When would there ever be time enough to think of themselves, to forget all the terrible things that kept them apart and share the lovely summer days? Once the war was over…

She swallowed quickly, leaving Ellen with a welcome cup of hot chocolate while she went to find the Mother Superior. Ten minutes later she was back, a small smile on her face.

‘All settled. Day after tomorrow. One week's leave.
Darling, I must try to phone Jacques –'

‘It's all right. I've got to go, anyway. See you soon, darling, and keep smiling.'

It wasn't so easy to smile when Angel had finally got through on the impossible telephone link.

‘Call me again as soon as you get back,
chérie
.' He had to shout to make her hear, and even then, his voice was so faint. She gripped the wire, as if it would bring him nearer.

‘I will. And please take care, Jacques. I'll be thinking of you every moment.'

‘You take care too. No risky taxi-cab rides to London, do you hear me?'

She could hear the smile in his voice, and knew that he remembered everything, the way she did. There was nothing missing from Jacques' memory now, and it lifted her spirits just to know it.

‘I promise,' she said unsteadily. ‘Just you promise me you won't take any undue risks either, darling.'

She waited for his jaunty reply, but the crackling on the line told her they were about to be cut off. The next second the line was dead, and she hung up, biting her lips in frustration. It was childish, but if only she had heard him make her that promise … a foolish promise, perhaps, because they both knew he lived with risks every single day.

Jacques banged the phone down on its cradle. Damn unreliable instruments, he swore to himself. But at least it stopped his voice betraying him. His squadron had stepped up their night flying raids since he had returned to his unit. They were dangerous, costly in men and machines, and he hadn't told Angel about them.

He'd been afraid he might have lost his nerve. The first time he had been allocated a replacement plane for his own burnt-out wreck, his hands had been visibly shaking as he took the controls. Thank God his new gunner couldn't see it.
Phil Brakes had perished in their appalling crash, and he missed him.

Even now he had nightmares about the sheer agony on Phil's face, the brilliant flames leaping and gobbling at his skin, shrivelling it into curls of glowing ash and exposing the raw flesh and melting bone beneath. The smell of burnt flesh was one that he would never be able to forget.

How Jacques himself had managed to crawl to the pond nearby and collapse into it, he never knew. Nor how he had survived the bitter cold of the water after the engulfing fireball of his plane. A nameless saviour had dragged him free of the water, and somehow he had been picked up and taken to the hospital at the Abbey of St Helene. And little by little, he had been painfully restored to a kind of normality.

It was all behind him now. His destiny had allowed him to find Angel again, and he had come back to his unit to begin the dawn patrols at 4.30 in the morning with cocoa and biscuits. Then hearing the raucous noise of the aircraft warming up until the formation took off, a soaring of eagles, and he knew the exhilaration of flying again.

Now it was night flying over the enemy lines, the most dangerous of all. Once pinpointed by enemy searchlights, each plane was a silver dart in a beam of light, rocked by the so-called Archie, the ack-ack fire beneath them; mouths dry, eyes strained to bursting. Sometimes the bombardment from below was so heavy it gave a crew nausea, and made the blood scream in the veins as the aircraft rolled and slewed in the air.

There was heavy cloud cover in the summer of 1917. It could be useful to dive in and out of it to avoid the searchlights. It could be a hindrance at finding the targets below. It could be a blessed relief when a Jerry plane appeared out of nowhere and was hot on your tail.

Jacques told Angel little of this. There was a fine line between the charge of adrenalin at flying, cheating the enemy, pitting the wits against the German Aces; and a gut terror at glimpsing the eyes of an enemy pilot hell-bent on
your own destruction, and knowing instantly that it was either you or him.

Jacques tried to ignore the fear, as they all did. His new gunner, Chalkie White, was a Cockney, first class at his job and with nerves of steel. Together, they told one another with desperate bravado, they would conquer the skies.

Angel and Ellen reached England with varying feelings as the soft evening coastline came into view. Ellen with a surprising tug of nostalgia; Angel wishing Jacques were here, that it was still that magical night when they met, watching the show at Beezer's Club, and then learning the joy of belonging in the modest little Hotel Portland.

‘Let's find a cab,' Ellen said as they were jostled on all sides by soldiers returning home on leave, Red Cross personnel and V.A.D.s., and a few civilians who had decided to get out of France while they still could. Their shrill voices had made no secret of it on the boat. Were the Bannisters ever so stuffy and middle class? Angel wondered. She thought war had changed all that, but not for everybody, it seemed.

‘Want a lift to London, girls?' a cheerful voice asked them, and minutes later they were clinging on to the sides of an army lorry taking soldiers away from the ports. At Paddington they had the usual dreary wait for a train, but everyone seemed used to that now too. There was no point in grumbling, because it wouldn't happen any quicker.

But at last they reached Meadowcroft, tired and hungry as a new dawn lit the sky with rose and silver streaks. So beautiful … and in the middle of it, men were killing one another in their flimsy machines … Angel gave an involuntary shudder, and Ellen squeezed her arm.

‘Nearly there,' she yawned, misunderstanding. ‘Right now, I don't care if I never go back. All I want is a hot bath and to sleep for ever.'

‘Sounds good,' Angel mumbled, her eyes suddenly
stinging, because it sounded so blessedly normal. She should be happy, and so she was, that all the little everyday things were suddenly possible for them again. They were home, away from the fighting and the war, but for Angel, it was tarnished by the thought that she was also away from Jacques…

By the time the taxi dropped them at the house, she had composed herself. But the composure slipped a little as the huge door opened and their father came outside to greet them and Ellen gave him an exuberant hug.