The Bannister Girls (44 page)

‘He's wonderful,' she said softly, imagining how it would feel to hold such a mite in her arms. Imagining how a child of hers and Jacques would look … his father would paint wonderful pictures of him, of course. Oil paintings of the most beautiful child in the world…

‘Have you finished going gaga over them?' Ellen grinned. ‘I'd better put them away. Mother's going to get them
framed, and dear Louise is very much back in favour now!'

On her second day home, Angel asked her mother casually for her birth certificate. As Ellen had prophesied, Clemence had put the unpleasant episode right out of her mind, and they sat amicably together over afternoon tea. Ellen was back at Peartree Farm, and Angel was glad of this time alone with her mother.

‘Why on earth do you want it?' Clemence asked at once, but Angel was prepared for the question.

‘You know what officials are like. Even the nuns have to abide by rules now that the Abbey is virtually an army hospital, and Mother Superior is insisiting that everyone produces their birth certificate to prove where they were born, to be entered into the Abbey records. Idiotic, isn't it?'

As she had anticipated, Clemence took it seriously.

‘Not at all! It makes very good sense. One never knows who one is working with these days. Any of the doctors or nurses could be Germans. And imagine what they could do in a hospital full of helpless wounded men. The nuns are quite right to take every precaution.'

‘Oh well, I suppose so,' Angel said, hating the deception now, with Clemence looking so self-righteous. ‘So can I have it, please, Mother?'

‘What? Oh, it's not here, dear.'

‘Not here? But you said you were bringing the box here for safe keeping!' She tried not to let the shock show on her face, and hoped her mother couldn't hear how sickeningly fast her heart was beating.

‘So I did, but our solicitor needed to see some documents relating to Louise's house, and your father took the box back to London. It's in the safe at home. I don't imagine the Germans will drop any bombs on Hampstead after all this time.' She dismissed them as incompetent fools.

‘So I can find it there?' Angel persisted.

Clemence looked at her dubiously. ‘You'd go back there alone, my dear?'

Angel's laugh was brittle. ‘Oh, Mother, I've travelled half across Europe alone! I'm not a child, and the Joneses are still there, aren't they?'

‘They go in every day,' Clemence nodded. ‘They moved in with their daughter when her husband was killed.'

‘Oh.' Angel swallowed. So many things had happened at home that she didn't know about. She remembered the Joneses' daughter Penny, bright and perky, and now she was a young widow, like Rose Morton…

‘I'll telephone Mrs Jones when you're coming, Angel. She'll air your bed for you –'

‘I shan't stay there, Mummy. I'll pick up my birth certificate and get the train for Dover. In fact, I really should leave tomorrow –'

‘But you've only just got here. I was going to invite some of my ladies round for afternoon tea tomorrow –'

‘I'm sorry. But it's a long journey.' And she wanted to be back in France, where her heart was. ‘Will you telephone straight away?'

Clemence looked at her daughter, seeing the new strength in her face, the character that had emerged in the last two years, and felt something that was almost a birth pang.

‘I hate to lose you. It seems I'm always losing one or other of my daughters.'

It was an unexpectedly emotional remark from Clemence, and Angel put her arms around her mother.

‘You'll never lose us, Mummy. Our ties are too strong. We always come back, don't we? Louise will come back someday, and bring that lovely baby with her.'

Clemence brightened, moving away from Angel's embrace.

‘He is beautiful, isn't he? One would expect him to be, naturally. Good breeding always shows, and I suppose
Dougal's quite good-looking, in a Scottish way, of course.'

Angel felt the laughter gurgling inside her. Nothing would change Clemence. It was suddenly a comfort. Countries may fall, and governments may tumble, but the splendid spirit of the English lady would always remain intact.

Angel left Meadowcroft early the next morning. The train to Paddington was crowded as usual, but the sense of camaraderie was still undimmed among the khaki-clad veterans returning to the Front, with swaggering tales to tell the raw recruits. It gave one a strange feeling to be a part of them, to recognise the names of battles and hospitals, and an even stranger feeling to know that experiencing this war would be told to countless children and grandchildren.

She felt buoyant as she left Paddington station and caught a tram to Hampstead. It was a very long while since she had seen her real home. Meadowcroft would always be a delight to visit, but Angel was city-born, and loved every stick and stone of their London house. She felt a great sense of thankfulness as she walked the short distance towards it after leaving the tram. The house was still intact, solid and welcoming.

She revised her ideas. Perhaps she would stay tonight. Just for one night, pretending everything was the way it had always been. She would be the schoolgirl Angel again, youngest daughter of Sir Fred and Lady Bannister, on the brink of adult life with none of its responsibilities. She would stay in her old room, with its remnants of childhood all around, and just for a little while, she would pretend there was no war, no deaths…

‘Miss Angel!' The door was thrown open, and the plump housekeeper emerged, smiling delightedly. The next second, Angel was enveloped in her arms. ‘How well you look. And such a young lady now, though I do miss your lovely long hair. Such a beautiful golden colour! Your father knew what he was doing when he named you, my duck!'

‘Oh, Jonesey, it's so wonderful to see you!' Angel almost wept at the extrovert welcome, far less inhibited than her own mother. She hugged the housekeeper tightly as she went indoors. Mrs Jones was exactly the same as she remembered her. Everything here was the same, as if the family had just stepped out of it.

The house smelled of the same beeswax furniture cream and the faint odour of Cardinal polish, and Angel guessed that in her own words, Mrs Jones had treated the house to a right royal doing-over, in honour of Angel's arrival. The thought made tears prick her eyes.

‘How are you and Jones and Penny? I was so sorry –'

‘We're middling,' Mrs Jones nodded. ‘Our Penny's shown what she's made of, and that's the main thing. Can't do more for King and Country, can you? ‘Cepting for brave young ladies like you and your sisters, o' course, and we're very proud of you, ducks.'

Angel bit her lip. The honest pride in the woman's eyes, for her bereaved daughter, and for the daughters of this house, made her want to weep.

‘Hold on now, no tears! There ain't much food to be had, but I'm preparing a nice bit o' fish for your dinner tonight, and a bit o' fresh winter cabbage Jones has grown in the shrubbery. Your dear Mama 'ould have a fit if she knew, but you and I ain't telling her, are we?'

Angel laughed between her tears. She was the same old conspiratorial Jonesey, making a pet of the youngest girl, her favourite.

‘You're a darling, Jonesey!'

‘And your bed's aired, all ready. I'll put a nice hot bottle in it before I go back tonight.' She looked anxious. ‘You'll be all right on your own? If you want me to stay –'

‘Of course not, Jonesey. Your family needs you. But how did you know I'd stay? Didn't Mother tell you I'd be leaving straight away?'

Mrs Jones chuckled, her head on one side like a bright-eyed little sparrow.

‘Always knew you better than your own Mama, didn't I? ‘Course you'd stay, once you saw the dear old place. You go and get reacquainted with everything, ducks, while I make us a nice cup of tea. The Kaiser ain't started to blow up tea plantations yet, thank Gawd.'

Angel was still smiling as she wandered through the house, breathing in its familiar aura. This was home, and it was good to be back. More than anywhere else, the battlegrounds of Europe seemed a million miles away from here. It struck her as very strange, when this was London, and according to all the panic reports in the newspapers, she should feel an imminent sense of danger. But she didn't. She was surrounded by too many years of love and happiness, and nothing could take away the special memories of childhood.

The adornments in her room were a mixture of those old carefree times and the post-college days, before the war had stopped most of her mother's plans for her younger daughters. She wandered in and out of the other rooms, feeling the essence of her parents and her sisters wherever she went.

She tested the water in the new modern bathroom Fred had installed with its ornate tub. Mrs Jones had had the gas heater going, and there was blissfully hot water, and she decided to bath before her evening meal. There was plenty of time to find the birth certificate, and she would relish this time on her own.

It occurred to her that it was a rare event. The house had always been bustling with people, and in her head, the echoes of other times came and went like a half-remembered melody.

Later, she dressed in one of her old frocks that was a little dated, but suited her nostalgic mood. But there was one important thing she must do right away. In her father's
study, she opened the safe and found the precious document she needed. This was the key to her new life … she put it safely in her bag.

That was for tomorrow. For tonight, she would be gay and bright, and enjoy Jonesey's excellent fare, cooked with all the ingenuity of a housekeeper faced with the challenge of preparing something nourishing out of nothing. The fish had some kind of sauce that tasted only faintly of cheese; the cabbage contained a filling of other vegetables, and a minute helping of potato completed the dish. It tasted wonderful, and Angel was told to leave the clearing-up for Mrs Jones to do the next day.

‘No arguments now. It'll be like old times, fussing around after you. Now, you're sure you'll be all right?'

‘Quite sure. Give my love to everyone, and take care of yourself, Jonesey.'

‘No fear of that, my duck. Me and Jones'll still be here after we've finished with Kaiser Bill!'

Much later, when it was growing dark, Angel went to her room and closed the door. She pulled the heavy curtains across tightly, remembering the regulations, before she turned up the gaslight to a flickering softness. She found a suitable gramophone record, put it on the turntable, and wound up the machine. The tinny sound of bright dance music filled the air. She grabbed her pillow and held it like an imaginary partner, and danced around the furniture.

Breathless when the first tune ended, she put on less robust records, dancing with dreams in her eyes, imagining that it was Jacques that she held close, Jacques with whom this night would end…

How long she danced, she couldn't have said. As each record ended, she put on another, wound the handle, and drifted into her dream world again, loth to lose the feeling of magic.

She couldn't have said what made her catch her breath and feel the sudden pounding of her heart. A small sound,
perhaps. This house was well back from the road and isolated from neighbours, and Angel was sure she had locked the doors. And yet there was something, she was sure of it.

She opened her door cautiously. The rest of the house was in darkness, but there were definitely small noises coming from the direction of her father's study. She felt a rising panic. She should send for the police, but to use the telephone in the hall downstairs would surely alert the intruder.

The walls of the house were solid. The burglar wouldn't have guessed anyone was there, since her door had been shut, and the gramophone music wouldn't have penetrated. She was sick with fear and indecision.

And then a sort of angry calm swept through her. How dare this person violate her father's private sanctum? Snooping around her home, prying into personal things … she looked around quickly. There was a heavy iron poker in her little fireplace. She had grown strong during her months of lifting the soldiers. She was no coward, and perhaps faced with someone in the house, the burglar would take fright and flee.

Angel crept downstairs, her fingers around the poker damp and clammy, nerves fluttering in her throat as she neared the study. Her legs shook, despite her resolve.

The door was open, the curtains still pulled back. Pale moonlight lit the room. She could see Fred's heavy oak desk, the candlesticks and pen-and-ink stand, the silver-framed photographs and ornaments seemingly still in their places. She noted all these things in an instant. What stopped her moving forward was the searing shock of seeing the slumped figure seated at the desk, his unmistakable outline silhouetted against the light from the window.

But the shock came not so much from the sight of him as the sounds he was making. He sat with both elbows on the desk, face cupped in his large capable hands, and great
wrenching sobs seemed to be torn from his soul. It was obvious that something terrible and private had happened. Angel forgot everything else.

‘Daddy!' Angel croaked his name in a dry, fractured voice. The poker dropped to the floor with a heavy thud as Fred's head jerked up, and within seconds she was around the other side of the desk and kneeling at his side, her arms around him.

In those first few minutes, Fred's mind was totally unable to take in that the warm and pliant body in his arms was his daughter, Angel. He had believed her to be in France, not here at their old home, where neither of them was meant to be. If Angel had had a shock at seeing him, then his own shock was none the less traumatic. Neither of them could speak for long minutes, and Fred had also to fight down his own shuddering loss of self-control, knowing to his shame that his best beloved daughter had witnessed it.