The Bannister Girls (33 page)

‘Your sister will be sorry to see you go, so soon after her arrival, Bannister. I'll leave it to you to explain to her, and at least you'll have two weeks together.'

Angel was dismissed. She stood outside the tiny office, her heart thudding. She could hardly believe it. At last her request for a transfer was granted … but she felt a swift compunction now that she had to tell Ellen. But surely Ellen would understand. She must, if she had any soul at all. And after all, she hadn't known Ellen was coming here out of the blue!

Ellen's face was filled with consternation when they both fell onto their beds that evening for a short rest before the evening meal. She leaned up on one elbow, looking at the flushed face of her sister, and knew that she couldn't begrudge her this chance, once Angel had explained her reasons to her. Until then, Ellen had had no idea of the torment Angel must have gone through, not knowing whether Jacques was alive or dead.

She
still
didn't know, Ellen thought uneasily. And even if the mystery man
were
Jacques, what kind of state was Angel going to find him in? Ellen was more troubled than she admitted, and tried to warn Angel that it might not all be plain sailing. Jacques might be no more than a shell of the man Angel remembered…

‘Do you think I haven't told myself that a hundred times?' Angel said painfully. ‘But it makes no difference. I have to go, to see for myself. And if it is Jacques, and if he's badly disfigured, that won't make any difference to me either. I love him and I shall always love him. Looks don't matter, Ellen. It's the heart and soul of a person that matters.'

‘You make me feel ashamed –'

‘Why? Wouldn't it be the same for you if it was Peter? Don't pretend that you don't feel something for him! You can pretend to the others, but not to me. I know something happened between you, so you must understand something of what I feel.'

Ellen suddenly sat up with a jerk, her arms hugging her knees, her head bent over them. Appalled, Angel realised that the unlikely sounds her sister was making were great racking sobs.

‘Ellen, darling, what is it? What have I said?'

Ellen couldn't speak for some minutes. She hated herself for being so weak, and letting go like that. Clemence would think it terribly bad form … at the thought of her mother's censuring look, Ellen howled afresh.

‘Are you ill, Ellen? Please tell me. Can I get you something?'

At last the paroxysm stopped. Ellen's shoulders were tense, her mouth still trembling, vulnerable as a child's as she looked up and spoke in a husky voice.

‘I did something awful, Angel. I nearly let myself be seduced by a despicable man – oh, he was charm itself, and I was so besotted by him –'

‘Well, that's not the end of the world,' Angel was gentle with her. ‘You had a bad experience, that's all –'

‘No, it's not all.' Her voice was low and intense, and Angel had to lean forward to catch the shamed words. ‘The man was a bigamist, but of course I didn't know that at the time. He was just an exciting, handsome Cornishman who came to
work on Peter's farm. We got on famously, and I really thought he loved me.'

She caught her breath on a sob as the painful memories swept through her mind. Reliving them was almost as terrible as when they actually happened.

‘Go on, darling,' Angel said quietly, sensing there was more to come.

‘We were in Peter's hayloft – Andrew and me. That was his name, Andrew. We were almost – almost – well, you
know
, Angel! And I was doing nothing to stop it. I was letting it happen – and then there was a terrible shouting outside, and the door flew open, and there was Peter and a strange girl who stood there accusing Andrew of being the father of her child when he already had a wife, and there we were – in the hayloft – oh God, I never want to live through something like that again. I was so ashamed – so humiliated –'

Angel rocked her in her arms, hardly knowing what to say. Her strong, capable sister had obviously been badly shocked, and had still not recovered from it.

‘What was the worst thing, Ellen?'

Ellen's eyes were drowned in tears.

‘All of it, of course! The entire, terrible day –'

‘But the very worst thing,' Angel persisted. ‘Was it the fact that you made a mistake in trusting this Andrew? Or being caught by the other girl, and being made to feel foolish for falling for this unworthy man? Or losing Peter Chard's respect?'

Ellen didn't speak for a moment. Then she took a deep shuddering breath.

‘Losing Peter's respect! I could cope with all the rest. It's the thought of facing Peter again, and knowing what he must think of me. I did meet him briefly, when I was down at Meadowcroft a few weeks ago, and it was so awful. He looked at me as though I were an insect. I couldn't bear it, Angel.'

‘And that's why you came here.'

Ellen shifted out of her arms. She spoke defensively.

‘You think I came for the wrong reasons, don't you? I'm not patriotic like you, or brave, or dedicated –'

‘Yes, you are, love. You're all of those things, but you're also very foolish in letting this situation go on. Why on earth haven't you told Peter all that you've told me? He'd understand. It's obvious that you were made for each other.'

‘Perhaps we were,' Ellen said bitterly. ‘Until he saw me for the idiot that I am. How can I possibly explain to him? I've got too much pride.'

‘Then write to him. It's sometimes easier to write things down than to say them.'

Ellen shook her head decisively.

‘No. If he can't believe that I made a mistake without my grovelling to him, then so be it.'

Angel sighed. There were times when pointless pride got in the way of happiness, but she knew better than to argue with her sister any longer. When she got that mutinous look in her eyes, all her family was aware that any discussion was at an end.

At least, telling it all to Angel seemed to be something of a release to Ellen. The guilt had been festering in her mind, and Angel had put it all into perspective. There was nothing she could do about Peter for the time being, since she refused to consider writing to him, so she set about becoming an asset to Sister Yard and Piersville hospital.

Angel was very relieved at the way Ellen took to her new regime so readily. The days were passing, and soon she would be leaving with an ambulance full of convalescents on their way home, driven by one of the other girls, and making a special detour to the Abbey of St Helene.

The anticipation of seeing Jacques again was almost making her ill, and she and Ellen hugged one another when the day arrived for Angel to leave.

‘Promise to write and let me know what happens,' Ellen begged.

‘If you promise to keep writing to Mother, and think about writing to Peter.'

‘I'll think about it.' Truth to tell, Ellen had been thinking about it quite a lot in the last two weeks of working in the hospital office. Making so many sad entries into the ledgers had reminded her forcibly of her own mortality. Was she being so very silly not to give herself and Peter one last chance? But she couldn't promise Angel that she would write. Not yet.

They hugged each other, each wondering when they would meet again.

‘Chin up, darling,' Angel whispered, in Clemence's tones. She turned blindly, and climbed into the passenger seat of the waiting ambulance, blowing kisses back to the dwindling figure of her sister as the vehicle trundled over the cobbled streets of Piersville and away from the vicinity of the Front Line fighting.

As they drove for seemingly endless miles, Angel couldn't help giving a shiver, listening to the soldiers talking in the back of the ambulance, each trying to outdo the other in superior knowledge of the war strategies.

‘Thank the stars you ain't back in Blighty, mate. Hear about the Suffolk coast bein' badly hit end of last month –'

‘I'm just thankful I'm not at sea. Did you know the Jerry bastards have begun submarine warfare now? They'll be sinking hospital ships before we know it. If you don't get blown up at the Front, you'll end up as fishes' bait.'

‘Put a sock in it back there,' Jones, the V.A.D. girl trying to steer the ambulance over the bumpy roads, shouted back. ‘I swear they take delight in spreading as many grisly details as they can,' she muttered to Angel.

‘It's all they can think about, the war and home,' Angel said. It was all anybody thought about. Getting through
the war, and going home, and taking up the old life where it left off…

But that wasn't what Angel wanted. Whenever she thought of the future, it was with total confusion. All the old ideas of a coming-out season in London, of balls and social afternoons and being seen at Ascot and at Wimbledon and all the fashionable places, seemed of so little importance compared with the enormity of surviving the war to end all wars.

What was dearer to her heart than any of those things, was being with Jacques. Living and loving together, for the rest of their lives…

‘I say, Bannister, you're not being much help,' she heard Jones say crossly. ‘You're supposed to be navigating to this Abbey place, and I've asked you twice which way we go at the crossroads ahead!'

‘Sorry!' Angel bent her head, feeling embarrassment heat her cold cheeks. At least it was better than feeling frozen. The day was bitter. February was living up to its reputation, and even the soldiers had gone silent in the back now, huddling together to keep warm.

She gave directions quickly and efficiently after that. It was to her benefit, after all. The sooner they reached the Abbey of St Helene, the sooner she would know the truth…

‘That must be it,' Jones pointed ahead in the late afternoon, after what seemed an interminable ride through flurries of snow, and increasing areas of choking fog making the journey hazardous. Looming ahead of them was the gaunt outline of an old abbey, typically French, and the most welcome sight Angel had yet seen. Jones and the convalescents were to stop here for refreshments before driving on to Boulogne for the night ship.

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.

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?