The Bannister Girls (49 page)

‘We're almost there!' Sir Frederick Bannister said jubilantly, scanning the latest newspaper headlines in the small Yorkshire cottage. Harriet looked at him fondly.

‘You'd like to have taken part in this war, wouldn't you, Freddie?'

He grinned sheepishly. ‘Is it so obvious?'

‘'Tis to me! Why else would you get so uppity when things have gone wrong? You'd like to have been in France with the young 'uns beating hell out of the Jerries!'

Fred laughed out loud, giving her a squeeze, and revelling in the fact that there was more flesh on her bones than in months past. She fitted more comfortably against him now, in the old sweet way that was familiar and loving.

‘It's no comfort to know that you're too old to go to war, sweetheart. I could hold a rifle with the best of 'em, and stick a bayonet where it hurt most –'

‘And probably die of a heart attack in the process,' Harriet said with dry Yorkshire perception. ‘You do your bit for the war effort, Freddie, providing cloth for uniforms and blankets, and don't ever think otherwise.'

He wasn't a particularly religious man, though there had been times when he'd prayed to God for Harriet's recovery, and God had answered his prayers. There were other times when he remembered fragments of old scriptures, and twisted them to suit his mood. This was one of them, for his Harriet truly restored his soul, he thought irreverently…

The battle begun on August 8th raged on. Newspaper reports played down the enormous waves of casualties produced, and concentrated instead on the furious efforts of the Allied forces to break down the famed Hindenburg line, the hugely successful German fortification. Tremendous
battles were fought along its length, until in early September it was at last pierced and the defences broken. Surely now at last, victory was imminent…

Celebrations were begun far too early in some towns and villages. Without waiting for official confirmation as to whether the war was over or not, people celebrated in their own way, with small parties and mutual congratulations on the ending of four years of hardship and anxiety. They waited impatiently for the final declaration of peace to be signed, and for their men and women to come home. Some wept silently for those who would never return. And still the final news didn't come…

Ellen Bannister was as anxious as anyone for the war to end. She was still undecided what to do with her life once it was all over. But of one thing she was certain. She had to get back to London. She adored the country with a fervour that constantly surprised her, but it would be impossible for her to remain in Somerset, knowing that she loved Peter Chard.

If things had been different, she would have stayed so willingly, so gladly … but as it was, it was far better to cut her losses with the entire country scene, and get back to the bright lights again. Perhaps join the campaigning work for the Women's Movement once more, which was sure to resume activities again soon. It was a thought that would once have inspired her, but which, guiltily, she now found depressingly hollow.

But once she was back in smoky old London, Ellen thought desperately, everything would fall into place again, and she could forget this madness of ever thinking Peter Chard could love her too … Wasn't it some clever theorist who said there was never one so dogmatic in resolution than the one most opposed to it in the first place?

Which was merely a pedantic way of saying that to a woman who had never expected to fall in love, the reality was even more all-consuming than she could have imagined in
her wildest dreams. And to find that love unreturned, the most devastating blow to her self-esteem…

At the end of September, while the weather was still mild and balmy, there was to be a village street party that was being organised partly by her mother, the vicar, and the other village bigwigs. It was to be a cautious celebration in honour of certain victory, and a way of raising funds for the comforts still needed by bereaved families and wounded heroes about to return.

In Ellen's opinion, it was taking things far too much for granted, but the village was swept along on a wave of having something to do that was cheerful and positive, and bunting was hung from shop doorways, Union flags fluttered from every window, and one might think that peace had already come to one sleepy little Somerset village…

And naturally Peter was there on the day, dressed in his Sunday corduroys and polished boots, and the Land Army girls had put aside their businesslike uniforms, and dressed in bright summer frocks. After the drabness and itchy wool of the dark green clothes, Ellen felt strangely light and feminine in soft yellow muslin.

There was a surprising amount of country fare on long trestle tables, and an even greater quantity of scrumpy cider and home-made wines. If the occasion didn't make everyone slightly tipsy, then the alcohol consumed certainly did.

Music was played on an old squeeze-box, and there was lusty singing of patriotic songs. Far down the length of the tables, Ellen saw Peter watching her in a way that made her heart thump. He began moving towards her, and it was as though she watched him in slow motion.

It was as if he would never reach her, as if they were both caught up in one of those awful dreams, where the person one wants the most is forever out of reach … she had felt like that before, only this time, Peter did reach her side, and she felt the grasp of his hand on hers. His voice was slightly aggressive, but when he spoke, she found herself obeying.

‘I have to talk to you, but not here. Let's go somewhere private.'

She could smell the sweet fragrant scrumpy on his breath but it didn't offend her. If anything, it stirred her blood into a kind of pulsing excitement. Peter pulled her along with him through the winding streets until they reached the edge of the village and the ancient church.

Everyone was busily enjoying themselves elsewhere, and Ellen found herself almost bundled inside the church. It was cool and dim, and she was suddenly very calm, as if she had a presentiment. If it was so, then this was the sweetest moment of her life, and for once she wasn't going to throw it all away…

She knew Peter was slightly drunk, and perhaps if he hadn't been, he would never have smothered his pride to do as he did. One minute they were merely facing one another. The next, she was pulled roughly into his arms, and his mouth was on hers, kissing her as though he were making up for a lifetime of wanting her, and she was kissing him back with every ounce of passion in her nature.

When they broke apart, she expected some soft declaration of love from him, but she should have known him better. His eyes flashed almost aggressively down at her.

‘All right. That tells me everything I wanted to know. So when are you going to stop wearing the trousers, Ellen Bannister, and settle down to becoming a good farmer's wife?'

She gave a small gasp, her chin lifting in a way that reminded him briefly of her sister, Angel. Only briefly, for there was really no one else in his mind and his heart but the impossible woman in his arms.

‘When some good farmer asks me properly!' she managed to blurt out, her eyes flashing back the same aggressive signals.

He began to laugh, the sound vibrating richly in the solemn interior.

‘Oh, my dearest Ellen, do we really need the words that other people do?'

‘Yes!' she replied with a fierce need to hear him say them. To know she was loved and desired, the same as every other woman who ever wanted a man so badly that it hurt…

‘Then please will you marry me, Ellen, because I love you so much I can't imagine spending the rest of my life without you, and why we've gone through this farce of keeping apart all these months, I can't think –'

He couldn't say any more, because she swayed into his arms, leaning her head against his chest, the breath in her throat a little sigh of pure happiness.

‘Yes, I'll marry you, Peter. Yes, yes, yes! As soon as you like –'

‘And live here in the country, buried away from civilisation? I insist on a proper wedding, so as not to offend our country neighbours, and you'll wear a long white dress and veil, and none of your radical thinking –'

‘I can think of nothing I want more.'

Ellen spoke breathlessly, slightly awed to find that she didn't think it in the least sloppy to know that the least-expected Bannister sister of all would be the one to have the conventional village wedding … it all depended on love, she thought. Love changed everything…

In October, it was reported amid much confusion that the Germans had already asked for an Armistice. Their army was breaking up. There was mutiny in their navy, revolution in Berlin, and panic everywhere. The Kaiser had fled to Holland for his own safety, and on November 9th, Germany was proclaimed a Republic. Two days later, at 11 a.m., the Allied armies agreed to grant an Armistice.

Jacques de Ville's reconnaissance flight took him over enemy lines at the exact time that news was released to the German soldiers, and the sight he saw below was an extraordinary one. The Germans came out of their trenches,
waving the red flags of the Republic, shouting and singing, still unaware of the true humiliation of their leaders, and believing the Armistice had been agreed because of revolution in their country. Grenades were tossed about, and deeper into the lines ammunition dumps were being exploded.

‘What d'you reckon's happening, Cap?' Jacques' gunner, Chalkie White, shouted to him.

‘Lord knows, but they're in danger of blowing themselves up if they don't take more care,' Jacques shouted back grimly. ‘We'd better get back to base and find out.'

Reasons hardly mattered. Four terrible years of war were officially over, and if the weary British soldiers were too exhausted to show such outward joy as the Germans, that didn't matter either. The only thing on everyone's mind now was how soon they could go home, and home was suddenly the sweetest word in any language.

Angel had been kissed by so many excited patients, she began to think her cheeks would be permanently bruised. She had telephoned her parents as soon as she could, though waiting for a line to be free had been agonisingly slow. Ellen had broken into the conversation, saying that she and Peter had decided to be married before Christmas, and her sister's joy was almost tangible. Angel herself felt in a strange kind of limbo.

There had so far been no word from Jacques for some days, and an unspoken fear gripped her. It would be the most cruel twist of fate if anything had happened to Jacques at the very end of the war, when everyone was on the brink of normality again.

When she wanted him so much, and missed him so much, and loved him so much … reunions were happening every day. Women were arriving to take their menfolk home, lights in the cities were turned on again, and the sense of
freedom was as heady as wine. And still Jacques didn't call or write…

She found herself wondering how the end of the war would affect her own family. She and Jacques would presumably live at his family home, but whereas before she had thought of the idea with pleasure, now she was afraid to plan anything, in case it was tempting fate.

Louise's future was assured, and now, astonishingly, was Ellen's. Clemence and Fred … there was no doubt in Angel's mind that her father's liaison with Harriet Garth would continue, and after the scene between them at the Hampstead house, she could only feel sympathy for him.

And it wasn't taking anything away from Clemence. She still had her husband's name, and his family loyalty. Clemence would continue in the same stoic way she always had, doing Good Works, being a pillar of society, and four years of war would not have ruffled her confidence one bit.

Everyone was secure, except Angel herself…

Three days after the Armistice, she was preparing to leave the convalescent home. Regular staff were returning, and those under war orders could be relieved of their posts as soon as convenient. And she wanted to go home. To be within the comfort of her family, at Meadowcroft or in London, to have their support in the growing dread that she felt.

‘There's a telegram for you, in Matron's office, Angel,' one of the orderlies called out to her.

Her heart felt sick. Her footsteps hardly touched the ground as she went to the small office. She wasn't aware that she moved at all, until Matron thrust the little envelope under her nose. She was terrified to open it, and yet she must. She must know…

‘Disbanding at once. Arriving London tonight. Book a double room Hotel P. All love, Jacques.'

Tears blinded her eyes and relief flooded through her, as
searing in its way as a knife edge. He was alive. He was coming home…

‘Drink this, my dear.'

She felt the coldness of a glass at her lips, and tasted the stinging bite of brandy, swallowing obediently. The mists cleared, and she saw Matron watching her uncertainly. Her lips formed a trembling smile, when she had begun to believe she would never smile again.

‘It's all
right
! My husband's safe. He's coming home. I have to leave at once to be with him –'

The scalding tears overflowed, and she felt herself rocked in the woman's arms. When she had recovered, she was released from her duties at once, and telephoned the Hotel Portland. To her enormous relief, they had a room available. It was a dreary little hotel, but Jacques had promised that one day they would return there, to see the lights of London once more, and it was a promise they had to keep together.

She managed to catch a train to town, and all the way her feelings were in turmoil. The train was as crowded with passengers as ever, naturally with more jubilation than before, and despite the rain that was falling when she reached Fenchurch Street, Angel was swept along in the wave of patriotism surrounding her.

She hailed a taxi, and climbed inside it thankfully, but long before it had taken her through the mean little back streets of Soho to the Hotel Portland, she realised just what a crush of people were filling the streets. Victory was several days ago, but here in the capital, the celebrations went on and on…