The Bannister Girls (17 page)

And then, as though she watched the scene in slow motion, she saw a tall figure emerge from the open door of the lovely old Inn. A uniformed figure that she recognised at once, and her heart began to beat so fast she thought it would burst.

She was only a short distance from the building, yet it seemed an agonising wait until Jacques was at her side. Her breath was tight in her throat. He looked just as she remembered. Dashingly continental, with the breeze ruffling his dark hair, and his eyes deep and fathomless, and infinitely dear…

The car door was open, his fingers were touching hers, and in seconds she was outside and in his arms.

‘So you came! I prayed that you would. I've waited so long for this, my Angel,' he spoke the thickened words against her
mouth. She tasted his breath, sweet and fresh.

‘I too! Oh Jacques, it's so wonderful to see you.'

But she was suddenly conscious of how they must look to any curious eyes behind the windows of the Inn. ‘Jacques – can we go inside?'

‘Of course,
chérie
.' He released her at once, and reached for her suitcase. For a moment he hesitated, then looked straight into her eyes. What she saw there made her hold her breath for an instant. ‘Angel, I've booked a room for us as husband and wife. Forgive me if I did wrong –'

‘No,' she said quickly, feeling the warmth in her face as she lowered her eyes in a burst of shyness. ‘No – it's all right, Jacques. It's – what I expected.'

Yet the moment put an odd little constraint between them. It had been necessary for him to ask, and for her to affirm, but it made the assignation no more than it was – a lovers' meeting in an anonymous hotel. While Angel realised with a fierce urgency that more than all the world she wished it was true. Mr and Mrs Jacques de Ville…

The Swan Inn was a more discreet and elegant old inn than the Hotel Portland. The receptionist welcomed Mrs de Ville, pleased that the officer hadn't had too long a wait for his wife to join him. She eyed Angel enviously, from her fine clothes and lovely face, to the handsome flying officer who so clearly adored her.

Clearing her throat a little, she informed them that dinner would be at seven-thirty, but that they could order afternoon tea in the lounge if they wished.

They declined the tea. There was no lift, and they walked up the two short flights of stairs to room 32. Jacques' belongings were already scattered about, making it instantly less formal. He closed the door behind them, threw Angel's case on the bed and swung her off her feet in a crazy, ecstatic spiral.

‘You'll make me dizzy!' She gasped and laughed as the room spun, her arms tight around his neck. He looked down
into her shining, luminous eyes, her hair tumbling and dishevelled, her mouth soft and parted.

He slowed his spinning, circling her slowly in his arms, his body so close to hers she could feel every warm part of it like a second skin, his hard and masculine, hers soft and melting against him, and his eyes never left her face.

‘God, how I've missed you. Was it really just one night we shared, my Angel? The memory of it has been etched on my mind, yet at times it's been like a beautiful, shadowy dream –'

‘The same for me,' she whispered, recognising that sexual awareness between them was quickly replacing the childlike excitement.

‘Angel, I want you so much.' His voice was deep and almost tortured. ‘God knows I never intended to drag you up here and behave like an animal. I'd planned a sunlit stroll, perhaps, and later a lingering dinner with candlelight and wine, but I'm not sure that I can wait that long –'

‘Oh, Jacques –' she breathed his name, unsure how to reply. Her needs were as urgent as his own, her waiting no less painful.

She was too innocent to know how to take the initiative, nor to guess whether women ever did such a thing. The subject of sexual relations between men and women was never mentioned in families such as Angel's. It was just assumed that somehow one got to know about it. Perhaps on the night before a wedding, some sketchy information would be given, and the young bride would learn that on the wedding night, the husband would initiate her into the art of lovemaking, whether gently or brutally. From then on, it would be a duty between them.

Because of natural embarrassment in a parent, there would be no mention of this sweet flowering of emotions, of love so tangible it seemed to flow like heady wine between them, of a passion that made duty a word with no meaning. They were as truly married in spirit as if a preacher had
intoned over them, and Angel swayed against Jacques' body with a clear and loving invitation in her eyes.

He lifted her bodily as easily as if she was weightless. He carried her to the bed, interspersing each step with tiny kisses on her neck that sent exquisite little shivers running through her. He lay her on the coverlet, and his fingers moved to unfasten the buttons on her blouse. She saw how they shook, and knew that Jacques was as affected by her nearness as she was by his. It endeared him to her all the more.

He didn't tear at her clothes, nor act with the wild impatience to possess her that she sensed in him. His desire was controlled, but she felt its power, strong and vital. When at last he wrapped the coverlet around their naked bodies so that they were nestled like two lovebirds inside it, her loveliness opened up to him like a flower in the sun, and Angel knew with certainty that tonight he would not leave her.

For the next three days, they were like children, not recognising tomorrow, living only for today. They walked the lanes, explored the green meadows and sat by gentle streams, climbed wooden stiles and ran laughing when a curious cow thrust her wet nose too near to where they lay on the grass. At night they were lovers, enraptured with each other, oblivious to the world outside, deliberately pushing aside the fact that it must all end very soon. That this was only an interlude…

On the last night, Angel slept peacefully, still wrapped in Jacques' arms, his body still warming her. Suddenly she was awake, aware that it was difficult to breathe, and that the comfort she had derived from him had changed.

His arms held her as if in a vice. The warmth of his body was unpleasantly damp against her skin, and he was muttering in his sleep. Unintelligible, broken words at first that frightened her. And then his voice was filled with terror.
Angel, horrified, translated the words from Jacques' native French.

‘…
No
… dear God, Phil, keep him in your sights … we've got him … don't let him burn …
Christ
, why doesn't he die! … I'm climbing, climbing … can't get above the clouds in time … they'll see us, they'll be on us … the noise nearly splits my head in two … burning, burning … kill the bastard before he kills us … must do it,
must
… don't let me see his face … empty sockets of his eyes … nothing left … just fear and burning…'

Jacques jerked violently in his sleep, his arms squeezing Angel so much that she cried out. He awoke immediately, breathing heavily, and Angel could see the sweat glistening on him in the light from the window. His eyes were open wide, but as yet he was still somewhere else, in the private hell of his own imagination, and the nightmare went on…

‘Jacques.' Angel whispered his name, trembling. She didn't know if she should break the spell or not. You didn't waken people from sleep-walking, but this was something very different, something she only half understood.

He turned to her with a shuddering sigh, his hands relinquishing their grip on her. From her ashen face, he knew at once that she had witnessed his shame. He had seen it too often in others, not to know the ugliness of the nightmares.

‘Forgive me,' he said harshly. ‘It's something you shouldn't ever have to see –'

She put her arms around him, as if to shield him, as if he was her child.

‘Do I seem so fragile that I can't share your pain? Don't shut me out, Jacques. Don't make me less of a woman than I am.'

He spoke with a mixture of emotions in his voice.

‘No one could ever be more of a woman to me than you, my darling one.'

Her eyes pricked as he said the endearment in English instead of his usual French. Somehow to Angel it bound them closer, and still holding each other, they finally slept.

Jacques gave Angel an address where she could write to him. On their last morning, they clung together for a final moment before parting, and then she had to go and collect Margot, her eyes stinging so much she could hardly see the road she was driving along, already bereft.

She refused to talk to Margot or Ellen about the time she had spent with Jacques. It was too precious, too private. It was all she had.

After another week at Meadowcroft, Margot went back to London, and the house was as before, except for the breezy billetted soldiers who brightened the days with their nonsense. None of them looked old enough to shave their whiskers.

Angel found herself watching them, making private wagers with herself as to which of them would come back from the Front. When she realised what she was doing, she was horrified. It was the war. The phrase was on everyone's lips. The war took the blame for everything.

There was a succession of billetted soldiers. Then Clemence and Fred offered the use of their house as a convalescent home for any soldiers far from home, and there were usually half a dozen of them there as well.

The Bannister girls were polite and friendly, but careful not to overstep the mark. It wasn't done to be too free. Clemence gave them their lead, and they stuck by it rigidly. Even though many of the old conventions were gone, some
things were still adhered to, and would always be so.

Surprisingly, Louise struck up an odd friendship with a Scotsman, Dougal Mackie. He'd been one of their first guests, as Clemence called them, came back wounded in December, and asked particularly to convalesce at Meadowcroft until returning to France. His arm had been very badly gashed, and he was partly deaf from shell-shock, but none of his spirit had been deflated. He wasn't coarse like some of the others, and he intrigued Louise especially with tales of Scotland. He had bright red hair, and his eager blue eyes flashed with pleasure whenever he talked about his beloved Highlands.

The Bannister girls, who had travelled extensively in Europe before the war, had never been to Scotland, and Louise decided it was an omission she must put right someday.

‘Old Stanley had better watch himself, don't you think?' Angel said teasingly, when Ellen came home from the farm one evening. ‘Louise may be quite unaware of it, but Dougal's eyes follow her wherever she goes!'

Ellen snorted. The Ministry men had been swarming over the farm, and she and Peter were sorely put out by their silent insinuations that the books weren't in order, and that more food could be produced for the war effort.

‘I'm not in the least interested in Louise's affairs –'

‘It's not an affair!' Angel said quickly. ‘I'm just glad that Louise isn't so bored any more.'

Ellen looked mildly surprised. ‘Was she ever bored? I thought she was too busy being a do-gooder like Mother to waste her energies in being bored.'

‘That's unfair. They both work tremendously hard. And it can't be pleasant for her, hardly ever seeing Stanley. He might just as well be in France for all the leaves he gets.' Angel was indignant and Ellen had the grace to look shamefaced.

‘All right, it was rotten of me. If you'd had a day like I've
had, you'd feel bitchy too. What have you been doing for the war effort today, sister dear?'

‘I've pushed Private Wilkins down to the village and back in his wheelchair, and I've delivered some of Mother's knitted socks to the posting station in Bristol. Any more questions?'

Ellen gave her a quick hug.

‘Sorry, old thing. It's just that you seem to be handling your war much better than I am. Odd, isn't it?'

She strode away from Angel in some embarrassment, saying she was going to find something to eat in the kitchen.

Angel overlooked the inference that Ellen considered her own character stronger than either of her sisters'. She was too busy hiding her own feelings, and the sudden lump that filled her throat. She wasn't handling her war at all. Every day, she scanned the newpapers, fearful at the growing casualty lists, terrified that one day the name of Jacques de Ville would leap out at her, sending the sunshine out of her life.

June seemed an eternity ago. Jacques hadn't been back to England since. And why was it that the minute he was out of her sight, the memories faded so fast? Why didn't they linger, giving her something to cling to, to remember…? Wasn't that what memories were supposed to do? It wasn't that they weren't beautiful. They were the dearest and the best.

She had written to him, of course, but his replies had been sketchy and brief, and in the last month, there had been nothing at all. She was so afraid. Her letters hadn't been returned, and it was the one hope that she had that he was still all right. And the war to end all wars dragged on…

In September there had been a frantic letter from Margot to say that her young brother Edward had lied about his age and enlisted and was already in France. Her mother was distraught, and was insisting on their leaving London and going to Norfolk to her family home. Margot would simply hate it, and she longed to see Angel again, and what did
Angel think about them getting some V.A.D. training and going over there themselves?

Angel's heart leapt when she read the words. Her parents would never allow it. Margot's mother had reluctantly said that she would agree, if only so that Margot could keep an eye on dear naughty Edward, as if she would find him waiting for her on the quayside at Calais.

‘At least
think
about it, Angel darling,' Margot's letter beseeched. ‘Who knows – you may find a way to see Someone Else!'