JEAN SAUNDERS
The Bannister Girls
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
A Note on the Author
Chapter 1
The girls from the old pickle factory, now patriotically changed over to munitions, swore colourfully in the sudden downpour of rain glossing the streets as smoothly as sugar icing on a bun. Angel Bannister tried not to notice their jostling as she splashed along in her high-button boots, trying to avoid the puddles. The cold March wind had freshened, whipping against her cheeks and catching her breath.
Her skirt clung to her ankles as her overnight bag slipped in her grasp, and she wrenched off her sodden gloves and thrust them into the bag. She had already lost her silk scarf somewhere. The munitions girls glanced her way, dismissed her as posh, and disappeared into the dark alleyways.
Being posh wasn’t helping Angel to get a taxi-cab that evening, and she felt her temper rise as one and then another trundled by, ignoring her frantic waving.
The London streets were congested with people caught out by the storm, as horse-drawn traffic, trams and private motors all tried to converge into spaces seemingly too small for them.
The tram Angel had boarded to take her home had broken down, and she felt as stranded as a fish out of water. On that dismal night, it seemed as though all the cab drivers were either blind, or preferred to pick up groups of passengers, rather than one slight figure who looked as if she was more used to riding in a Rolls-Royce than a hired vehicle.
She almost threw herself into the road to catch a driver’s attention as the dimmed lights of a cab loomed up in front of her. He must have noticed her … and then a hand hauled her roughly back to the pavement.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’
Angel glowered up into the face of the young man in uniform. Her eyes were just level with his breast badge, the initials RFC held in the outstretched wings of a swift. So he belonged to the dashing Royal Flying Corps … but she was too incensed at losing the precious cab to waste more than a momentary interest. Her green eyes flashed at him.
‘I’m trying to get home, and you’ve just lost me the only cab that looked like stopping in the last fifteen minutes!’
She heard a high-pitched snigger, and realised there were two other people hovering behind the man.
‘We’re all trying to get home, ducks – or trying to get away from it, if you get my meanin’!’
Angel glanced at the girl who spoke. Her face was bright with make-up, the eyes startlingly outlined, the lipstick the new vibrant orange known as Tango. The fingernails were lacquered to match, and she clung possessively to the arm of a second man, wearing the dull khaki of a soldier’s uniform.
Beside the girl, in her flashy plum coloured costume and matching hat, Angel felt annoyingly dowdy despite her beautifully cut grey wool coat. Her own fair hair, expensively shaped and waved at a chic Mayfair salon, suddenly seemed faded by comparison with the other girl’s bleached blonde locks.
Angel was furious for even noticing. The girl was a type that her mother would label immediately. She was a tart, one of those who seemed to have emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis with the advent of the war to end all wars.
‘Take no notice of Dolly, Miss. It seems like everyone’s trying to get up West tonight.’
The girl’s soldier companion grinned as he spoke, openly admiring of Angel’s sophisticated appearance. No matter how ruffled she became, the exclusive girls’ college insistence on keeping one’s chin held high and one’s shoulders held down, gave her the air of being able to handle any situation.
A taxi-cab slowed down as the driver saw four people on the kerbside. Angel felt a moment’s annoyance. A man in uniform could get anything he wanted these days. The war with the Kaiser made heroes of them all, whether or not they had even seen a battlefield.
Angel leapt towards the cab, grasping the door handle at the same time as the Flying Corps officer. His fingers fastened over hers. She glared into his face, seeing it now at very close quarters.
It wasn’t strictly good-looking, but it was a face full of character. The eyes were dark, holding the attention, the nose slightly crooked, the unsmiling mouth a little harsh. Oh yes, at any other time or place, she might have been interested. Now, all she wanted was to get away from him.
‘You’ll let a lady have first choice of a cab, I’m sure,’ she said pointedly.
‘Not on an evening like this, I won’t,’ he said calmly and unbelievably. Angel’s mouth dropped open, unused to such boorish manners. By his manner and uniform she guessed that he was an officer, but he was certainly no gentleman.
‘Oh, let’s all get in the cab!’ Dolly had lost all her patience.
‘We can drop Madam off somewhere. We’ll miss the show if we waste any more time.’
‘I doubt if we’re going in the same direction, and I’ve no intention of being left with your fare –’ Angel began.
The cab driver settled it.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s where any of yer goes, but if one of yer don’t get in my bleedin’ cab in the next ten seconds, I’m driving off and that’s flat.’
The airman turned the door handle while Angel was still holding on to it, and bundled her inside in front of him.
Her mother would have a blue fit if she knew the way this lout was manhandling her, Angel thought angrily. She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes as the other two climbed into the cab and the soldier rattled off the name of some club up West. The airman’s face was dark enough to be almost swarthy, especially with the sheen of rain on it.
He had a strong, very masculine jawline, and was undoubtedly a man used to getting his own way. Angel felt an unexpected little shiver run through her, as keen as a premonition.
He was as unlike the young men who were vetted before visiting her parents’ town house, and even more boringly, those who arrived as guests when they all went down to the country, as it was possible to be.
The men her parents considered prospective suitors were generally fair-haired and chinless. Some peered at her through monocles as though she too were up for inspection despite her impeccable background. Many had titles or the expectation of titles. All were as deadly dull as the man her elder sister Louise had married, the Honourable Stanley Crabb.
Since Angel was just eighteen, the urgency of finding a suitable husband for her wasn’t yet her mother’s sole occupation. She was the youngest of the three pretty Bannister girls, and Lady Bannister was still seething at the way her middle daughter, Ellen, had joined ranks with those abominable suffragette women just over a year ago.
Finally, when Ellen had wanted to leave home and move into some appalling south London house with a group of them, her mother had merely washed her hands of her.
Dear Louise had conformed so admirably, and Lady Bannister just assumed that in due course Angel would do the same. A youngest daughter was normally so pliant … unfortunately, while fretting so much over the fortunes of the older two, Angel’s growing independence had gone completel
y unnoticed.
Lady Bannister was frequently heard to say in all the best London circles that a suitable marriage was such a blessing for one’s daughters.
Even though in these impossible wartime days, one was forced to rub shoulders with the most frightful and unlikely people … but it would all be over soon, even if it hadn’t been over by Christmas. Everybody said so.
Angel felt the warmth of the Flying Corps officer’s body against hers, as the four of them squeezed into the back of the taxi-cab. The aroma of Dolly’s cheap scent and the peculiar damp smell of wool from the servicemen’s uniforms, mingled with the stuffiness of the cab, gave Angel an odd sense of claustrophobia.
It was difficult to breathe, but she had no intention of admitting any distress. The sooner she got out of here, the better, but there was a long way to go before they reached Hampstead. She would sit very still until the others got out, and then give her own address to the cabbie.
It was soon clear that the Flying Corps officer had other ideas. She realised that he hadn’t stopped watching her from the minute they all got into the cab. There was still enough of the dying daylight to see, and slowly she turned to look at him as though compelled to do so. It was on the tip of her tongue to snub him, when his next words startled her.
‘You have the most perfect profile I’ve ever seen. If you ever have your portrait painted, be sure and pose against a dark background, with side lighting to accentuate the curves and shadows –’
In the midst of her astonishment, Angel registered his slight accent for the first time. It was obviously European. French, perhaps. What was a Frenchman doing in the Royal Flying Corps at the beginning of the war…? Her thoughts were becoming confused.
It was the lengthy stare that did it. It was so … so bourgeois … so outrageous. It wasn’t the way an English gentleman appraised a lady … a sensation akin to a flame ran through her.
Dolly giggled again, and the soldier chuckled, his boyish face alight with good humour. He leaned towards Angel.
‘Don’t mind Jacques, Miss. We’re all ships that pass in the night here, but he told me and Dolly that he dabbled with the old oils in civvy street, and sees every pretty girl as his model. He don’t mean any harm.’
‘Shut up, Reg. If you don’t know what you’re talking about, it’s best to keep quiet.’ The officer spoke bluntly.
He studied Angel’s face again, until she felt the blood fill her cheeks, and her skin begin to tingle. She wasn’t used to such a prolonged stare. It was partly sexual, partly objective. She wasn’t sure which part insulted her more.
‘Do you think you’ll know me if you see me again?’
She was annoyed her own voice sounded less assured than usual. The man gave a low laugh that seemed to start deep in his chest. Against him, in the close proximity of the cab, Angel could feel the vibration of that laugh.
‘I would know you anywhere, chérie,’ his voice dropped an octave, and now she was certain he was French. The endearment alone gave him away, but more than the words, it was the way he said them. That shiveringly seductive way he made the moment an intimate one, as if they were the only two people in the world, instead of being crushed together in the warm dampness of a London taxi-cab.
Angel forced herself to look away. The man was uncouth. He was the absolute opposite of what her mother would call a ‘proper companion’. She acknowledged the small surge of rebellion at the thought. Lately, it had become more and more attractive to do the least of what her mother expected of her…
She was aware that Dolly and Reg were whispering furiously together. They glanced her way, and Dolly dug Reg in the ribs, making him grunt.
‘If you’ve got nothing special to do, Miss, why don’t you come to the show at Beezer’s with us? Jacques here has taken a shine to you, so how about it?’
She stared at him. She wasn’t used to being offered or accepting such casual invitations. This afternoon’s excursion to visit Margot Lacey, an old school friend, had taken weeks of organisation, and assurances that it was perfectly all right for her to stay the night at Margot’s home.
Only to find that her friend had begun suffering badly with a sudden chill, and was feeling decidedly unsociable. They had both decided to curtail the visit, which was why Angel was making the journey home after all. She clutched her small overnight bag as though it were a lifeline.
‘I think the young lady has other plans,’ Jacques said lazily. She looked at him. He surprised her again. She would have expected him to jump at the soldier’s suggestion and try to persuade her … she looked away quickly, her cheeks heated.
‘Who or what is Beezer’s?’ She asked the other two.
‘It ain’t your cup o’ tea, I bet.’ Dolly spoke up. ‘Sorry I mentioned it now. It’s a club, see, and they have a show there. Dancing girls, and a singer or two, and a comic. I daresay the jokes ’ould be too vulgar for your delicate ears!’
‘Do I look as though I was born yesterday?’ Angel whipped at her, and guessed that compared with Dolly’s sort of worldliness, she probably was.
She felt a hand cover hers. Felt the warm flesh of it, and the small caress of the fingers. The saliva seemed to dry in her throat. Was she going to be accosted? Or worse? What was wrong with her to be so unnerved, for heaven’s sake!
But the old conventions were too firmly steeped in her mind, and the foolishness of getting into this situation began to alarm her…
‘Why not come with us?’ Jacques said now. ‘If my manners have offended you, I apologise. But your company would do me honour, and these two would stop searching for a “friend” for me. I would see that you were put into a cab at the end of the evening, and guarantee that you come to no harm.’
His personality seemed to change with the ease of a chameleon. He could be the charming continental, or unpredictable, or just plain objectionable. Angel wavered. She shouldn’t entertain the idea for a moment. She should tell them to get out of this cab the minute they reached Beezer’s Club, whatever it was, and tell the cabbie to take her straight home. A voice from the driving seat floated back to them.
‘Go on, ducks. Give yerself a birthday. Tain’t every night a birdman invites yer out on the town!’
The others laughed at the cabbie’s turn of phrase. Angel saw how the laughter lightened the officer’s face. The hard line of his mouth softened, little lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes … and her heart was suddenly racing.
Why not? The little devil inside her asked. Why not take a chance for once, instead of having her life so irritatingly ordered? Didn’t she always wish that something exciting could happen to her? And what harm could come of it? Despite her earlier misgivings, she was undeniably intrigued by Jacques whoever-he-was…
‘Got to get back to Mummy, have yer?’ Dolly said, when she didn’t answer immediately. ‘Never mind, Jax. We’ll find somebody once we get to Beezer’s –’
Angel felt the squeeze on her fingers again, as though the man was willing her to go with them. She snatched her hand away. She was capable of making up her own mind.
She thought swiftly. No one was expecting her home tonight. It wouldn’t matter how late she arrived. It wouldn’t be the first time she had sneaked indoors while everyone slept. She spoke sweetly to Dolly.
‘I’ll think about it. It might be fun to go slumming.’
Dolly’s eyes flashed furiously, as Angel knew they would. She wasn’t normally such a snob, but Dolly had the knack of putting her back up. Angel spoke directly to Jacques, and knew that her voice sounded somewhat breathless.
‘You meant what you said? You’ll find me a cab the minute I ask you to?’
‘You have my word on it.’
Angel leaned back in the cab, with a strange feeling of launching herself into the unknown. Perhaps a little like the birdmen of the Flying Corps must feel when they soared into the sky in their flimsy wooden machines…
‘All right. Why not? It’ll be a lark,’ she said recklessly, and far
more coolly than she felt.
It was quite dark by the time the taxi-cab stopped, after what seemed an interminably long ride. They had presumably arrived at Beezer’s Club. To Angel’s dismay, she realised it was in Soho, to which would go yet another black mark against this evening’s excursion.
The streets, dimmed by government decree, gave no indication of what was behind the stark sign swinging sadly in the rain above a steep flight of steps leading towards a cellar. Angel couldn’t help thinking she was being extremely foolhardy as the Flying Corps officer held on tightly to her arm, while Reg paid the cabbie. As the vehicle trundled off into the night, Angel felt sudden panic.
‘Having second thoughts?’ Jacques said in her ear. ‘I promise you this is not an abduction, though I can think of no more delightful companion if it was.’
Before she could answer, she was being hustled down the flight of steps and out of the rain. Once at the bottom, the four of them squashed tightly together until an outer door was closed before an inner one could be opened. As soon as it was, Angel realised why.
The contrast was stunning. Outside, all was gloom and depression. Here at Beezer’s, the gaslights popped and flickered and made dazzling reflections of the glitteringly smart dresses worn by the women. They were mostly young, their hair rigidly waved, arms clattering with bracelets, mouths scarlet or orange. Their feet tapped gaily in a whirl of dancing on the tiny dance floor as their male companions swung them around to the music of a heavily-perspiring band. Without exception, all the men were in uniform, and several Union flags waved like banners across the top of the stage at the rear of the room.
‘A uniform is your entry ticket,’ Jacques spoke loudly against the noise. ‘Though they do expect you to pay up as well!’
‘You must let me pay my share –’ Angel began at once, reaching into her bag. Jacques pushed her hand away.
‘Don’t be so modern,’ he grinned. ‘No Frenchman would let his lady pay for herself.’
Angel allowed the girl at the paying desk to take her coat and hat and the overnight bag, and give her a ticket in return, for her to reclaim them later. She saw Jacques’ eyes take in the shiny white silk blouse that rippled against her figure, the perfect little cameo brooch at the high neckline that had been her parents’ eighteenth birthday present to her, and the elegant grey wool skirt that matched her coat.
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