Last Telegram Page 13

  “Are you all right?” he mouthed. I shook my head as the tears started again.

  He glanced at the factory clock hanging on the wall above the looms, visible from every corner of the weaving shed. Its foot-long hands were often our enemy, as they crept around the hours, but this time they were generous—it was nearly tea break.

  “Bench?” he mouthed.

  I nodded. It was chilly outside; we could probably be alone.

  “Father knows,” I blurted as soon as we were sitting down. “Bert sneaked on us.”

  “‘Sneaked’?” he said, puzzled.

  “He’s seen us together. Told Father.”

  The color drained from Stefan’s face. “What did Mr. Harold say?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to tell him about Father’s ultimatum.

  “Scheisse,” he swore, under his breath. Then he lit cigarettes for both of us and took a long drag.

  “Does he say we must not see each other, Lily?”

  I felt sick and panicky at the thought. “I won’t give you up. I love you.”

  He looked up at the sky in the way boys do when they want their eyes to swallow back tears. “But Mr. Harold is my sponsor,” he said, his voice cracking. “I cannot disobey him.”

  I put my hand on his. “Let me work on him.”

  “He might send me away.”

  “I won’t let that happen. I promise.”

  “How can you stop it?”

  “We have to be even more careful.”

  “Here? At the mill? In Westbury?” He stubbed out his cigarette furiously into the gravel. “It is impossible. Someone will always see us.”

  I knew in my heart that he was right, but I wasn’t ready to admit defeat. “Let’s talk? I’ll come to the cottage after work.”

  “No, Lily.” His voice was tight and fearful now. “It is too much to risk. You must not come. We have to wait.”

  “Wait? Till when?” I felt like crying again.

  “Until it’s all over.”

  “That might be months—years even.”

  He nodded. The tears overflowed down my cheeks, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. We sat in silence, feeling powerless and desperate.

  “I must go now,” he said suddenly, standing up. I tried to grab his hand, but he pulled away and strode off up the yard, stiff-backed and resolute. I sat on the bench and hid my face in my hands, surrendering to the sobs that rasped my chest.

  • • •

  When the klaxon sounded at the end of tea break, I went to the cloakroom to splash my face with cold water and make myself look more respectable before heading back to the weaving shed. Stefan was nowhere to be seen and another weaver was working at his looms. Gwen intercepted me and led me to the side door, her face tense and pale.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I spluttered.

  “I’ve sent Stefan home for the rest of the shift,” she said. “And you’re to go home too. Harold’s orders.”

  “No,” I shouted, disbelieving. This was all happening too fast.

  “Tomorrow you’ll be on the Jacquards,” she went on. “Helen’s going to take over your work. I’m so sorry, Lily. Nothing I could do.”

  The Jacquard looms—weaving motifs for military ties—were on the far side of the weaving shed. It was obvious what Father intended, and Gwen was acting as his henchman. My carefully gathered composure crumbled.

  “You’re not sorry,” I yelled into her shocked face. “You could have persuaded him. We are adults, you know. You don’t have to separate us like naughty children.”

  She started to say something but my anger boiled up again. “Don’t deny it. You’ve got what you wanted all along, haven’t you? You don’t want anyone else to be happy, to be in love like normal people.”

  Her eyes widened with shock, and her face went ashen. I’d crossed the line, but I didn’t care.

  “For goodness’ sake, Lily, it’s not like that,” she began, but I didn’t want to listen.

  “Oh, never bloody mind.” I started to walk away, then run, along the side path.

  “Don’t forget your gas mask,” she called behind me.

  “To hell with the bloody gas mask!” I shouted back, almost hysterical now. “I don’t care if I die!”

  I didn’t stop running till I’d crossed the railway line onto the water meadows. The gray drizzle quickly soaked through my overalls and mingled with the tears still running unchecked down my face. Mud squelched into my lightweight shoes, but I barely noticed. Furious, bitter thoughts raged around my head. She pretends to be my friend, takes me into her confidence, and then sides with the enemy. Why does everyone treat us like children? Can’t they see Stefan is just an ordinary boy—how could we possibly be doing any harm? And anyway, what right have they to dictate what we should do? It’s up to me and Stefan. It’s our lives.

  As I trudged the muddy paths, I started to calm down and think more rationally. To be together, we had to get away from Westbury. But how, and where? We could run away to Scotland perhaps, or America, until the war was over. Get odd jobs to pay for our living costs. Or perhaps we could both volunteer for the ambulance corps and go to the front line together? I imagined the glow of selfless courage: helping our brave boys, careless of our own safety.

  It felt better to have plans, even wild ones that would be difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. With each step, my optimism grew, and after a while the gray drizzle seemed to lift and a glimmer of late afternoon sun lit the low hills beyond the meadows. I started back with new resolve. I would find a way of seeing him, tell him what I had been thinking. We would plan our escape together. They’d regret it when we were gone.

  • • •

  When I got back to the house, I found Mother at the kitchen table with an unopened letter addressed to John in one hand. In the other was a crumpled handkerchief.

  She looked at me, red-eyed. “This is it, Lily. His call-up papers.”

  I pulled up a chair and put my arms around her.

  “Whatever are we going to do without him?” she croaked.

  “We’ll cope, Mother. People do, you know,” I said quietly, trying to convince myself.

  “But what if he’s killed? It was terrible last time,” she said. “Thousands died.”

  Not thousands, millions, I thought. There were no words of consolation. We held each other and sobbed. Finally she sat up, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “Sorry, Lily, I must get a grip,” she sniffed. “It’s no good falling apart, worrying about what might happen. Got to just get on with it, haven’t we? Keep ourselves busy. Keep the home fires burning, and all that.”

  She stood up unsteadily, starting to lay the table for supper. I dried my eyes and put the unopened envelope back on the hall table. A few moments later, John arrived home and came into the kitchen with the envelope, now opened. He was smiling.

  “It’s good news, Mother,” he said. “I’ll be in training for a few months in Canada. So you mustn’t worry.”

  She looked unconvinced.

  “I’ll be safe as houses,” he said, “but we’re off next Monday. I’d better telephone Vera.”

  After several minutes of hushed conversation, he came back into the kitchen.

  “She wants to talk to you, Lily,” he said. “Tell her it’ll be okay, there’s a love.”

  “I’m so terrified that he’ll never come back,” Vera sobbed down the crackly line, her voice echoing in the hospital hallways.

  “Don’t be silly, he’s only on training. I know he won’t be with us for Christmas, but he’ll be back in March.”

  “But after that? He’ll be on bombing raids. It’s so dangerous, Lily.”

  As I tried to comfort her, my own miseries slipped into perspective. What had I been thinking? Even if we couldn’t be together, at least Stefan was safe, here in Westbury. At the right moment, I would talk to Father—or perhaps Mother first, she might be more sympathetic—and make them understand how much he meant to me. How
much we loved each other. If our relationship could be out in the open with my parents’ approval, any stupid suspicions would be scotched. There was still the small matter of his official age—but we both knew the truth and anyway, in the eyes of the world, what did a couple of years matter?

  I started to think more rationally. For the moment, I would put on a brave front, endure our enforced separation with dignity. When everything had calmed down, we would talk and work out what to do.

  11

  In 1773, Spitalfields weavers petitioned for better labor rates, resulting in the Spitalfields Act, setting payment terms for the surrounding three miles. Merchants soon discovered an alternative source of labor in the skilled and willing hands of East Anglian wool weavers, whose trade was at that time in decline. Verners was one of those firms who settled there, and prospered as a result.

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  John was not the only one joining up. Twenty other men—some of our very best tacklers and weavers—had been called up at the same time, and it was Father’s idea to have a leaving party at the mill.

  “Demonstrate support for our brave boys,” he said, and no one disagreed. We needed to put aside our own fears and celebrate their courage. The canteen was strung with buntings and union flags painstakingly sewn from of strips of scrap silk. Kathleen and her staff baked sausage rolls and gaudily iced cupcakes, Father had ordered a barrel of beer, and Mother brought a demijohn of homemade lemonade. Families were invited too, and everyone had put on their Sunday best.

  I looked around for Stefan and the boys but couldn’t see them in the crowd. Had Father told them not to come, I wondered. It was probably good advice. Anti-German feelings might be running high.

  It was a muted affair at first. Everyone was somber, speaking in hushed voices, queuing quietly for food and drink, politely muttering, “After you. No, after you.” But the beer did its magic, conversation started to flow, and the noise levels rose. After a while, Father asked John to bring the others to the front of the room. As I helped Father onto a chair beside them, everyone fell silent.

  “I’m not going to make a long speech,” he started, ignoring the cheers, “but I’d like to say a few words to thank our boys, and their families of course, for so bravely…”

  I watched John and the others, all of them under twenty-five years old, standing awkwardly, with painfully fixed smiles, embarrassed by the attention. A handsome bunch, I thought, they should be spending their energies in loving and working and playing football, not going off to fight and kill. I shivered at the thought that, all over Britain, similar speeches were being made. How many of them would return?

  My eyes wandered to the hatch where Mother stood, lemonade jug still in hand, struggling to maintain her composure. I watched a tear escape and slip down her face, followed by several more. Kathleen moved over and put a hand on her shoulder, gently taking the jug from her hand. Around the room, other mothers, sisters, and girlfriends discreetly dabbed eyes with handkerchiefs that had been carefully concealed in cuffs, while the men stood expressionless, their jaws tight.

  But I didn’t feel like crying. I was angry. With the men responsible for this war. With the madman Hitler and the other politicians, and the Germans who seemed to follow him without question. For the way they persecuted Jews and invaded countries. For giving even the gentlest of our young men, however ill-suited for combat, no choice but to fight. My jaw was clenched and my whole body tense with the effort of containing my fury. I felt helpless. At least John and the others were able to take action, but what could I do?

  Then I realized. The idea energized me like a lungful of oxygen. I took a deep breath and made a silent promise; I would dedicate myself to helping Father make the mill work more efficiently, produce everything the War Ministry required of us on time and to the best possible quality. I owed this to John and the rest, as well as to the German boys and their Jewish families, to help win this horrible war. I would prove to him that I was worthy of being trusted, and then perhaps he would realize that my love for Stefan was real and important. He and Mother would welcome Stefan into their family.

  Loud hurrahs jolted me from my reverie. “Three cheers for our brave boys!”

  I went over to John and whispered in his ear, “Just make sure you come back in one piece. I’ll do everything I can to help Father while you’re away.”

  “I will, Sis, I will,” he whispered back. “You’re a good kid. Look after the folks for me.”

  He left the following day, first to see Vera in London, and then on his way to Canada. Father had managed to remain steadfastly cheerful, but now, two days later, the strain was starting to show and there were dark shadows around his eyes. Already we felt John’s absence like an empty space, at home and at the mill.

  “These are tough times, Lily,” he said, and then stalled, studying the ink patterns on his office blotter. I could see he needed time to compose himself. As I waited, I looked up at the portrait of my ancestor hanging beside the desk.

  Joseph, the company’s founder, had been sufficiently prosperous to commission the local artist Thomas Gainsborough to paint his portrait, but had been too mean—or just not wealthy enough—to pay for a full-length composition, or even to include the hands, for which he would have had to pay extra. An expert had described it as “a minor example likely to have been commissioned from the lower end of the master’s price range.” But it was—and still is—nonetheless prized by the family, fittingly framed in ornate gilt.

  Father followed my gaze. “It’s a heavy responsibility, keeping this place going, carrying on the work he started, and all those generations of Verners. But it’s a duty we have, war or no war.”

  “I know I’m no replacement for John, but I’ll do all I can to help.”

  “Good, good.” He opened a brown foolscap folder on his desk and distractedly shuffled the papers inside. “I’ve been thinking we need to sort out our systems here in the office. We also need to look at our staffing now that all those chaps are going off to war. So,” he looked up as if seeing me for the first time, “how would you like to come and work in the office after Christmas? Help me sort it out?”

  “Of course, just tell me, whatever you want me to do,” I said, my excitement rising. This wasn’t what I’d expected when he’d called me into the office this morning.

  “How about becoming ‘Assistant to the Managing Director’?”

  My first instinct was to lean over the desk and kiss him, but I restrained myself and tried hard not to giggle as he stood up and shook my hand, firmly and formally.

  “Welcome on board,” he said, as if I’d joined the crew of a ship. “I don’t think I’ve said this before, but I am very proud of you, Lily. You’ve applied yourself to this business in a way I never expected, and you’ve shown great maturity over that business with Stefan. I’m sorry it has to be this way, but you clearly understand why.”

  He clapped me on the shoulder, man-to-man. “I’m pleased to have you with us.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. “I owe it to John and the boys.”

  “The first job is to recruit and train more weavers, probably women. Can I put you and Gwen in charge of that?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I said with a clip of the heels and a mock salute that made him smile for the first time.

  As I turned to leave, there was a knock on the door. It was Jim Williams, our factory manager, in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, cap in hand. “May I have a word, Mr. Harold?”

  “Of course, come in. Let me introduce my new assistant.”

  “Congratulations, Miss Lily,” he said with a smile, shaking my hand. “I’m sure you will do very well.”

  “Shall I go now?” I asked.

  “Not unless Jim wants you to?”

  He shook his head. “Miss Lily may want to hear this too.”

  “Then sit down, both of you, please. Now, Jim?”

  “It’s like this, Mr. Harold,” he started. “I’ve been
wrestling with me conscience since the do at the weekend. Seeing the boys so brave. And even though the wife’s set against it, I’ve decided to sign up too. My old man died at Ypres, and I can hear his voice telling me we mustn’t let the Hun get away with it. Not after so many lives were lost stopping them last time.”

  Father sighed and shook his head sadly. “I understand. Of course you must do what your conscience tells you. I can only wish you good luck and a safe return.”

  Jim knew all the workers by name, could fix any piece of machinery, and recite the denier, twist, and warp and weave specifications for every type of cloth we wove. I knew how hard it would be to replace him. He’d also taken charge of all our war arrangements: blackout blinds, storage for gas masks, extra fire precautions, and an evening shift to fulfill the increasing demand for parachute silk.

  After he’d gone, Father said, “He’ll be a great loss, you know. But thankfully we have someone else who is very well equipped to step into his shoes,” he smiled up at me. “Verners is going to have a female factory manager for the first time in its history. Can you ask Gwen to come up?”

  • • •

  It was probably the quietest and most solemn Christmas we had ever had, just like a normal Sunday really, with a few presents to share with the boys around the tree afterward. It was agonizing being in the same room as Stefan yet unable to touch him, or even talk to him privately. The homesickness in the boys’ eyes was heart-breaking, and no one felt like celebrating.

  In January, I went to work proudly wearing a new blue serge office suit, rustled up on the sewing machine by Mother. I took some small consolation in the fact that my working career was moving forward, at last.

  I was still learning how to use the office switchboard when his call came in. “Hello, er…Verner and Sons, umm, good morning,” I stuttered.

  “Lily, is that you?”

  The cultured vowels were horribly familiar, but I quickly recovered myself. “Indeed it is Miss Verner, Assistant to the Director. How can I help you, Mr. Cameron?” I should have known better than to be clever with Robbie.

  “A promotion? Congratulations, Miss Verner. It never suited you, you know, working on the shop floor—you’re too classy. At least you won’t have to wear that gruesome turban affair anymore.” His gall was breathtaking. I nearly threw down the receiver in disgust. “Would the Assistant to the Director be able to consider a request?”