Last Telegram Page 14

  “Only if you ask very politely,” I managed.

  “I’m passing your way next week. Thought you might like to jolly along your troops with a gander at what they’re producing. Only take half an hour or so. What do you say?”

  • • •

  I tried to melt into the background as Father welcomed Robbie with a vigorous handshake. “Jolly good show, old man. Good to see you again.”

  Robbie was ebullient as usual. “Mr. Verner, Miss Verner,” he smirked, “the pleasure is entirely mine. I am most grateful for the opportunity. Show the chaps our appreciation for the terrific work they’ve been doing here, eh?”

  “There’ll be plenty of women soon, and not so many chaps,” I said quietly, but he ignored me.

  “Where would you like to do your demonstration?” Father asked. “Canteen?”

  Robbie glanced out of the office window. “How’s about outside, in the yard? It’s not too windy, and I’d like room to pull this thing out of its pack.” He held up a small khaki canvas bag, and I realized that it held a parachute. I’d no idea that amount of silk could be folded into something so compact.

  Gwen and Robbie organized “the troops.” He stood at the mill door holding open the bag. As each person came out he handed them a piece of canopy, instructing them to hold it tight as they walked away slowly, keeping the roped edge as taut as possible. A great expanse of silk began to emerge from the bag, rippling like white horses on a blustery sea, so that the people holding it had to lean outward and grip with both hands to prevent themselves being lifted off the ground. By the time the canopy was completely freed, nearly forty people were holding it and standing around its perimeter.

  Stefan was among the last to emerge, purposely avoiding my eyes. I watched his expression lift as he saw the dazzling white dome that almost filled the yard. It was certainly an impressive sight.

  When everyone else had gathered round, Robbie started. “Thought you’d like to see what your hard work is for,” he shouted against the snapping of the silk in the breeze. “We’ll need many thousands more like this in the months to come. And I don’t need to tell you,” he went on, his parade-ground voice ringing off the brick walls of the mill, “how important this work is—every bit as vital as producing guns, ammunition, or warships. The difference is that these beautiful bits of kit,” he gestured to the parachute, rippling more gently now in a brief glint of wintry sun, “are designed to save lives.”

  The parachute was indeed beautiful. People gazed at it silently, absorbed and intrigued, even a little in awe. They leaned across, looked underneath, felt the fine weave of the silk, and gestured to each other, pointing out the elegant complexity of the canopy’s construction, the angled sections sewn with treble-turned seams, hems at its edges, and hole in the center neatly rolled around tough rope reinforcements. And the fabric had probably been woven by me or Stefan, I thought, understanding for the first time the reality of our work, how important it was, and feeling suddenly proud.

  “So my final message is,” Robbie’s voice took on a Churchillian resonance, “keep up the good work. Never forget how vital it is, and how important to get it right. Together we can help win this wretched war.” As he finished, everyone cheered “hear, hear” or clapped, and Father shook Robbie’s hand.

  I was helping to stuff the parachute back into its bag, surrounded by a crowd of people queuing to get back into the mill, when I felt something being slipped into the pocket of my overalls. I couldn’t let go of the ends I was holding but caught a view of Stefan’s head disappearing into the doorway. My heart danced—it was a note, surely? I couldn’t wait to read it. But before I could slip away, I heard Father approaching with Robbie.

  “Great stuff, old chap,” he said. “Terrific boost for morale. How’s about a quick snifter at the house before you go? Sun will soon be below the yard arm. Grace would love to see you.”

  Robbie looked up at the sky, then at his watch. I was sure he would say he needed to get home before dark because of the blackout, but he smiled at me smugly and said, “It would be an absolute pleasure to meet the charming Mrs. Verner again and spend a little more time with your lovely daughter.”

  “I’ll be over at the house shortly,” I said, squeezing out a smile. “Just a few things to tie up in the office.” Stefan’s message read, Can we meet? Same place. Midnight?

  My heart started to pound. Why did he want to meet now? Was it just that he was missing me, or something more worrying? Perhaps he was making plans to leave Westbury, or find another job. Maybe he had gone to enlist, and they had accepted him. My imagination ran riot, and waiting was agonizing. The “snifter” turned into two, then three, as Robbie and Father talked about silk and moved on to politics. I pretended to listen politely, itching for Robbie to leave. Then, as her casserole threatened to burn in the oven, Mother invited him to stay for supper.

  “I really should be on my way, Mrs. Verner,” he said, standing up and putting down his glass. “Before it’s completely dark. Get back before the blackout.”

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, peering out of the window. “You can’t drive out there without lights. It’s far too late. Why don’t you stay for supper and we can find you a bed for the night?”

  No! I shouted inside my head. The thought of Robbie sleeping in our house made me feel deeply uneasy. With all my strength of concentration, I willed him to refuse.

  “Your cooking smells so delicious that I’ll accept your kind invitation for dinner but I couldn’t possibly impose further on your hospitality, Mrs. V,” he said, and I tried not to sigh audibly with relief. “I’ll take myself off afterward to the Anchor. I’ve stayed there before—it’s very comfortable. It’ll do me perfectly well,” he said.

  Dinner became an endurance test. I was desperate to get Robbie out of the house, but he seemed to be settling in nicely, heaping excessive compliments on Mother’s culinary skills, and to her obvious delight, accepting seconds of each course to prove his point. How dare he cozy up to my family? I made a few attempts at conversation, but it always dried up. I couldn’t focus, with my head full of anxiety about the night ahead.

  The grandfather clock struck ten just as Mother was offering coffee. At half past ten, I excused myself and went up to my bedroom. I lay on the bed, willing the time to pass, exhausted by the events and emotions of the day and almost paralyzed with anticipation. I woke with a jolt at two minutes to twelve.

  When I slipped out of the back door, the night was coal black. No moonlight, no stars, no street lights. Waiting for my eyes to adjust, I caught a slight movement to the side of the terrace, the red end of a lit cigarette and a tendril of smoke rising into the air. My heart leaped.

  “Stefan?” I called, in a whisper.

  There was no reply. Then, out of the shadows came a tall figure.

  “Robbie? What the hell are you doing here?” I said, shaky with the shock.

  “I could very well ask the same of you,” he said smoothly.

  “But you were going to the Anchor.”

  “Grace and Harold most kindly insisted I stay,” he said. Grace and Harold. The intimacy made me shudder. “And I was just turning in when I remembered I hadn’t put the top up on the Morgan. Still, this is rather jolly, meeting you here. Turn up for the books. Have a cigarette,” he said, clicking open his slim silver case.

  “No thanks,” I said, trying to sound unfazed as my brain whirred frantically. “I just came out for some air.” I needed to end this conversation as quickly as possible and get Robbie to go inside, or find some excuse to get away myself, perhaps to go back into the house and leave by the front door. I hoped Stefan would wait for me. “Anyway,” I said as casually as possible, “it’s a bit cold out here. Think I’ll head off to bed.” He wasn’t stupid. He would know I was lying, but I didn’t care.

  “Before you go,” he said, stepping between me and the doorway, “I’ve a little question you might be able to help me with.”

  “Try me,” I said, trying to
keep calm, “but make it quick. I don’t want to catch my death.”

  “Have you had any problems with burglars around here?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said, wondering what the hell he was getting at.

  “So would you consider it rather unusual,” he said, slick as oil, “to see a man lurking in your orchard at the dead of night?”

  My stomach lurched. “Yes, very unusual,” I managed, fearing the worst.

  His tone was low and menacing. “Unless, I suppose, this was the German lad, the Stefan character you mistook me for?”

  There was no escape. I had to brazen this one out, deny everything, to make him go away. There was little hope now of getting to the tennis hut. I drew myself up and straightened my shoulders. “I really don’t know what you are talking about, Robbie. And I don’t like your tone of voice. Now, I am getting cold and want to go to bed. Will you please step aside and let me come by?”

  He didn’t move. He took a drag on his cigarette and in the flare I could see the triumphant smile on his face. “Chilly Miss Lily,” he sneered, throwing down the butt and reaching out toward me. “Would you like me to warm you up?”

  “No, I would not.” I pushed his arm away. “Now let me past, please.”

  He grabbed hold of my shoulders, and I nearly screamed. I tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he tightened his grip. He was too strong. I stopped struggling, stiffening myself against whatever was going to happen next, a forced kiss, a hand between my legs, or something worse. My heart banged so hard in my chest I thought it might explode.

  But he made no further move, just holding me, his whiskey breath blowing in my face.

  “Now listen carefully,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I am going to say this only once. I know what your game is, you little flirt.” I made another attempt to get out of his grasp, but he held me firm. “What would Harold do if he knew that creepy little Kraut was lurking around his garden at the dead of night?”

  He knew I wouldn’t answer.

  “Or that his beloved daughter was having a little dalliance with a Jew boy?”

  “How dare you…” I spat, but he talked over me.

  “Any sensible man would report him for spying, wouldn’t he? Get him locked up as an enemy alien, or get him sent back to his good friends, the Nazis. That’s what would happen.”

  “My father would do no such thing,” I said, wrenching myself out of his grip. “And this is none of your business, anyway.”

  “Ah, but it is,” he said menacingly, “very much my business. If someone was stealing parachute production secrets, I would be duty bound to report it.”

  “That’s bloody ridiculous,” I said, “and you know it.” But we both knew he’d played the trump card.

  “And now,” he said, “I think you owe me a little something.” Two hands clamped firmly on each side of my head and pulled my face upward, his lips pressed against mine, a hard tongue prising them open and pushing into my mouth. It tasted disgusting. I struggled and tried to pull away, but he held me too tightly. I was helpless, hating every moment of it. Finally, he let me go, though keeping his arm around my shoulders.

  “My sweet little Lily,” he whispered in my ear. “You are quite irresistible, you know, especially when you’re playing hard to get. But don’t think I am going to leave it at this. You’ll come around. Who knows, you might even make marriage material when you grow up a bit.”

  I felt invaded and contaminated, needing to rinse my mouth and spit out the taste of him.

  “I’ve enjoyed our little talk,” he was saying, stroking my cheek. “A very nice surprise. But it’s time to hit the sack now, don’t you think?” He stood aside, ushering me through the door.

  • • •

  I ran upstairs and into the bathroom, desperate to wash Robbie Cameron off my skin. Even though I cleaned my teeth twice, I could still taste his breath and spent the rest of the night in a ferment of fury and fear. I was frantic about Stefan. What had he been planning to tell me? What had he thought when I failed to turn up? Would Robbie really tell Father that he had seen me going out to meet Stefan, I wondered. Or did he just want to leave the threat hanging over my head? It was such a ruddy mess.

  • • •

  Next morning I went in to work early to miss breakfast and avoid any chance of meeting Robbie.

  The weaving shed was for once still and silent, the rows of looms like giant angular beasts, slumbering peacefully, ready to be woken for the day’s work ahead. I left a note on Stefan’s loom: Sorry I couldn’t meet you. Need to explain. When?

  There was no response, all day, and I told myself to keep calm. He would contact me when he was ready. Besides, I would see him in two days’ time when he came for Sunday lunch with the others, and could try to catch him alone then.

  But on Sunday, only Kurt and Walter arrived on the doorstep.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Grace,” Kurt said, looking embarrassed. “Stefan says he is not well.”

  While Mother twittered about whether she should take him some medicine, a hot water bottle, or some lunch, I mouthed at Kurt, “What’s wrong?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Let me pop down and see him, Mother, while you finish the vegetables. Just check that he’s okay, whether he needs anything, aspirin or something,” I said, seizing this unexpected opportunity. “Then you could go after lunch.”

  I waited for Father to intervene, but he just raised his eyebrows. If this was intended as a warning, I decided to ignore it.

  Stefan answered the door, fully dressed. He didn’t look the slightest bit unwell.

  “Why are you here?” he said sharply, glancing up the road in either direction.

  “Kurt said you were ill.”

  He didn’t reply. And didn’t move.

  “Let me in, it’s cold out here,” I said. “I need to explain about the other night.”

  His face was pinched and expressionless, his voice steely. “Do not come again. We cannot meet anymore.”

  “You said in your note we had to talk. What did you want to talk about?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. It does not matter anymore.”

  “It does matter, or you wouldn’t have sent me a note,” I said, feeling desperate now.

  Stefan stood squarely in the doorway. “Scheisse, Lily. Just go,” he hissed.

  “Please, let me explain,” I pleaded. It felt like my last chance.

  He turned and closed the door in my face. I hammered on it, but he refused to answer. I slunk home, utterly confused and dejected.

  12

  As with every generation of immigrants, the Huguenots faced prejudice: accusations of stealing jobs, of low standards of housing and hygiene, of creating public disorder and having low morals. It was even reported in London that Huguenots had smaller heads than the English, implying that they were less intelligent. A newspaper likened them to a “swarm of frogs” and urged that they be kicked out of the country.

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  Gwen came into my office first thing on Monday morning and caught me looking out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Stefan on his way into work.

  “I need a big favor,” she said.

  “What’s that,” I said, distracted, trying to see the boys in the crowd of workers milling down the yard.

  “I’ve got to go to the warehouse today,” she said, “and Peter was supposed to go with me, but he’s just rung in sick. I need someone to share the driving and help with the lifting.” Requisitions of raw silk were distributed from a depot north of Huntingdon—well away from bombing targets—but it was a good three hours from Westbury in the works van. Collections had always been Jim’s job, now it was Gwen’s. Peter, our new warehouse manager, was frequently off work. He’d served in the Expeditionary Force and his nerves were shattered.

  “I’ve got such a lot to do here,” I lied. “I can’t drive anyway, so I wouldn’t be much help.” The truth was I desperately hoped to fin
d Stefan, on his own, today to explain. I really didn’t want to be out for the whole day.

  “Now’s your chance to learn,” she said, ignoring my surliness. “Please, Lily. It’s the only day we can go, and we really need that raw, now.”

  I had no choice. “Okay then, since you ask so nicely,” I said. “Give me half an hour to get ready.”

  “You’re a brick,” she said.

  • • •

  Once we were clear of Westbury and onto the open road, she pulled over.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  “What? I can’t drive.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. There’s no traffic, the road’s straight-ish here,” she said. We switched places and she showed me how to adjust the seat for my longer legs, and then calmly talked me through the controls, putting her hand over mine to demonstrate the movement of the gear lever.

  “I can do it,” I said impatiently, shaking her hand off.

  “Okay,” she said, “turn her on.”

  I started the engine and tried to move off, stalled several times, kangaroo-hopped in first, and then crunched my way up through the gears. As we got under way, I soon got the hang of it, and as the miles ran by, even started to enjoy myself. I could see why men were so besotted with driving. Such power and freedom—anything seemed possible. I could follow the road to anywhere I wanted. Take unplanned turnings, discover new places, forget my responsibilities.

  Gwen seemed to sense my mood lifting. “Great feeling, isn’t it?” she said, and then, in a sing-song voice, “‘The open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows.’”

  “‘Here today, up and off to somewhere else tomorrow!’” I quoted back, forgetting to be grumpy.

  “‘The whole world before you, and a horizon that’s always changing!’” she finished, laughing. “Poor old Toad. He came to such a sticky end.”