Last Telegram Page 15

  “True. But now I understand why he thought it was worth it.”

  We drove in silence again for a while.

  “Lily?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry about that business over Stefan.”

  “Me too.” I wasn’t going to forgive her that easily.

  “I didn’t have any option. Harold gave the order and he’s the boss.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Stefan’s not speaking to me,” I said.

  I negotiated the junction onto the Great North Road, and crunched my way through the gears to an exhilarating top speed of forty-five miles an hour.

  “It’s hardly surprising,” she said, out of the blue.

  “What’s hardly surprising?”

  “Stefan. Not speaking to you. After Thursday.”

  “Stop talking in riddles, please. What about Thursday?”

  “Robbie. Staying the night at The Chestnuts.”

  The realization hit me like a slap in the face. What an idiot I had been. I’d assumed Stefan was furious with me because I failed to turn up for our assignation, but now I understood: he would have seen the Morgan in the driveway or, even worse, might even have seen me with Robbie that night. How could he have known that Robbie had threatened me, had forced that kiss on me?

  It all became horribly, bitterly clear. His coldness wasn’t anger or fear; it was jealousy. He thought I had betrayed him. And now, every mile was taking us farther from Westbury. I wanted to turn the van around immediately, speed back, and explain what had happened, to hug and kiss him, reassure him of my love.

  The road blurred, and then the tears started to spill down my cheeks. Gwen glanced over anxiously. “Pull over, Lily, now. That lay-by,” she ordered.

  I swerved off the road and skidded to a stop, failing to take the van out of gear, and we jerked and stalled. She leaned over and turned off the engine.

  I leaned my head on the steering wheel. “Robbie stayed because of the blackout, not for me,” I sobbed.

  “That’s not what it looked like,” she said unsympathetically. “I assumed it was a date.”

  “Why does everyone jump to conclusions? It’s not fair.”

  “You tell me,” Gwen said quietly, “about unfairness. About people jumping to conclusions.”

  I wondered for a moment what she was referring to. No one had been unfair to Gwen, surely? She was well respected by everyone. And then I remembered, with a flush of shame, how I’d taunted her about “normal people” falling in love.

  “What I said that day, Gwen. I was just angry, it came out without thinking.”

  “Most prejudice is unthinking,” she said flatly.

  “Look, I am really sorry,” I said. “Please forgive me; it was a stupid thing to say. I’ve been under such strain over all this.”

  Lorries whooshed by, rocking the van. “Come on,” she said. “Time to get moving or we won’t get back before dark. Let me drive for a while.”

  “Why is life so complicated?” I said, as we pulled back on to the road. She shook her head but didn’t reply.

  I had no idea how much more complicated it would soon become.

  • • •

  Cradling my morning cup of coffee, weary and bleary-eyed from our long drive the day before, I stood on tiptoe once more looking out through my office window, hoping for a glance of Stefan. I was still wracked with anxiety about the misunderstanding, and determined to find an excuse to have a few moments with him to explain what had happened.

  Then I saw him, walking into the yard with the others. At first, I didn’t recognize him. I’d never seen him wear a hat before. Sure, it was cold, but why was he wearing it pulled so strangely low over his forehead?

  At elevenses, I went to the canteen to get the office coffees, and when Stefan came in, it was clear what the hat had been hiding: a dark purple bruise spreading from his right eye toward the temple, already discoloring into an ugly yellow and black.

  I joined him in the queue and whispered, “What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing,” he said under his breath.

  “It’s not nothing. It looks dreadful. Tell me,” I said. It looked as though he had been punched, but Stefan was the last person I’d expect to get into a fight. Were the tensions starting to tell? I wondered.

  “I fell against a door,” he said curtly, not meeting my eye. He refused to say anything further, and I couldn’t press him any more in public.

  As the day went on, I became convinced there was more to it. Should I intervene and risk Father’s anger, or just let it go? Stefan was an adult; he could look after himself. Then I realized: this provided me with the perfect excuse to visit him—I was concerned for his welfare, that was all.

  Walter answered the door.

  “I’ve been sent to find out how Stefan is,” I lied. “Can I come in?”

  He let me into the front room and called up the stairs, “Miss Lily to see you, Stef.”

  When he finally appeared, his face was even more shockingly discolored. The bruise had spread right across his temple, with deep purple canyons appearing above and below his eyelids.

  “I came to see if you are okay.”

  “I am okay,” he said flatly.

  “Where did you really get that shiner?”

  “Shiner?”

  I pointed to his eye.

  “I told you,” he said. “It was a door.”

  “Yes,” said Kurt, coming into the room. “We were wrestling and he fell.”

  “I don’t believe either of you,” I said. “Why don’t you make me a cup of tea and tell me what really happened?”

  “We haven’t got any milk,” Walter called from the kitchen. Even he was in cahoots.

  “I’ll have it without.”

  The four of us sat on their threadbare chairs, sipping black tea from saucerless cups. I tried again. “Now I want the truth.” They exchanged glances. No one said a word. “It obviously wasn’t a door,” I said. “There’s no sharp edge on that bruise. It looks as though you’ve been in a fight.”

  “No!” Stefan almost shouted. “You know I do not fight.”

  “Then what really happened?”

  Finally Kurt spoke, in a quiet voice. “Last night, we went into Westbury for fish and chips.” Stefan scowled into his cup as Kurt continued, “On the way home, we passed the King’s Arms and went inside for a beer.”

  “Bitter,” Walter screwed up his face. “It is not nice beer.”

  “Have brown ale next time, it’s sweeter,” Kurt said gently, then went on with the story. “Anyway, there is a piano and Stefan tried a few notes. People asked him to go on so he played some jazz tunes.”

  “They loved it,” said Walter.

  “Especially those girls.” Kurt grinned slyly and Stefan tapped a cigarette from a crumpled packet, pretending not to notice.

  “What girls?”

  “They were all over him.”

  Stefan finally snapped. “Just shut up, both of you.” He lit the cigarette and sucked on it fiercely.

  “I was playing ragtime, that sort of thing,” he said, blowing out with a sharp sigh. “The landlord was pleased. He said it would bring in customers and gave us free beer.”

  Kurt chimed in. “There were some girls by the piano, dancing.”

  “Go on,” I said, dreading what was coming.

  “Walter was betrunken…?” Kurt said.

  “Drunk? Tipsy?”

  “That is not fair. It was not only me,” Walter whined.

  “We decided to leave,” Stefan went on. “When I stopped playing, everyone clapped and thanked us and we said good night and they said see you next week. But the men were waiting outside. They shouted at us.”

  “What did they say?”

  No one spoke. I repeated the question.

  Then Walter whispered, with his eyes to the floor, “They said, ‘Keep off our women, German scum.’” The coarse violence of the words was like a grenade exploding in th
e little room.

  “Stefan tried to explain, but one of them just punched him,” Kurt went on.

  I started to tremble. I could hardly believe it; these were Westbury folk, neighbors, perhaps workers at the mill. I’d never heard of anything like this happening in our town before.

  “We have to tell Father,” I said, getting up to leave. “He can talk to the police.”

  Stefan blocked my way. “No, Lily,” he said firmly. “You must not tell anyone else.”

  “It’s serious, Stefan. We have to do something.”

  “No,” he said again, even more determinedly.

  “Okay,” I said, feeling like a coward. I had little option but to agree. “If anything else happens you must promise to tell me immediately.”

  They nodded and there seemed to be nothing more to say. I felt unwelcome. “I’ll be going then,” I said, beckoning Stefan to follow me to the front door. “We’ve got to talk,” I whispered. “Please. I need to explain.”

  He shook his head. “There is nothing to talk about,” he said icily.

  But when the boys arrived for Sunday lunch two days later, he handed me a book. “Thank you for lending this, Miss Lily,” he said formally, as if we were strangers. “I liked the chapter where they find the man who was lost.” I thanked him and my heart hammered in my chest as I replaced the book on the shelf. There was no lost man in the story.

  After everyone had gone to bed that evening, I retrieved the note from the pages of the book. Thursday 10 o’clock. S.

  Waiting was almost unbearable. When we met by chance at the mill, he avoided my eyes. I could read nothing into his expression, but every sight of him made me sick with apprehension. After being so cool, why had he asked to meet me? Would he offer me an opportunity to explain, or did he just want a showdown?

  When Thursday evening finally arrived, I crept quickly downstairs, avoiding the squeaky floorboards, and silently let myself out of the back door. It was the middle of February and perishingly cold outside. There was no moon, and the stars were brilliant in a cloudless sky. I was through the orchard in seconds and slipped around the side of the tennis hut, my eyes trying to adjust to the blackness. It was the cloud of cigarette smoke that I saw first.

  He was waiting for me outside, sitting on an old orange crate, huddled in his camel overcoat and a scarf. When he looked up, his pale face was like a half moon in the darkness. I unlocked the door and we went inside, lit a candle, and sat, not touching, on the old garden bench.

  “Smoke?” he said.

  He avoided meeting my eyes in the flare of the match, and for a few moments we sat side by side, smoking and exhaling silently into the dusty air.

  “Stefan,” I said quietly, “are you okay?”

  “What do you think?” he muttered through his teeth.

  “I think you have misunderstood something. About Robbie being at The Chestnuts that night,” I said carefully, still unsure what he might or might not have seen.

  He took a deep drag, sighed it out. “I think you have lied to me,” he said bitterly.

  “No,” I almost shouted. “Look at me,” I whispered, waiting till he finally raised his eyes. “There is nothing between me and Robbie. Nothing. My parents invited him to stay. Because of the blackout.”

  Stefan turned away and took another drag.

  “That night, he caught me on my way out to see you. He had gone to check his car, he said. He was standing at the back door and he told me he had seen you. He threatened me. Said he would tell Father. I couldn’t get away. I am not lying to you. I promise.”

  More silence. I felt like shaking him.

  “Stefan? Say something.”

  Eventually, he whispered, “I saw you kissing. It made me sick to see.”

  So now the truth was out. How could I persuade him what had really happened?

  “Listen to me, Stefan. You must believe what I am going to tell you.”

  “How can I believe, when you lie to me?” he hissed.

  “I am going to tell you, and then is it your choice whether you want to believe me. Robbie threatened me, and then he forced me to kiss him. It was disgusting. It made me feel sick too. But I couldn’t get away.”

  There was a long silence. Stefan finished his cigarette and stubbed it out defiantly into the floor. We had always agreed to take care with cigarette ends, to clear up any evidence behind us.

  “How can I know if you are telling the truth?” he said at last, his eyes glittering with anger, or was it tears? I didn’t stop to check. I decided to risk it, turned his face to mine, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. At first, his lips stayed hard and unyielding, but he didn’t pull away. Then, at last, he started to kiss me back.

  “I love you,” I said, when we stopped. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I think so,” he said, kissing me again.

  Quite a bit later, he said, “I wanted to meet you that night because I missed you so much. But when I saw you with Mr. Cameron, I felt like killing him. I was so angry it frightened me.”

  “That won’t help, you know. He’s paying our wages at the moment.”

  He snorted mirthlessly. “Does this allow him to threaten you?”

  “Of course not,” I sighed, “but it’s complicated.”

  “Will he tell Mr. Harold, as he said?”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s just a threat. He likes to have power over people.”

  “It is still dangerous for us to meet, I think,” he said sadly.

  “But Robbie is not usually here. It’s only Father we have to worry about.”

  Stefan pulled me to my feet, kissing me again, on my forehead, nose, and chin, behind my ears, down the back of my neck, and pressing his body into mine as if we could just become one. I felt giddy and reckless with relief and desire.

  “I can’t live without this,” I breathed. “Perhaps we could just ration ourselves?”

  “Ration what?” he said.

  “How often we meet?”

  “Like chocolate,” he laughed. “You’re so much sweeter.”

  “And you are much more addictive,” I said, stroking his cheek.

  “We just have to be very, very, very careful,” he said solemnly. We sealed our agreement with a final kiss, and as I picked my way home in the dark and sneaked back into the silent house, my cheeks ached from smiling to myself. I was happier than I’d been for months.

  The next time, Stefan brought bottles of pale ale and I’d stolen some biscuits from Mother’s store cupboard, but we didn’t really need peace offerings. For two blissful hours, we talked and kissed, drunk on the joy of being together again, as though we’d been separated for years, not just a couple of months. All the mistrust and confusion cleared like clouds on a summer’s day.

  We kept strictly to our agreement, being very careful at all times, and meeting only once a fortnight. At least we now knew, with a certainty like a warm blanket, that we would always love each other, whatever happened. The tennis hut was hardly the most romantic trysting place, but despite the constant concern about being discovered, those stolen hours were some of the happiest in my life. Even now, the smell of tar instantly evokes their heady joy.

  Spring arrived at last. Bees hummed in the apple blossom, the birds were courting, and baby calves cavorted on the water meadows. When you are in love, romance seems to be everywhere, and sure enough, when John and Vera turned up for supper together, I’d never seen her looking so pretty before—she positively glowed. He was back from Canada for five days, leave before joining his squadron. They were holding hands and looking so pleased with themselves, I knew at once what they were about to tell us. She wore a new, shapely floral dress, and her hair was elegantly waved, with a silver clasp on one side. The ring glistened on her finger.

  Once we were all together in the drawing room, John said, rather formally, “Mother, Father, Lily. We’ve got something to tell you. I’ve proposed to Vera, and I’m glad to say she has accepted.”

  Ver
a blushed gratifyingly as he kissed her on the cheek. “Last night, her parents gave us their blessing.”

  Mother threw her arms around them both. “Oh, my lovely children, this is such wonderful news,” she said through her tears. “I hope you will both be very happy.”

  Father slapped John on the back and shook his hand. “Excellent choice, old man, jolly good show. You’ll make a lovely couple.”

  “You little minx, seducing my brother like that,” I said, hugging her.

  “He’s a pushover,” she giggled, looking up at John. “What do you think?”

  “I’m thrilled. Don’t tell me he got down on one knee?”

  “C’mon, Lily, you know your brother. It was over a pint, in some squalid London pub.”

  “The very best beer,” John said cheerfully. “No expense spared.”

  “Let’s see the ring.” Vera held up her finger. It was a simple elegant silver setting with a single diamond. “I never knew you had such good taste, John.”

  “We men have hidden depths,” he said, winking at Vera.

  “Where will you get married?” Mother asked. “Church or registry office?”

  “Not sure where or when yet,” John said. “I’m just overjoyed she’s agreed to be my wife.”

  It was so good to have him back home. His squadron was stationed in Cambridgeshire—just a couple of hours away from Westbury or London—so he would be able to visit whenever he had a few days off. We all tried not to think about the dangers he would face with each bombing raid. Only after several glasses of champagne did Vera’s mask slip. I found her in the toilet, trying to remove mascara that had run down her cheeks.

  “I just want to lock him up and throw away the key,” she sobbed.

  “That’s the only thing that would stop him,” I agreed. Now he had graduated with top marks as a bomber pilot, John was keener than ever. “But he’s obviously very good at this flying business. He’ll be fine,” I said, convincing neither of us.

  13

  Legend has it that silk was brought to the West by two Persian monks who in AD 552 penetrated into China as Christian missionaries, and amid their pious occupations, viewed with a curious eye the manufacture of silk. Indignant zeal, excited by seeing unbelievers engrossed in a lucrative branch of commerce, prompted them to conceal some silkworm eggs in a hollow cane, coming thence to Constantinople and presenting them to the Emperor Justinian for a handsome reward.