Last Telegram Read online

  “Sounds terrifying. But if that’s what you want to do.”

  “Can we keep in touch?”

  “Of course. But—” I started.

  “No buts,” he put a finger to his lips. “No one can promise anything to anyone in this bloody war. All we can do is hope.”

  • • •

  On the train home, I reflected, with a warm glow, that it had been a very successful day. I had survived my first serious business meeting, held my own against the old hands, and had tea with a very agreeable young man.

  My cheery “hello, I’m home” met with no reply, but I thought nothing of it and started up the stairs to get changed. Then I heard Gwen calling from the kitchen. “Lily, we’re in here.” Her voice was urgent. I hurried in. She and Vera were sitting at the table.

  “Vera, how lovely. Have you got the day off?” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I saw the telegram in her hand. She looked up with red eyes.

  “John’s missing in action.”

  17

  The silk moth caterpillar can lower itself to the ground by the silk thread it spins. In the 1920s, Leslie Irvin, of the Irvin Parachute Company, created an informal but elite international association called the “Caterpillar Club” for all those who have successfully used a parachute to bail out of a disabled aircraft. After authentication by the parachute maker, applicants receive a membership certificate and a distinctive lapel pin.

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  Along, fearful fortnight passed till the day I came home from work to find Mother up and dressed, sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Are you all right?” I said, trying not to sound too shocked. Since the telegram about John, she had taken to her bed again.

  “I’ve had a call from John’s squadron leader, dear,” she said in a small voice, spots of pink appearing on her pale cheeks with the effort of giving me her news. “He’s alive. A prisoner of war.”

  “Oh Mum. How wonderful.” I hugged her wasted frame and sat down, holding her two hands in mine. The late afternoon sun reflected off the mill walls opposite, filling the room with a peachy glow. Now John was alive perhaps she would start to live again too.

  “Did he tell you any more?”

  “He said their bomber was badly damaged by flak but they managed to get halfway home before they had to bail out into the North Sea. Oh my darling, God must have been with them.” She paused to wipe her eyes and went on, “They were rescued by a German patrol boat and taken to hospital in Belgium. Can you believe it? They got him well enough to travel to a camp in Germany.”

  She waved a piece of paper with a hastily scribbled address, her eyes begging me for affirmation. “He must be all right now, don’t you think?

  I couldn’t imagine what a prisoner of war camp could be like, but at least he was alive. “It’s a miracle. Have you phoned Vera?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, with a frail smile. “I should think the whole hospital knows by now. She said it was like every Christmas and birthday all rolled into one.” She gestured to a pile of books. “What do you think he’d like to read? I’m making up a parcel.”

  After three long and anxious weeks, his first letter arrived. A pink aerogramme crammed with tiny writing in pencil, addressed from Stalag Luft Two, one of the camps for airmen.

  Dearest People,

  I am sure the past weeks have been difficult for you, but I hope this letter will put your fears at rest. I am alive and well, and with the company of the other fellows in the camp, life is perfectly good. I was lucky enough to be rescued and given excellent medical treatment for minor injuries. We have most of what we need, but what would be most welcome would be books, cigarettes, and a pair of warm pajamas…

  And so he went on—as he would in future—in determinedly cheerful tone. We only learned after the war that his injuries had been serious: his leg broken in several places, not to mention losing most of his teeth.

  His letters came irregularly, sometimes several at once, and some with black censor marks through words or even whole sentences. The way he told it, camp life sounded positively jolly, what with the plays and concerts they put on, the football matches they won and lost. He’d also made himself useful as an interpreter between the prisoners and the guards, he said.

  But it was impossible to divine what his existence was really like. I imagined that, in reality, he was frightened and homesick, bored, cold, and hungry, suffering from deprivation and uncertainty, possibly even cruelty. But he never once let on.

  Knowing John was safe gave Mother a new reason to live. As he and his fellow PoWs became her exclusive focus, she gradually gained in strength. The dining room table became her center of operations, piled with items for the next Red Cross parcel: carefully chosen books, knitted hats, scarves, and gloves, precious bars of chocolate, even gramophone records.

  Packages arrived too—scripts of plays he’d requested for the camp drama society that had to be ordered from a special publisher, and extra-warm clothing from a London supplier that we couldn’t buy locally. Every weekend was busy with fundraising: making cakes and jam for bring-and-buy events, turning out clothes for jumble sales.

  Arriving home one evening, I heard the faint tinkle of the piano in the drawing room. I listened closer—it was a cheerful, jazzy tune. It sounded so much like Stefan’s touch that my heart jumped, recalling that Sunday he’d played after lunch. How long ago that seemed. I turned the handle and edged the door open. My initial disappointment—of course it couldn’t have been Stefan—was immediately replaced with delight.

  It was Mother, head bent over the keyboard, feeling her way through a ragtime number. I crept away, leaving the door ajar. When Gwen arrived home, she found me sitting on the stairs listening to Mother rehearse her old favorites: Debussy, Vaughan Williams, and finally, some old music hall songs.

  “Shhh,” I gestured, finger to lips.

  “God bless her.” Gwen’s face lit up. She sat beside me, putting an arm around my shoulders.

  At supper I broached the subject. “Lovely to hear you playing, Mother.”

  She flushed with embarrassment. “I’m so rusty, my fingers just won’t do what I want them to.”

  “Sounded fine to us,” Gwen said.

  “It’ll come back quickly if you practice. When you’re more confident, why don’t you do a small concert to raise funds for the Red Cross?” I suggested, ignoring her horrified expression. “We could serve tea and cake, charge a small entrance fee. Invite Vera and her family and the other PoW families. It’d give them a tonic to hear some cheerful music.”

  “I’m nothing like good enough to play in public yet,” she said firmly.

  But she continued to practice every day, and after just a few weeks, we managed to convince her, set a date for the concert, put up posters, and made cakes. Vera persuaded the matron at the hospital to allow her the weekend off. We lugged thirty canteen chairs across the yard from the mill and squeezed them into the drawing room and hallway. When the afternoon arrived, people queued to get in through the door, and in the house it was standing room only.

  The concert started and I posted myself at the door to greet latecomers. When I heard the familiar rumble of the Morgan’s exhaust, my heart sank.

  “Your ma wrote to tell me about her concert,” Robbie shouted cheerfully as he parked the car and bounded up the steps, as if nothing had passed between us the last time we met. “I wanted to support her, especially after the shock of losing your father, and with your bro in PoW camp. It must be tough for you all.”

  Hardly trusting myself to be civil, I said nothing, but submitted to a kiss on the cheek out of politeness and showed him straight into the drawing room. The last time I had seen him was on that fateful evening in the garden, and I still wondered whether he’d had anything to do with the boys’ internment. He had sent a rather formal letter of condolence following my father’s death, but other than that we’d heard little from him.

  Mother played
beautifully. Vera, Gwen, and I watched from the back, all of us close to tears, as the audience applauded and called for an encore. At the tea after the concert, I steered clear of Robbie, but out of the corner of my eye could see how he was on his very best behavior, being charming and courteous to everyone, especially Mother, causing her to blush crimson with his copious compliments. At last he left, and I felt able to behave and breathe normally once more.

  Mother was completely buoyed up by all the accolades she’d received, and that day I began to believe we might all recover from Father’s death after all. If only John and Stefan would come home safely.

  • • •

  Then, one bright July morning, I was glancing quickly through the newspaper before leaving for work when my eye was caught by a headline.

  “Do you have to read that gloomy stuff?” Gwen called through the kitchen door, brushing her hair in the hall mirror. “It’s so depressing.”

  It was such a tiny, discreet paragraph at the bottom of page five, I could so easily have missed it. “Come and look at this,” I shouted through the doorway.

  “Must I? Have you seen the time? We’re late for work.”

  “Yes, you must. Come and tell me what it means.”

  She gave a stagey groan and put her hand on my shoulder as she leaned over to read:

  INTERNEES MAY JOIN UP

  BRITAIN’S internees in Australia have been informed that they may be released if they apply and are accepted for enlistment in the British Pioneer Corps, the Department of the Army has confirmed today.

  The words skittered with unanswered questions. Was the offer for all internees, regardless of their nationality? Would he apply?

  If sufficient applications are received, a training program will be funded and delivered in Australia before their deployment overseas.

  Would enough applications be received? If Stefan joined up, where would he be sent to fight? Would he come to England first? How would they travel? Would ships be able to get through?

  With characteristic lack of sentiment, Gwen said, “Looks like your boy could be coming home.”

  I studied the terse newspaper report again and again, trying to make sense of it, praying he would be safe, muttering in my head like a mantra: please let it be you, come home soon, oh please, stay safe and come home soon. His letters continued to arrive, but he didn’t mention any opportunities for release—I realized that the two-month time delay meant that they would have been written long before the news reached him. In September, he wrote to say he was hopeful of coming home soon, but then his letters stopped and I began to wonder, even dared to hope, that this silence meant he was already in transit. I tried to ring the Department, but no one was prepared to talk to me. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  Christmas came and went again, and I began to lose hope. But in January, I had only been back at work a few days when my secretary peered tentatively around the office door. She looked nervous. I’d told her not to put any calls through this morning.

  “Miss Lily, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. Stephen Holmes on the telephone. He’s very persistent.”

  “Can’t you find out what he wants?” I said distractedly, trying not to sound cross. The annual accounts were overdue. They were pretty straightforward: the cost of incoming raw silk, plus labor, plus overheads, equals the price of parachute silk going out. But I needed to understand them before I could sign them off, and accounts were probably my least favorite part of the job.

  A moment later she was back. “The gentleman wouldn’t say. Personal, he said.”

  “I don’t know a Mr. Holmes, personally or otherwise. Tell him I’ll phone back,” I said, becoming irritated.

  She came back again, smiling as if she knew something I didn’t.

  “Yes, what is it now?” I snapped.

  “Miss Lily, the gentleman says to ask whether the name Stefan means anything to you.”

  The world seemed to stop for second. She said, still smiling, “Miss Lily? Are you all right?”

  “Sorry, yes, I’m fine. I’ll take it,” I said. The breath seemed to have stopped in my chest. “Thank you. Please put him through.”

  My hand shook as I picked up the receiver. “Stefan? Is it really you? Where are you?”

  “Stephen now, I’ll explain later. In Liverpool. Just got off the ship.” His voice was just the same, warm and deep, but much more English. Only the tiniest hint of a German inflection remained. “We have to be quick, I’ve put in my last sixpence.”

  “Can you come home?” I gasped. The ache to hold him was so fierce it seemed to stifle me.

  “I’ll be in London the day after tomorrow. Can you come?”

  “Of course, where?” The pips started.

  “Waterloo, midday,” he said, as the line cut off. I held the receiver, unwilling to let go of it, until the dialing tone sounded loudly in my ear. As I replaced it into the cradle, fat tears of relief welled over and dripped onto the ledger, smudging the figures. For some reason, this made me laugh out loud. To hell with accounts, I thought, drying my face and blotting the inky puddles with my hanky. What does anything matter, now he’s home?

  • • •

  The next two days were a seesaw of high elation and deep anxiety. With some trepidation, I sat Mother and Gwen down that evening and explained what was happening. They were full of questions I couldn’t answer: “What about Kurt and Walter?” and “Is he going to join up, like The Times said?” But most important of all, both of them were supportive.

  “You’ve waited so long for the lad, he obviously means a lot to you,” was what Mother said. “We have to take our happiness when we can find it these days.”

  I was desperate to see him again, hold him, and keep him safe. It had been eighteen long, tough months; would he still find me attractive? I scrutinized myself in the mirror and could see the strains of war etched in my face. Almost without noticing, our lives had become drab and workaday and I had stopped worrying about my appearance. I’d lost weight from hard work and unappetizing rations, my skin was dingy from too little sunshine, my hair lackluster and the style strictly utility. My scar, though fading well, still showed as a pink line from temple to chin. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used makeup.

  Then it occurred to me that Stefan would certainly also have changed, after his terrible experiences on the ship and in the desert. Would he look different? Would he be hardened, even embittered, I wondered. Why couldn’t he come home, to Westbury? If he’d joined the Pioneer Corps, what did they do, where would he be posted?

  The night before, my anxieties focused into a panic about practicalities. What should I wear? Most of my clothes were threadbare and dowdy, and of course I had no ladder-free nylons. There was a smart dress and matching coat I kept for special occasions, but that might be overdoing it. Or would the casual trousers and the jacket, even with its patched elbows, look more like the Lily he’d known before? After much fretting and consultation with Gwen, I opted for slacks with a pink cardigan borrowed from Mother. The color flattered my complexion and the mock pearl buttons gave a touch of glamour. I’d have to wear my old duffel for warmth, but I could sling it off as I went to meet him, I thought, smiling as I allowed myself to imagine the moment.

  It turned out to be a good choice: the train to London was unheated on that chilly January day. On the bus between Liverpool Street and Waterloo Station, I used my powder compact mirror to apply lipstick, thought it looked too brazen, rubbed it off with a handkerchief, then applied it again, like a nervous schoolgirl. Now, breathless and sick with anticipation, I barely recognized him, disguised beneath bulky army fatigues, brown lace-up boots, and a brutal military haircut. He was standing under the station clock, along with a dozen or so other servicemen anxiously casting their eyes over the crowds, looking for their sweethearts.

  “Stefan? Is it you?”

  “Stephen now, remember?” he whispered, kissing my cheek and running his hand over my hair. In person, he soun
ded entirely English. All trace of an accent had disappeared.

  I touched the rough fabric of his sleeve. “This feels like a dream.”

  He grinned, his teeth brilliant white in the desert-tanned face, new smile lines at the corner of his eyes. “Wait till I kiss you properly,” he whispered. “Then you’ll know it’s real.”

  “Where are Kurt and Walter?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve so much to catch up. How long have you got?”

  “Till tomorrow morning.”

  Just a handful of hours, after so long. I took his hand. “Come on then. Let’s find a hotel and make the most of it.”

  • • •

  He smelled of unknown places, musty train carriages, and stale cigarette smoke, like a stranger. When he took off the ugly, scratchy uniform, his body was unfamiliar too: where it had once been pale and slender, it was now muscular and tanned, his narrow shoulders and thighs had thickened, his voice was more bass than baritone, and the once sparse hairs on his chest were now too many to count. But when we kissed, the taste of him and the feel of his lips were just as I remembered, and when our bodies met, every sensation appeared to have been amplified by our long absence.

  “I’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” he said afterward, rolling onto his back, looking up at the stains on the ceiling. “And the real thing was even better than in my dreams.”

  We cuddled against the chill air under the frayed spread. The bed that had creaked so embarrassingly a few moments before now felt like a warm cocoon protecting us from the world, reminding me of the last time, at the cottage. That was more than a year ago, yet now we were together again it seemed like only yesterday. No candles this time, of course, no wildflowers in a jam jar. But despite the fusty smells, the cheap ply furniture, and fussy ornaments, the tap dripping steadily into a stained sink, the handwritten sign “hot water between six and seven p.m. only,” the room felt like a little corner of heaven.

  He was studying the ceiling.

  “What are you looking at up there?”