Last Telegram Read online

  She nodded. “With a bit of luck and a following wind, perhaps.”

  “Can you get hold of Fred and Bert? My diary’s free most of today. Say ten o’clock?”

  “Your word is my command.”

  “Thanks for being such a brick, Gwen. I owe you,” I called as she bustled out of the office.

  She turned with a half-smile. “You bet. I’ll call it in one day.”

  Fred said he was up for the challenge if we’d pay the throwsters overtime. But in Bert’s weathered face, the rheumy eyes were skeptical. He listened morosely as I told him how we planned to bypass the thermostat and run the finishing plant on manual.

  “That’s all very well, Miss Lily, but how’re we supposed to know the water temperature’s even?” he grumbled. “And I don’t know about them stopwatches. It’ll pretty much be guesswork, whatever. We’d have been better off without this new-fangled machinery in the first place, I reckon.”

  I’d never trusted him since he sneaked to Father about me and Stefan. Watching his departing back, I imagined what he was thinking: Wouldn’t have happened if Mr. Harold had been around. See what you get when you have a chit of a girl running the place. And she consorted with that German lot.

  “C’mon, Lily,” Gwen said after he’d gone. “We’ll just have to prove it can be done. Present him with a fait accompli.”

  “We can’t just waltz in and take over his machinery.”

  “You’re the boss, Lily. You can do whatever you like, whatever you need to do.” She came around the desk and gave me a hug. “We’ll do it together.”

  • • •

  By Sunday, Fred’s team had managed, by scrutinizing every inch and dumping some of the worst sections of Syrian raw, to throw two thousand bobbins of almost perfect yarn. It was slow work, but it paid off. The parachute looms were weaving again.

  On Tuesday morning, my alarm rang at half past five. I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed, feeling sick with sleeplessness and apprehension. A thousand square yards of silk had to be finished and tested perfect by five o’clock that evening. Without stopping for breakfast, I crossed the kitchen garden, let myself out of the gate into the yard, and walked down the slope. I could see the lit end of Gwen’s cigarette in the gray dawn as she waited by the finishing room door.

  She was right; we made a good team, working side by side. The bright lights, gleaming steel, and steamy warmth perked us up, and by half past seven we had boiled, dried, and stentered a whole roll of parachute silk, using a manual vat thermometer and two stopwatches.

  My hands shook as I tried to thread the end of the roll into the porosity tester.

  “Let me have a go.” She pushed me aside and took over, pulling a few yards of material and laying it flat on the base of the machine, lowering the lever and pressing the button. Our eyes were fixed on the dial as the machine hissed and sighed, and as the needle settled, we shouted simultaneously, “Fourteen cubic feet per second!”

  As we measured and tested, I wrote the results in Bert’s red-backed ledger with the stubby pencil tied to it with string: 14; 14.6; 14.2; 14.8. With each hiss and sigh of the machine, we held our breath. With each settling of the needle, we whooped like schoolgirls, as each result came in within the required porosity tolerance.

  The clock on the wall read eight o’clock. “The final test,” she announced. “If this is okay, we’re in business.” When the result came in on the nail, we jumped up and down, laughing triumphantly.

  “We did it!” I shouted.

  “We’re brilliant.” She stopped jumping and looked into my eyes. Her hands cradled my cheeks and for a brief, surreal moment I thought she might be about to kiss me. Just then, the door opened and Bert shuffled in, looking surprised, clearly wondering what we were doing in his finishing room.

  He stood uncomfortably in his coat and scarf, shifting his weight and contemplating the floor as I explained we’d come in early to check what silk had been delivered from the weaving shed, and then ended up trialing the plant on manual. I made it sound like a spontaneous decision, not a planned takeover of his domain. Gwen nodded support.

  “This morning’s test results. They show it can be done on manual,” she said, pointing to the ledger. He scrutinized my scribbled figures in silence.

  “I see.” He cleared his throat. “S’pose you want the rest of them rolls done?”

  “Yes, we need all twenty finished by this afternoon,” I said. “Perfectly. There’s a van coming from Cameron’s around five. Gwen will stay and help you and Ruby do the rest.”

  • • •

  It was early afternoon when Camerons’ factory manager phoned to confirm their driver would arrive at half past five. Would the twenty rolls be ready by then, he politely enquired. With fingers crossed, I said we were on track and promised to let them know of any delays. Then I headed to the finishing room. Bert was standing hunched outside the door, smoking. Hearing my feet on the gravel, he looked up, his gnarled face expressionless.

  “How’s it going, Bert?”

  “Okay. A couple of problems.”

  Dread dragged at my feet as we went inside. I looked around. “Where’s Gwen?”

  “Someone from the warping mill came and asked for her. Emergency, they said,” he mumbled. “’Bout an hour ago. We’ve been pushing on without her.”

  “What results are you getting?” He gestured to the ledger. Beside my scribbles was a column in his old-fashioned handwriting:

  March 2nd 1942

  Roll 1 Avg 14.3 variation +/- 0.5

  Roll 2 Avg 14.2 variation +/- 2.3

  Roll 3 Avg 14.3 variation +/- 0.7

  Roll 4 Avg 14.6 variation +/- 0.5

  Roll 5 Avg 14.2 variation +/- 3.8

  Roll 6 Avg 14.0 variation +/- 4.2

  “Does this mean that some parts of Roll 6 could be only 9.8?”

  He nodded.

  “And others up to 18.2?”

  I began to pace, trying to quell my rising anger. “This just won’t do, Bert. Unless we can get at least twenty rolls finished within proper tolerances by five this afternoon, we could lose the contract. Gwen showed you how to do it. Whatever have you been doing differently with these last couple of rolls?”

  I looked him in the eye. He shook his head dumbly, infuriatingly.

  “For goodness’ sake. Stop the machine. Stop what you’re doing, Ruby. Go and find Gwen. I need her in my office, at once.” I stormed back to the main building.

  As I heard Gwen’s footsteps on the stairs, I willed myself to stay calm.

  “What’s up, Lily?”

  “You left Bert and Ruby on their own to finish those rolls? Unsupervised?”

  “There was an emergency in the warping room. I was only gone half an hour. They can cope.” Her defensiveness just riled me more.

  “For Christ’s sake! This is a far worse emergency. In that time they’ve managed to make a mess of two rolls. Haven’t you been down to check?”

  “Bloody hell,” she said. “It was going fine when I left. I showed them how to do it, and the results were perfect.”

  “Well, they aren’t now. Get back down there and sort it out. Don’t leave them for a second, till you’ve got twenty rolls perfect,” I shouted.

  Her face went ashen. She turned and left without a word.

  The afternoon dragged on. I felt shamefaced for shouting and anxious about what was happening in the finishing room, but resisted the temptation to check on their progress. Around four o’clock, I was returning from the canteen with my tea when I met Gwen climbing the stairs. She was pale with exhaustion, her curls lank. We went into my office and shut the door.

  “I’m sorry about being so horrible earlier, Gwen. I just lost it. The tension, all that.”

  “I didn’t take it personally.” She smiled weakly.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not so bad,” she said, sitting down. “We’ve finished. All but those two rolls you saw are now within an acceptable variation. We can give Camerons
eighteen—that’s worth a journey.”

  “We promised him twenty.” My anger simmered, but I held it back.

  “We’ve done our very best. We can get a further ten to him by the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’d better get on the blower and warn him,” I said, dreading the response. Seems to be a problem with you, Lily.

  “I’ve sent Bert and Ruby home early. They were shattered. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why don’t you go home too? I’ll deal with the delivery.” Anything to get her out of the office. I needed to think about what to do.

  “Sure?”

  I nodded. “I’ll see you later. Don’t wait for me. I’ll grab something when I get in.”

  With a touch on my shoulder, she was gone.

  • • •

  I was deeply asleep with my head on the desk when a horn sounded loudly in the yard, jolting me awake. The office clock read ten to seven. I was confused. It was dark outside and silent inside: no voices from the office, no rumble of looms from the weaving shed. It must still be evening. The horn went again, then a pause, followed by an impatient knocking. I stood up, fuzzy with sleep, brushed my fingers through my hair, went downstairs yawning, and opened the door.

  “Robbie?” My heart sank. After such a difficult day, he was the last person I wanted to see.

  “Sorry I’m so late. My driver had bad news and there was no one else,” he said quietly.

  “Poor man.”

  “His son. Caught it. In the desert. Bloody awful.”

  We stood there on the doorstep in a pool of porch light and the cows on the water meadows mooed to each other as they settled for the night. I thought of how Stefan described his desert and tried to imagine a battle being fought in that sand and heat, flies and dust. How far away it felt.

  “I wanted to come anyway. To say sorry. I was a cad on Friday. That phone call.”

  He reached his hand toward my face. Instinctively I recoiled, taking a step back.

  “Whoa,” he raised both hands, palms toward me. “You think I’m still tempted? Oh no. I got over you, Lily, a long while ago,” he said, with a sneer in his voice.

  “Sorry. I just thought…” I stuttered. Why did he always catch me off guard?

  “I was only pointing—is that a bruise?” he said, gesturing at my cheek.

  I put my hand up and felt the trace of Father’s blotter indented into my skin, where I’d slept on it.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, rubbing it.

  “Good. So, have you got the twenty rolls you promised?”

  For a few seconds I hesitated, still befuddled with sleep.

  “I tried to phone, but there wasn’t any answer,” I lied.

  As he loomed above me, the overhead light shadowed furrows in his brow. “Lily, you promised. You said you’d bloody well deliver this time.” His body tensed and for a second I was terrified that he might really hit me. “For Christ’s sake, I haven’t come all this way…” he shouted.

  Confused and alarmed by his sudden anger, I stuttered, “Yes, it’s fine, fine. There’s…”

  “Twenty rolls? That was the deal, Lily. That’s what you promised.” His words were like machine gun fire. “So? So what’s it to be?”

  There was no other answer I could give.

  “Yes,” I said. “Twenty. Take twenty.”

  19

  Westbury silk has been worn by generations of royal brides in gowns of satin, with its luxurious feel and draping qualities, or of crisp taffeta which holds its shape for a “fairy tale” ballerina-style dress. And not just for princesses. A gown of white or cream silk is the dream choice of every bride.

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  I covered up my deception well.

  Early next morning, I moved rolls about in the finishing room so no one would notice I’d let the faulty ones go. I was especially pleasant to Gwen and even to Bert, to make up for yesterday’s behavior. No one would ever find out, I reasoned, even smugly deceiving myself that my lie had saved the firm from losing the Cameron contract. I buried it deep and eventually stopped thinking about it. We were busier than ever and now Stefan was back in the country, my conscience was easily distracted.

  I hadn’t seen Stefan for nearly a year, and then, in June, I received an exciting invitation. “I’m at the caravan this weekend,” the telegram read. “Can you make it? Valley Farm, Coombe Martin.”

  It took all day to cross the country by train to Bristol, then by bus to Ilfracombe, and an hour’s wait for a taxi. We drove through the village and finally stopped at the entrance to a narrow lane with high hedges either side, a raised grassy mound running between its deep muddy tracks.

  “Allroight if I leaves yew here?” the driver said. “Gew down the end, through the gate, ther’it’ll be.” For much of the ride, I’d been trying to fathom his West County accent, but this was clear enough. I’d caught glimpses of Exmoor through gaps in the cloud, but now it had closed in properly and started to drizzle. With only a light jacket, no umbrella, no raincoat, and stupidly lightweight shoes, I was soon soaked and covered in mud to my ankles. We haven’t seen each other for ages, I thought gloomily, and here I am looking like a drowned rat.

  But when I saw Stefan, all six feet of him stooping in the doorway of the caravan with that sweet sultry smile, I no longer cared how bedraggled I looked.

  The van, a tiny, dirty-cream blob the shape of a squashed egg nestled into the green fold of a bumpy field, belonged to a friend of Stefan’s, a chap in the Corps who rented it out for just a few shillings. Despite the unpromising outward appearance, it was reasonably well supplied with basic equipment and spacious enough for a tiny kitchen and a dining table. The bench seats were already converted into a double bed and we were soon cozily wrapped in blankets smelling only mildly of mildew, listening to the rain splattering on the roof, and buffeted by the wind.

  Later, when the weather cleared, we strolled along the lane to the village, with the foothills of the moor looming darkly ahead of us against the evening sky. “We could walk up there tomorrow,” he said.

  “No boots,” I said, smiling. “What a shame. We might just have to stay in bed all day.” It felt deliciously carefree. No demands, nobody watching or judging us, nothing to conceal. We could do exactly what we wanted—for two whole days.

  The pub was cheerless and almost empty, but the beer was plentiful and after a couple of pints we stopped noticing its sour taste. This is like normal life at last, I thought, watching him hungrily devour a plateful of cheese and potato pie. Just time to be ourselves, to get to know each other properly. No separations, no uniforms, no rationing, no war.

  Over the weekend, we spent many more hours wrapped up in our blankets in the fug of the van. “It’s like heaven on wheels,” I said.

  “Perhaps we could run away, towing our house behind us?” he said, laughing. I quoted the passage about Toad and the open road from The Wind in the Willows, promising to lend him the book next time he came to Westbury.

  “Make it soon,” I whispered into his ear.

  “Very soon, I promise,” he murmured, kissing the back of my neck.

  • • •

  There were plenty of other distractions at work. I was even enjoying it, feeling more comfortable in my role as Acting Managing Director, learning about being a boss, when to be decisive and when to hold my tongue, that it was always better to listen carefully and consider before responding to questions, how to chair meetings that allowed people to have their say but didn’t overrun, and how to be sympathetic but firm with tricky staff.

  Even attending national committees held few fears for me these days. I was greeted warmly and respectfully—no longer the new girl. But I did miss the friendly face of Michael Merrison. We’d been receiving supplies of “his” Syrian raw, but I hadn’t heard anything from him personally for over a year. Then his letter arrived.

  2nd July 1943

  Beirut

  Dearest Lily,

 
Sorry it has taken so long to write. It’s been jolly busy but I know that’s no real excuse. Anyway, here I am, after an exciting journey and getting stuck into the job. Up until now I’ve been completely on my tod, but at last they’ve sent me some help.

  And what a title they have given him—Assistant to the Chief Assistant, Ministry of Supply, Near and Middle East! This suggests that I am Chief Assistant, but who I am supposed to be assisting is more of a mystery.

  But it does mean I can finally get some leave. It’s back via Cairo again but it will be worth it—a whole six weeks! I can’t wait to see the folks, and hope we can meet up too. Not sure if you will be in London at any point. What do you think?

  Can’t say much in a letter but we’ve been doing the rounds of people who oil the wheels: the President’s aides & Ministers, key bods in the ex-pat fraternity, and the Archbishop, who’s now a friend—who’d have thought it! Visiting hill farms & filatures here in the city.

  I expect you are weaving “my” raw by now? It seems the ministry is also at last starting to appreciate what we’ve done out here. The raw might not be up to Japanese standards, but hopefully it’s bringing our pilots down safely.

  Time for bed. I hope to see you very soon.

  Dear, sweet Michael. How little he knew about the problems his silk yarn had caused us. But I wasn’t going to tell him. He was doing his best, and it was better than nothing.

  A few weeks later, he telephoned. He was back in the country. “Can we meet?” he asked. “I’m down in London on Thursday.”

  “It’s a bit tricky for me to get away that day,” I said, flicking through the diary.

  “I could come to Westbury instead, around teatime? Call it a business trip and charge it to the Ministry? I’d have a couple of hours before I have to get back.”

  “Cracking idea,” I said. “It’s been ages. We’ll go for tea. But there won’t be any Battenberg this time, I’m afraid.”