Last Telegram (15 page)

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.

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 find 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.”

“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 the 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.