Last Telegram (20 page)

“I'm trying to get her involved in planning the funeral,” Gwen said carefully. “Give her something to think about, that she can do for him.”

A funeral. The word was a shock. My father's funeral.

“We're just hoping John will get back soon,” she went on. “Latest is that he could be home in a week. But I'm afraid you may not be mended in time.”

His body would be buried. The very idea hurt so much I'd shut it out. It felt surreal, so far removed from the cocoon of this hospital ward.

Vera arrived with cups of tea she'd wheedled from the kitchen. “Gwen's been a tower of strength,” she said. “Looking after your mum, running the mill, sorting out the accounts that were destroyed. A Trojan.”

“It's what anyone would do,” said Gwen quietly. “Harold and Grace gave me a second chance. Time to return the favor.”

She reached into her handbag. “Nearly forgot,” and pulled out four blue aerogrammes. My heart leaped. “Presents from Australia,” she said, smiling.

Throughout these weeks of misery, my single, constant consolation had been the thought of Stefan, safe in his Australian desert, away from the mayhem. Holding these precious letters, seeing his curly handwriting, the surge of relief brought tears swelling up and overflowing down my cheeks. Wiping them away gingerly with the back of my hand, I checked the postmark dates and ripped open the most recent, quickly scanned the words and the sign-off:
Ich
liebe
Dich, meine Lilymaus, S
. With a row of crosses for kisses.

“How are they getting on? Are they okay?” Vera asked.

“Looks like it,” I said, sniffing, trying to smile. “Still behind wire, in the desert.”

“Poor things,” she said quietly. I put the letters under my pillow for savoring later, when I could be alone.

As Gwen and Vera sat beside my bed and chatted about everyday things, the mill and the workers, Robbie's recent renewal of the Cameron contract and the pressure he was putting on them, and the latest news of the war, I realized Vera was right: life would carry on. I just had to get better and try to be strong for my mother.

• • •

It was five weeks before they finally agreed that I was well enough to leave the hospital. Gwen came to help me home. I was too wobbly to manage it on my own. As we took a cab back to the station—a luxury she insisted on paying for—I could hardly bear to look out of the window at the devastated city. It was like revisiting a nightmare. Every pile of rubble in every street reminded me of the one Father had died in, like ancient burial mounds for countless anonymous innocent people who had been trying to get on with their everyday lives.

Eventually the sight and the memories overwhelmed me and I collapsed, weeping, in Gwen's arms in the back of the cab. The driver sighed sympathetically. He'd seen it all before, a hundred times.

When we arrived home, the weather was gloomy and cold and the atmosphere at The Chestnuts deeply somber. On the train, Gwen told me that though Mother had got out of bed for the funeral, she had, since then, literally “turned her face to the wall” as Gwen put it.

I didn't fully comprehend what she meant until I saw it for myself.

“Mother? It's me, Lily. I'm here.” The bedroom curtains were closed. Through the gloom, I could just make out her figure, curled up in a fetal position with her back to the room.

“Look at me, Mother.” I sat on the bed and rubbed her bony shoulders, stroked her graying unkempt hair. Her eyes were open and the tears fell silently, wetting the pillow. I leaned over and kissed her.

“Mother?” I said again. But she would not, or could not, respond. I wiped away her tears and for half an hour I simply talked, about the accident, about how brave Father had been trying to save Beryl, about my jaw, my scar, and my good fortune in ending up at Vera's hospital.

I cried too, then pulled myself together. I asked about the funeral, about the hundreds of people who attended, so many it was standing room only. But nothing seemed to register. Eventually I went downstairs to make tea.

“Is she like this all the time?” I asked. “Has the doctor been?”

“Yes, Dr. Fairweather came and prescribed something called Mist Pot Brom, but she refused to take it,” John said. “We're at our wit's end.”

“He said it would take a while,” Gwen said, pouring the tea. “He advised us to just talk to her as much as possible, and make sure she eats well. But she's hardly got any appetite, and making anything tasty is almost impossible on these miserable rations. There's nothing in the kitchen garden.”

“Gwen's been wonderful, but it's not fair to expect her to carry on like this,” John said. “I've been thinking we might have to hire a nurse. Do you mind staying just a little longer, Gwen?”

“It's the least I can do for Grace,” Gwen said, smiling in her calm, reassuring way, the freckles crinkling around her eyes.

“Let's leave it a day or two, John. I can't think straight right now,” I said. I was sure Mother would come around, now that I was home to look after her, but I was wrong. A week passed, and there was little change. She still refused to leave her bed. The doctor came again, described it as “nervous exhaustion resultant from extreme shock.” He wasn't optimistic. “We must give it time, perhaps quite a long time. She's going to need all the love and support you can give.”

I wrote to Stefan twice a week, describing the minutiae of my life—in the hospital and now at home. I hoped it would keep his spirits up, to hear that life was going on, even if he was stuck in his desert isolation. He wrote back when he could. There was only a weekly collection from Hay Camp, writing paper was in scarce supply, and post frequently went missing, unaccounted for.

But twelve treasured blue aerogrammes were now carefully stored in my bedside drawer, alongside the black writing case he'd entrusted to me. I was frequently tempted to look inside, but something stopped me from prying. Apart from the photos he'd showed me, I knew it contained other small mementoes from his family. Keeping the bag safe was my way of helping to protect them, safe for the time when they might all meet again. I didn't want to break the spell by opening it.

I so wanted to see him and hold him, and hated the idea of those thousands of miles between us. The longing made my bones ache. Each night before going to sleep, I would read his letters, repeating my favorite sentences over again like a mantra, and they comforted me.

Experiments with artificial fibers before and during the Second World War led to the production of nylon parachute fabrics which eventually became more widely used, especially for paratroops and drops of cargo. However, silk remained the fabric of choice among pilots and crew of fighter planes because of its ability to compact into small spaces and to recover its shape instantly.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

We hired a daily help to keep an eye on Mother so that I could go back to work for a few hours each day. She remained in her room, refusing to get dressed, come down for meals, or even open the curtains.

When I suggested that sunlight would make her feel better, she said, “What is there to see? More reminders. I can't face it.”

Perhaps giving in to sadness is the best way for her, I wondered. Allowing herself to grieve properly. But for me, the distraction of going into the mill each day seemed to help. My strength was returning, and it was a relief to return to something like normal life. But it felt strange without Father. His office remained untouched. By avoiding going into it, I could almost persuade myself that he'd just gone away for a few weeks.

“Snifter hour,” John announced one afternoon after work. “Come into the sitting room, both of you, we need a confab.” Gwen and I sat on the sofa as he fixed the drinks. As he approached, holding the drinks tray, my stomach lurched. For a fleeting, disturbing moment, something about the set of his shoulders made me think he was Father.

“Lily?” he said, handing me a glass. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said, taking a long swig. Gin and tonic reminded me of sunnier times. Of times when I felt safe. When I assumed that both of my parents would live into comfortable old age. Of times without war.

“Cheers,” John said. “It's good to see you looking better, Sis. You seem nearly back to normal.”

“Thanks to the two of you,” I said. As we raised our glasses, I was totally unprepared for what came next.

“Look, chaps, I need to talk to you about something,” John said, sitting down in Father's easy chair opposite us. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I got this from my squadron leader today,” he said. “They want to know when I plan to return.”

I was horrified. “You're not going back to flying? Not after everything that's happened?”

He nodded, avoiding my eyes.

“You can't,” I said firmly. “That's just ridiculous. We need you here. How are we going to run the place without you?”

“You'd be fine,” he said. “You're more than capable.”

“And have you told Vera? I don't suppose she's very happy about the idea either.”

“She doesn't want me to go, of course,” he said. “But I tried to explain. They need me. Planning a big push, apparently,” he said casually.

He turned to Gwen. “You and Lily can run the mill between you, don't you think?”

I looked at her, checking her reaction, but her expression was noncommittal. “Don't get me involved,” she said. “This is between you two.”

“Don't try to make Gwen take sides,” I said angrily. “You're crazy even to consider the idea. Can't you see how selfish you're being?” I pointed at the ceiling. “Anyway, who's going to look after Mother?”

John smiled wryly. “I mentioned it to Vera the other day but she snapped my head off.”

“You asked her to give up nursing to come and look after your mother?” I could hardly believe the nerve of him.

“Yup. Told her I'd be happier if she was out of London, away from the bombs. Boy, was she cross.” He mimicked an angry Vera, “‘Don't you have any idea about what we do, how important it is? Patching up your boys and sending them back to fight your bloody war? Without us, you'd have no army, no air force, no navy.' I was duly reprimanded.”

“What if you get killed? Mother couldn't take any more. It would destroy her.”

“Steady on, old girl,” he said calmly. “Of course it's dangerous, but it doesn't mean I don't intend on coming home in one piece. I'm a good pilot. I've flown two dozen raids already. I don't take risks.”

“No one can guarantee that, and you know it. Anyway, it's completely unfair of you even to think about leaving us to manage here, after all that's happened,” I said, standing up and starting to stomp out of the room. “I'm going to check on the supper.”

Later, we ate in virtual silence and I went to my bedroom immediately afterward. I needed time to myself, to clear my head. Was John being totally unreasonable, or was it me, expecting more than he could give?

There was a gentle tap on the door. “Lily? Are you awake?”

Before I had time to respond, Gwen was in the room. She sat on the side of my bed and sighed slightly.

“If John's determined to go, I think we can manage, don't you?”

“I suppose he's sent you to persuade me?” I said tetchily.

“Give me more credit,” she snapped.

“It's quite simple,” I said. “I don't want him killed. Don't you know the bomber casualty figures? They're horrendous.”

She nodded. “I do know. But in the end it's his choice. He wants to go. Says it's his duty, feels guilty his crew's flying raids without him. We shouldn't make him feel guilty the other way, for leaving us.”

“What about Mother?”

“You and I can care for her. Between us. I want to help. I owe so much to Harold, to both of them.”

“I can't cope here on my own,” I said. “I really can't. It makes me panicky just thinking about it.”

“What if I stay in the house for a while?” she said gently.

“You wouldn't mind? What about your lovely little flat?”

“There's nothing I'd like more,” she said. “I love this place.”

“It's not only that. I don't feel confident about running the mill. I've only been there eighteen months and I've never been in charge. It's too much responsibility.”

“C'mon, Lily. You're perfectly capable. You know that. I don't want John to go back either, but if he has to, we'll manage just fine. Besides, weaving parachute silk's hardly difficult.”

Why was she so confident, I wondered? Then it dawned on me; she'd already managed single-handedly while I was in hospital, before John came home. So perhaps, just perhaps, it would be possible. If we did it together.

“What about those meetings and committees? The Silk Association, Ministry of Supply?” I'd looked at Father's diary, seen all the dates coming up, assumed John would attend them.

“You'll just have to go instead, won't you?” she said. “Shake 'em up a bit to have a woman attending. You might even enjoy it.”

“But what would I call myself?”

“Acting Managing Director, silly,” she said, smiling.

“Crikey.” Acting Managing Director. It sounded alarming, but exciting too. And then I remembered my promise to Father, the day after John left. It was my side of the bargain, to do whatever he asked of me, to help win this horrible war and bring John, Stefan, and all the others back home safely. My mind was made up.

“We'll have to change the company name,” Gwen said.

“What do you mean?”

“How does Verner and Sons and Daughter sound?”

“That's just loopy,” I said, laughing, and then I realized it wasn't quite so ridiculous after all. “Come to think of it, why not?”

“We'll get the sign writers onto it right away.” She hugged me. “It'll be all right, you know. We can do this.” For the first time, I started to believe her.

• • •

I was nervous about the meeting, but summer had arrived, and in spite of terrible news from Russia and the Far East, the bombings on London had almost ceased and I couldn't help feeling cheerful. That morning in my bedroom mirror, I'd seen a businesswoman, young but determined in her navy blue jacket and skirt, with a newly pressed white blouse—all bought with my saved-up clothing coupons. Makeup almost concealed the scar on my jaw, and I'd grown my hair longer to cover it.

I took out Father's Silk Association tie pin and fixed it to my lapel. He would be proud of me, I thought. We were producing everything the Ministry of Supply wanted us to, playing our small part in saving airmen's lives. In the past six months, I had grown in confidence, learned so much.

Now I was about to test myself again.

“How do I look?”

Gwen leaned forward and plucked a loose thread of silk from my sleeve that I must have picked up from brushing past a loom. “Very smart, Miss Verner. You'll wow those stuffy old businessmen.” She sniffed the air. “You smell nice too. Chanel No. 5?”

“Stole a dab of Mother's. Will you be all right with her today?” Six months on from Father's death, Mother still rarely left her room. In my darker moments, I wondered if she would ever fully recover.

“We'll be fine,” Gwen said. “Make sure you're back for supper. We've got meat pie tonight, as a special treat. Make a change from carrots and turnips. And don't forget the new series of
It's That Man Again
on the radio. I'll have another go at getting Grace to come downstairs and listen with us. Tommy Handley will cheer us all up. He's such a funny guy.”

“You're a real pal,” I told Gwen. “If I survive the stuffy old businessmen, I'll deserve a drink too. Let's crack open a bottle of Frank's cider, shall we?”

“Sounds good. Now off you go and don't worry about us,” Gwen said, with a brush of her lips on my cheek.

I hadn't been to London since the accident, so it was a difficult moment, arriving at Liverpool Street Station. I had to steel myself to get out of the train and walk along the platform, trying not to think about that day. Father and I had given each other the courage to carry on. Now I had to do it on my own.

The devastation in the streets was still horribly evident, but the piles of rubble had been pushed aside to clear the roads, filling the gaps where buildings used to be. I was grateful to find the buses running and managed to get a seat on the top deck.

As we came to the West End, the sun came out. The plane trees were in leaf and hundreds of people were out enjoying the parks: men working on newly dug allotments, families playing, soldiers with their girls, and office workers sunning themselves on the lunch break. Silver barrage balloons glinted in the sunlight like giant abstract sculptures. It gave me hope, seeing that London could go on living and people could go on enjoying themselves in spite of the bombs and the great losses.

The Ministry of Supply was based in Shell Mex House on the north bank of the Thames. Even with sandbags stacked at the entrance and crisscross tape on every window, to my country mouse eyes it looked more like an Art Deco palace than an office building. A soldier on guard smiled appreciatively at me. I smiled back, showed my business card, and he let me inside.

In the entrance hall, enormous columns of multicolored marble stretched upward to support the intricately decorated plaster ceiling. Hanging from its center was a huge chandelier, larger even than the one at the Manor, with a thousand crystals that shimmered spangles of light into the whole space, including the highly polished buttons on the doorman's uniform. He directed me up the sweeping staircase. The brass banister was so beautifully polished, I avoided using it for fear of leaving fingerprints, and I tried not to gawp too obviously at the portraits of pompous men rising up along the stairway in their ostentatious gilt frames.

The top of the stairs led into an empty rectangular room the size of half a tennis court, carpeted in an expanse of deep claret patterned with yellow cockleshells. Dusty sunshine streamed through five tall windows opposite, and I wandered over to look out across Embankment to the river, flowing so calmly, so unaware of the utter disruption of war.

The curtains were Jacquard-woven with a delicate shell motif and I'd just started to examine the design when a voice barked across the room, “We need tea and coffee please, Miss. Pronto.” I looked up to see a balding gentleman in an over-tight three-piece suit gesturing toward the long table on the other side of the room, set with green utility china cups and saucers on a white tablecloth.

Caught off guard, I stuttered, “I'm sorry. I really don't know where it's got to.”

“Well go and find out, they'll be arriving soon,” he commanded imperiously. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and went through another doorway.

I was about to follow him to clear up the misunderstanding when a lady with a trolley arrived and started to set out the tea. She was followed shortly by a number of large, confident men, all greeting each other in self-important voices.

As they gathered around the tea table, I could see they were grouping themselves into clans. The businessmen, even in their expensive pin-striped suits, appeared positively dowdy beside RAF officers with their flocks of epaulette wings, and even these were outshone by the galaxies of stars glittering on the Army men's khaki.

I straightened my skirt and walked as casually as possible across the wide stretch of carpet, poured a cup of gray coffee, moved toward the pinstripers, and insinuated myself into a gap in their circle. They were so engaged in animated conversation most of them hardly seemed to notice me, but a younger man with a brightly striped tie smiled sweetly.

“Hello,” he said. “I don't think we've met before?”

“I'm Lily Verner.” I said, returning the smile. “Verner and Sons.”

“Ah Verners,” he said, a little distractedly. “I think we supply you with yarn. Michael Merrison. How do you do.” His hand was large and warm.

The others peered at me, mumbled hellos, shook my hand in turn, and, after an awkward pause, resumed their discussion.

“Don't know about you lot, but conscription's causing us all kinds of problems,” said one. “All I've got left is women and old boys.”