Last Telegram (29 page)

I took a deep breath, and started: “This is truly wonderful news, and I think Mr. Churchill has said it all,” I began, and waited for the cheers to die down. “It remains only for me to thank you from the bottom of my heart, you and your families, for so steadfastly supporting me and my family throughout these terrible long years, and for working so hard to produce the essential supplies which, I am certain, have significantly helped this country achieve the peace we have all longed for.”

As I paused for breath, there was a deep, resonant shout of “Hear, hear.” Even in those two words his voice was instantly recognizable; there at the back of the room, standing a head taller than most of the crowd and beaming broadly, was Robbie.

It threw me off my stride for a moment, but I was determined to continue. “I know that many of us have loved ones who will not be coming home, and my heart goes out to you all. But we can also look forward to welcoming others who made it through. In particular, we are hoping to hear news from my brother John before very long.”

After more cheers, I carried on, “So thank you all once again. I am sure you will want to go and celebrate with your friends, so we are closing the mill now and for tomorrow. We will reopen at eight on Thursday morning. I gather something's been planned on the Market Hill and at the town hall this afternoon”—I looked over to Mother, who nodded—“so we look forward to seeing you all there.”

“Three cheers for Miss Lily,” came the shout, and there were more hurrahs and much applause as several strong men lifted me onto their shoulders and carried me high above the crowd, my face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. When we came to the back of the room, Robbie reached up for my hand and they let me gently down to the ground beside him.

He kissed me on the cheek. “Well done,” he said. “Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you,” I said, flushing all over again. I wasn't going to let him spoil this day of celebration. The tables had turned—I had faced the worst and there was nothing left to fear, certainly not Robbie. The future of the mill no longer depended on his contracts; I was in control once more.

“Isn't it a wonderful day?” he said. “Would it be too much to ask whether I could join you and the family for the celebrations? I've brought a few bottles as a contribution.”

“I expect we'll be going into the town center to enjoy the festivities later,” I said, too excited and elated to be bothered about why he'd turned up just now, “but you are welcome to join us for a quick drink at The Chestnuts first.”

I sent him back with Mother and went to tidy up a few things in the office. By the time I got to the house, the living room was crowded with people in loud, celebratory mood: Vera's parents and some other family friends, Mother's Red Cross colleagues, a couple of senior managers from the mill and their families, invited by Gwen. Robbie was making himself useful by pouring drinks.

“Where did all this come from?” I asked, as he passed with a tray of generously filled champagne flutes and whiskey tumblers.

“Best not to ask,” he said with a wink. “Scottish relations can come in handy at times. And there's more in the car in case we need it.”

By the time we set off for the town center, I was already feeling a bit squiffy and needed to steady myself by holding Robbie's arm on one side and Gwen's on the other. I had never seen such celebrations in Westbury before: the Market Hill was packed and the party in full festive swing. All the shops had been decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, and after a speech by the mayor from the town hall steps, a band started up in the square.

“Care to dance, Mrs. Holmes?” Robbie said, holding out his hand in that courteous gesture that so reminded me of the day we'd first met, New Year's Eve six years before. Before all the threats and bullying, when I was simply Miss Lily Verner. Before Stefan.

I don't remember saying yes, but I found myself in Robbie's arms, happily waltzing and foxtrotting as though there had never been a moment's ill feeling between us. Gwen gave me a curious look, but next time I saw her, she seemed to be engaged in conversation with a group of people and had stopped watching.

After a while, the band struck up some more jazzy numbers and Robbie swung me around until I complained of feeling giddy and a little sick. He guided me over to the steps of the grocery store and went off to find a glass of water. While I waited, my head spinning, the music changed to ragtime. It was Stefan's music. I was suddenly overwhelmed with an almost unbearable surge of sorrow. The last time I had heard this tune, he had been playing it, his beautiful fingers dancing over the keys of Mother's baby grand.

By the time Robbie returned, I had abandoned myself to my misery and tears coursed down my cheeks, unchecked.

“Lily?” he said, looking at me with concern. “Oh, my dear wee girl. I'm so sorry, it's obviously a bit much for you. We'd better get you home.”

I leaned on his arm gratefully as he steered me through the crowds and down the road to The Chestnuts. Once there, he made coffee and came to sit on the sofa with his arm around my shoulder. As I sipped the coffee and started to sober up, the reality of this strange situation came home to me.

“Feeling better now?” he asked. I nodded, but the truth was that I had begun to feel queasy all over again. Whatever was I doing, resting in the arms of a man I had once hated more than anyone in the world? Alcohol loosened my tongue, and the words popped out of my mouth without thinking. “Robbie,” I said, “why are you so being nice this evening?”

He laughed. “What a curious question,” he said, stroking my hair. “We are at peace. It's the best day we've had for years. Besides, I'm always nice, aren't I?”

“Not when you bullied me about the silk. Not when you threatened to tell Father about Stefan,” I said, astonishing myself.

He sat up and looked at me with a hurt frown. “You must be imagining things, little one,” he responded smoothly, stroking my hair. “I don't recall threatening you with anything, ever.”

“And then Stefan and the boys were interned,” I persisted, looking directly back at him. “Did you have anything to do with that?” At last, I didn't care what Robbie thought. The sense of freedom was glorious.

To his credit, he looked visibly shocked. “For goodness' sake, Lily, I was hurt when you turned me down and if I said anything out of turn it was only because I was green-eyed with jealousy, but I'm not that vicious. The authorities had records of all enemy aliens. It was just routine.” His shoulders slouched. “Whatever must you think of me?”

I really wanted to believe him. I turned away, trying not to show in my face that the nagging doubt was still there.

“My dear Lily,” he murmured, turning my face back toward him with a gentle finger. “The war is over. Can't we forgive and forget? I'd like to think we could be friends in future.”

He leaned forward, and for a split second I was afraid he might be about to try to kiss me, and wondered what I would do if he did. But just then, to my great relief, we heard laughter on the front step and the key in the front door. Mother and Gwen were back. Robbie pulled away to a respectable distance at the other end of the sofa. They came in and we all had another drink or two, talking about the celebrations, our joy that Europe was finally at peace and when John might be freed at last. I don't remember exactly how I managed to get upstairs, but next morning I woke late, still in the dress I'd been wearing yesterday and with a terrible hangover.

I climbed gingerly out of bed and maneuvered my way downstairs, trying to avoid any sudden movements and keeping my head as steady as possible. On the kitchen table were two notes. One was from Robbie, thanking me for “a very special evening” and saying that he looked forward to seeing me again very soon.

The other was an envelope, addressed to Mother and me. It was a short letter, ending simply, “
Verners
has
been
my
world, and I will miss you all, but now the war is over, I must go to look after my mother. Forgive me for leaving without saying good-bye; I have never been good at partings. Thank you both, for everything. Gwen.
”

She left no address.

Since the 1940s, artificial fibers have replaced silk for many uses. But despite these remarkable advances, there are still certain occasions for which nothing can replace a genuine silk for its luster, warmth, weight, depth of color, and for its sheer, breathtaking beauty.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

It is September, my least favorite month. The month of melancholy signs, of imminent endings: swallows like commas on television aerials, horse chestnut leaves yellowing and starting to fall, mellow evenings drawing in with a sharp chill. The month when both love and war were declared on the same day, nearly sixty years ago. The day that changed my life forever.

I feel increasingly frail and find myself wondering gloomily whether my health will hold out through another winter. Will I see the swallows return? The chestnuts bloom? Was his funeral only three months ago, and is it only two months since my dreams of starting a new life took such a sorry turn? I have trouble recalling my own name sometimes, but the memory of that morning is as clear as if it were yesterday. It was twenty-four hours until they found me, and they're still having trouble forgiving themselves.

“What if I hadn't called around that day, if you'd been stuck in bed for another night and day? You could have died,” Emily says alarmingly.

Indeed I could have.

It was the day after her parachute jump. I'd waited by the telephone in an agony of anxiety, and when she finally rang, she gabbled so much with excitement that I couldn't understand a word she said. At least she'd landed safely, surviving without a scratch. I went to bed early, relieved that all was right with the world once more.

I woke to find myself lying on my back in bed like a stranded turtle, unable to turn over or get up. For a while I thought it was one of those dreams where your arms and legs refuse to work. I tried to wake up properly to thwart the dream, then opened my eyes and saw through the bedroom curtains that the sun was already high in the sky. I was already awake, and in a far worse nightmare: I couldn't move my right arm and leg. They were dead weights. My pulse pounded like a jackhammer. I can't have a heart attack now, I thought, feeling panicky. I am only eighty. There is so much more living to be done.

After a while, my heart slowed and I started to think more rationally. It's probably just a momentary spasm—a touch of cramp perhaps, I reasoned. I tested my other limbs: my left arm and leg seemed to work and I could lift my head off the pillow. I struggled to sit up and managed to prop myself onto one arm. But when I attempted to push myself up fully, I slipped, terrifyingly, halfway out of bed with my leg slumped on the floor. I was teetering on the balance. If I fell, I would never be able to get up again.

With enormous effort, I leaned over and with my good arm managed to haul the dead leg back onto the bed. It was utterly exhausting. As I lay back, shaking from the effort, trying to calm my racing heart, the full reality of my plight became clear: I was alone in the house and unable to get out of bed. I could be stuck there for hours, even days. I could be paralyzed for good. If I was dying, no one would find me till it was too late. I started to feel very sorry for myself, not an emotion in which I am accustomed to indulge.

I remember watching the cloud shadows traveling across my curtains with great speed. It must have been windy outside. I pulled myself together by trying to remember what day it was and spent a few moments going through what had become my weekly routine, if that is what you could call it. Emily's jump was on a Sunday, so it must now be Monday. No one was due to visit. I struggled some more to move my leaden limbs, but nothing happened.

After a while, I started to get hungry and thirsty. And I wanted to urinate. Eighty's no age to become incontinent, I thought, as the pain in my bladder got worse.

I must have dozed off again, as the sun seemed to have moved around and there was a cool patch beneath my back. I realized with disgust that I had peed in my sleep. I started to weep with self-pity; this was too much to bear. Then the phone started to ring. At least someone was trying to get in touch with me. They will get concerned that I do not answer and come to see what's happened, I thought. They will break the door down and rescue me.

The phone stopped for a few moments, then started again. The sound echoed through the empty house.

• • •

In the hospital, they did lots of tests. “I'm afraid it's a stroke,” the doctor said. “But you're a lucky lady. You should be able to use your arm before too long and you may even be able to walk again if you do what the physio says.” I have been doing her fearsome exercises twice a day, and they seem to be working.

A stroke can have a silver lining. The family has moved into The Chestnuts to look after me. I can't get up the stairs, so they have created what Emily calls my “bedsit” in what used to be the dining room. The downstairs bathroom and toilet are close by, and with my stick I can hobble about. I can even get to the kitchen and make myself a cuppa. Life is not so bad, after all.

The house bustles again with the noise of family activities, Emily's younger brother and his friends sliding down the banisters, pop music blaring from the record player, the clatter of plates and the smell of cooking, the ringing of the telephone, the slam of the front door as they leave for work and school.

This morning, Emily and her mother arrive together with my elevenses tray and a packet of Garibaldis.

“Dead fly biscuits, my favorite,” I say, to make Emily grimace. It works every time.

“How would you like to see my DVD?” she says, opening the packet while her mother pours. It seems an odd time to settle down for a film, but I'm not complaining.

“I love going to the flicks,” I say.

“It's not a movie, it's a film of my parachute jump,” Emily says. “The cameraman jumped beside me and took a film, to keep as a memento.”

My heart starts that skipping rhythm again. It's become so commonplace I take little notice. I reckon that while my heart's still beating, it proves I'm alive. But today it does seem a little more irregular than usual.

“Lily?” Louise has that concerned look. “Are you okay?”

I take a deep breath, my usual trick when I need to pull myself together. “Yes, darling, I'm fine,” I say, with only the slightest quaver.

“Have some tea.” She passes a mug. I'm glad we don't use cups and saucers any more. I can use two hands to steady a mug without looking too obvious.

Emily puts the DVD into its slot and looks for the remote control.

“It just came today, I haven't seen it yet,” she says. “To be honest, I can't remember much, it was sooo scary. I'm sure I swore quite a bit, you'll have to forgive me.”

The music starts, loud and upbeat, and behind the titles is a tiny, flimsy airplane that seems hardly bigger than a crane fly. There is Emily, in an oversized orange flying suit and cumbersome backpack, waving at us, and then climbing into the plane, and the door closing. There she is again with all the others, sitting silently in rows like fat orange pupae, as the plane takes off. We see it from the ground, climbing until it becomes a speck in the sky.

The film cuts back to inside the plane and the moment when Emily gets up from her seat and someone hooks her onto what she tells us is called a “static wire.” For a heart-stopping moment, she is outlined against the sky through the open door of the plane. Then she gives the camera the thumbs-up, a terrified smile beneath the goggles, and she's gone, falling away toward the earth, shouting words we cannot make out.

The room feels superheated and I struggle to breathe the heavy air. The picture swims and blurs, I squeeze my eyes as tight as possible to shut it out, but I can't close my ears. The soundtrack is strident, painfully loud. Emily's shouts become distorted and then deepen, and I can hear his fear and my own voice shouting back over the rushing wind, desperate to reach him.

Then there are arms around me, a warm hand holding my wrist, another stroking the hair back from my forehead, calming voices in my ear.

“Easy now, Lily. Deep breaths. Can you open your eyes? You're with us, safe in your room, look. Safe and sound. There now, you're fine.”

A little later, I find myself lying on the bed, fully clothed, but wrapped warmly in my blanket. My radio is on quietly in the background, tuned to my favorite World Service, and I can hear the slow comforting tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall. This and the familiar smell of the wool blanket lull me, and I sleep.

• • •

Now it is teatime and Emily has brought me a poached egg on toast.

“How are you feeling, Gran?” she asks. “Would you like something to eat?”

She puts the tray on the chest of drawers and helps me to sit up.

“I feel fine now, dear,” I say, telling the truth for once. I feel pretty good in fact. I wasn't the slightest bit hungry until she arrived, but the smell of melting butter on the toast makes my mouth water.

She gets out the bed table and opens its truncated legs, brings the food over, and sets it down in front of me. Then she closes the door and pours the tea before sitting down in my armchair. She often stays to keep me company while I eat.

After a moment, she says, “I hope you don't mind me being nosy, but can I ask you something?”

I nod, my mouth full of egg and toast.

“This morning, when you had your funny turn, you know, in the middle of my DVD?”

I look at her blankly.

“You called out a name. You said, ‘I'm so sorry, Stefan.' You said it a couple of times.”

This takes me by surprise. I cannot remember saying it. Tentatively, I test my reactions by repeating the name inside my head, Stefan, Stefan, Stefan, until it starts to sound like a wave drawing back against the shingle. Best of all, blessed relief, the passing of time seems to have eased the guilt and sorrow. The memory feels strong and comforting, like a beautiful dream.

“Who's Stefan? And why are you sorry?” Emily persists.

I take another bite of egg and toast. Another sip of tea.

“So,” she says, “are you going to tell me? You don't have to, of course,” she adds carefully. “But better out than in, as you always say.”

Her smile weakens me. I've started to pack up my life, sort out my affairs, organize my papers and the other collected ephemera of eighty years, but this is one piece of unfinished business I've tried to ignore, because I don't know how to deal with it.

I need to confess and ask for forgiveness before I die, but the people to whom I owe my apologies are long gone. Except for Gwen, and I have no idea where she is, or even whether she is still alive. But now I can see a way forward, and as if she's read my thoughts, Emily says, “You can tell me, Gran. I can keep a secret, promise.”

The decision is made. I finish my last mouthful, and put down my knife and fork.

“Okay then,” I say. “Are you sitting comfortably?”

She nods, nestling down into the little armchair next to my bed, and looking up expectantly.

So, not knowing how much I will tell, I make a start. “One day, your great-uncle John came home and said he wanted to help some Jewish children get out of Nazi Germany…”

My granddaughter listens intently, without saying a word or moving a muscle, as I explain how I became a silk weaver, how Stefan and the boys came to work at the mill, how her uncle John went off to war, and her great-grandfather died trying to save someone in the rubble of the Blitz. How I found myself in charge of the mill, and the pressure of the contracts to supply wartime silk.

The teapot has gone cold by the time I get to the part about my lie, and I wonder whether I will be able to explain to her what I can barely admit to myself, let alone to anyone else. But the words pour out, as if my brain has been subconsciously rehearsing them for most of my life.

“It was a dreadful, terrible mistake,” I say. “I have regretted it ever since.”

“I don't see why it was so terrible,” she says in a whisper. “Everyone makes mistakes. You taught me that, Gran.”

“But this was much, much worse.”

“Why? No one got hurt, did they?”

So, with the sadness spilling out until it almost chokes me, I tell her about the telegram and the visit from Peter Newman. How I believed that Stefan died as the result of the faulty parachute silk I allowed through. And then I run out of words.

The room is silent for a moment. There are pools of tears in her brown eyes, and the crimson flush of her cheeks matches the dash of dye in her fringe.

“Oh my goodness, Gran,” she says quietly. “Has this been haunting you all these years?” I nod and hand her a handkerchief. She wipes her face and sniffs a bit.

“I'm so sorry,” she says. “No wonder you were so nervous about my jump.” More sniffling and throat clearing. “I even made you watch the DVD.”

“You mustn't blame yourself. How were you to know?” I say, and we have a long hug. She sits down again and takes my hand.

“Look, Gran,” she says in a matter-of-fact kind of way, “do you realize you've been beating yourself up all these years over an accident that was probably nothing to do with what happened at the mill?”

“Perhaps,” I say doubtfully. In all honesty, I don't know what to think anymore.

“Did you ever try to find out what caused it?”

I remember now. “After VE Day, I wrote to the ministry but got the standard reply: official secrets and all that.”

“But that's more than sixty years ago, isn't it? Surely they would tell us now. Isn't there something called the fifty-year rule? Or was it forty? I can look it up on the Internet, find out who to write to.”

“I'm not so sure I really want to know, my darling, after so long,” I say, alarmed at the thought.