Last Telegram (5 page)

“It's a long story,” she said, stacking her teacup and plate. “Another time, perhaps.”

“So what brought you to Verners?” I persevered.

“Your father, Lily.” She paused and looked out the canteen window toward the cricket willow plantation on the other side of the railway line. “He's a very generous man. I owe him a lot.”

I felt a prickle of shame for not having appreciated him much. He was my father, strict but usually kindly, rather remote when he was wrapped up in work. I'd never considered how others might regard him.

The squawk of the klaxon signaled the end of break-time. Over the loud scraping of utility chairs—the stackable sort of metal piping with slung canvas seats and backs—Gwen shouted, “Time to learn about the heart of the business, Miss Lily.”

After the peace of the packing hall, the weaving shed was a shock. As the door opened, the noise was like running into a wall. Rows of gray-green looms stretched into the distance, great beasts each in their own pool of light, a mass of complex oily iron in perpetual noisy motion—lifting, falling, sliding, striking, knocking, crashing, vibrating. How could anyone possibly work in this hellish metallic chaos?

The weavers seemed oblivious, moving unhurriedly between their looms, pausing to watch the material slowly emerge from the incessant motion of the shuttle beam or stooping over a stilled machine. I quickly realized that they were skilled lip-readers and could hold long conversations in spite of the noise. But much of the time, their eyes were focused intently on the cloth.

• • •

That first evening, John mocked me for falling asleep on the sofa and had to wake me for supper. As I prepared for bed, I wondered what I would have been doing in Geneva. Getting dressed for a party, perhaps, or having hot chocolate and pastries in a café? For the moment, I was too tired for regrets. Ears ringing, eyes burning, legs aching, my head full of new information, I wondered how I would get up and do the same again tomorrow.

The following day, I was relieved to discover that we were spending it in the relative peace of the winding mill. Here, the silk skeins shimmered and danced as they rotated on their spindles, releasing threads to be doubled, twisted, and wound onto bobbins, and from bobbins onto pirns that would go into the shuttles. I learned the difference between the warp—the lengthways threads held taut between two rollers at either side of the loom—and the weft—the cross-threads woven into the warp from the shuttle.

Gwen no longer seemed so formidable. I was quickly learning to respect her skill and deftness, and her encyclopedic knowledge of silk in all aspects of its complex manufacture. But she was still an enigma. Why would an educated woman like her choose to come and live in Westbury, to work in a mill?

I would find out soon enough.

Another outstanding property of silk is its resilience, which can be demonstrated by crushing a silk handkerchief in one hand and a cotton handkerchief in the other. When released, the silk version will spring or jump upward, the cotton one will stay crushed for some time. It is this property, along with its strength, toughness, elasticity, and resistance to fire and mildew that makes silk so valuable for the manufacture of parachutes.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

Long afterward, John liked to embarrass me by claiming, sometimes publicly, that eight generations of weaving history had been rescued by his little sister's sex appeal.

It's true that Verners survived the catastrophe of war because of our contracts to weave parachute silk. While other mills folded or were converted into armament or uniform factories, we made it through, and came out the other side. But the invitation that arrived for John just a few months after I started work at the mill was really the start of it all. “It's from my old school chum,” he said, ripping open the heavy bond envelope with its impressively embossed crest. He proudly placed the gilt-edged card next to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece in the drawing room.

Mr. John Verner and partner. New Year's Eve 1938. Black tie. Dinner and dancing 8:00 p.m., carriages 2:00 a.m. Overnight accommodation if desired
, it read. Underneath was scrawled:
Do
come, Johnnie. Would be good to see you again. Marcus.

“His ma and pa have a pile near the coast,” he said. “They're faded gentry but still not short of a bob or two. Should be a good bash.”

I was green with envy, of course. Vera's latest bulletins from London had left me feeling very sorry for myself. She had discovered the “local” next to the nurses' home, met lots of dishy doctors, and been to the flicks at least once a week. Even with Christmas coming up, my social calendar was blank, and I was bored stiff.

So I didn't hesitate a single second when John said, a couple of days later, “Want to come with me to that New Year's Eve bash,
schwester
? Dig out the old glad rags. We both deserve a break.”

But I had no glad rags, at least nothing remotely passable for a sophisticated do. In the code language of formal invitations, “black tie” meant women should wear ball gowns. Where would I find one of those in Westbury? And even if I could, how could I possibly afford it?

Then I remembered the blue-green shot silk that had so thrilled me on my first day at the mill and asked Father if I could have a few yards as a Christmas present. I pored over fashion magazines, trying to imagine what style would make the most of my beanpole figure. It had to be modern, but formal enough to pass muster in “black tie” company. At last I found the perfect pattern: the dress had a halter-neck bodice that flowed into a wide full-length skirt to emphasize my waistline and a bolero jacket for warmth.

In the days after Christmas, Mother and I slaved over her old treadle sewing machine, and I endured countless pin-prickled fittings to get the dress just right. Now it was finished, and I barely recognized the elegant young woman looking back from the long mirror in my room. The cut of the gown and the shimmering silk made my figure, usually obscured in slacks and baggy jumpers at the factory, positively curvy.

My experiments with lipstick and mascara seemed to highlight interesting new features in a face I'd always considered plain. Even my straight brown bob seemed more sophisticated when I tucked the hair behind my ears to show off Mother's emerald drop-earrings. We had fashioned a little clutch bag from scraps of leftover silk, and my old white satin court shoes—with low heels, I didn't want to tower over any potential partner—had been tinted green by the dye works, to match the color of the warp.

You'll do,
I thought, observing myself sideways, sticking out my chest and practicing a coy, leading-lady smile.
You might even get asked for a dance or two.

• • •

As we drove up the mile-long drive through acres of parkland and caught sight of the manor, my excitement gave way to apprehension. It was a red brick Victorian Gothic mansion with stone-arched windows, ornate chimneys, and little turrets topping each corner of the building. Today I'd call it grandiose, but at the time I was awestruck. The driveway was stuffed with smart motors: Jaguars, MG sports, and Bentleys. John parked our modest Morris well out of view.

We were welcomed into a cavernous oak-paneled hallway by a real butler who led us upstairs to our rooms, carrying my case while I held the dress on its hanger before me like a shield. I feared I would never retrace our route as we trod endless gloomy corridors, taking frequent turns past dozens of identical doors.

My bedroom, when we finally reached it, seemed the size of a ballroom. It had once been very grand, I could see, but now the chintz curtains and bed coverlet were faded, and a miserly coal fire in a small grate made little impact on the overall chilliness. As I waited several minutes for a small stream of tepid water to emerge from the tap at the sink, I imagined the miles of piping it had to pass through to reach this distant room.

Shivering, I pulled on the dress and peered into the foxed glass of the mirror to apply my makeup, cursing as I dropped blobs of mascara onto my cheek. In the dim light of a single bulb hung from high in the ceiling, I couldn't be sure whether I'd managed to scrub it off properly.

But it was ten past eight and I couldn't postpone the moment any longer. Tottering nervously through the maze of corridors, I lost my way several times. Eventually I found the top of the stairs and, having managed to negotiate these without tripping, followed the roar of voices to the drawing room. There, about forty people were knocking back champagne and talking at the tops of their voices, as if they had known each other for years.

I looked around urgently for John, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I found myself near a tall man holding court to three young women who waved their long cigarette holders ostentatiously and giggled a lot. With some alarm, I noticed that the man was wearing what I at first took for a skirt but then realized was a Scottish kilt. I hugged myself into the corner against the wall, trying not to stare, and was greatly relieved when the gong sounded for dinner. Then, to my dismay, I noticed that the man in the skirt was smiling in my direction. The three girls glared as he walked over and offered his hand.

“Robert Cameron, pleased to meet you. Would you do me the pleasure of accompanying me to dinner?”

“Lily Verner, good evening,” I said as I returned the handshake and noted his startling blue eyes.

“May I just say, Miss Verner, that dress is a stunner. Extraordinary colors. Silk, isn't it?” He took my arm and steered me firmly in the direction of the dining room. As we walked, I stole a closer look; a kind of furry purse affair hung from his waist that I later learned was called a sporran. The kilt ended at the knees, below which were hairy legs clad only in white socks, a small dagger stuffed into the top of one of them. It felt uncomfortably intimate being so close to those bare legs, and I barely dared imagine what he might or might not be wearing beneath those swinging pleats.

By the precision of his courtesies, I guessed Mr. Cameron had once been in the forces but wasn't any more, not with those raffish sideburns. Slightly receding hair and deep smile lines suggested he was in his late twenties, and the high color at his cheekbones and the small bulge above his crimson cummerbund seemed to evidence a life already well led.

“And where have they been hiding you, Miss Lily Verner?” he asked, helping me to be seated and then seating himself beside me. I faltered, wishing I'd thought about this beforehand, planned what I would say. In this elevated company, I could hardly admit I was an apprentice silk weaver.

“Oh, I've been around,” I answered airily, trying to sound sophisticated.

“Then tell me where you found this beautiful gown,” he persisted.

I tried to think of a posh London shop where they might sell ball gowns, but my mind went blank. Out of the blue, I decided to be completely honest. What did it matter? I'd never see any of these people again.

“From our family's silk mill,” I said. “Verners, in Westbury. My father's the managing director.”

I'd anticipated a blank look, or at least a swift change of subject, but to my great surprise Mr. Cameron leaped to his feet, clipped his heels in a military manner, bowed deeply, picked up my hand, and kissed it.

“My goodness. Silk? How splendid. You look like a wee angel, but now here's proof you've been sent from heaven, Lily Verner.” Forty diners in the process of taking their places peered curiously at us between the silver candelabra, as I blushed to the tips of my ears. A few seats away on the opposite side, John raised his eyebrows:
Are
you
all
right
with
that
man?

He sat down again. “You could be the answer to my prayers. Let's get some wine and you can tell me all about it.”

“There's not such a great deal to tell, Mr. Cameron,” I said, overwhelmed by his display of enthusiasm. I wasn't used to such effusive compliments.

“Rubbish,” he said robustly. “I want to know everything, from start to finish. And you absolutely must call me Robbie.”

He clicked his fingers at a waiter and barked an order for wine, then listened with great attention as, between sips of nondescript soup, I told him about the mill, the silk, where it came from, how we wove it, the trade we supplied. Feeling bolder by the minute, I even admitted that I worked there, adding quickly, “Just as a stopgap, of course.”

“How charming,” he said, his face close to mine as he poured me another glass of wine. “A beautiful girl like you, working in a silk mill. That's a new one on me.”

“But now you must tell me about you,” I said, feeling uncomfortable, “and why you are so interested in silk.”

As we washed down the main course of rubbery gray meat with liberal quantities of red wine, he explained that he had been born in Scotland—hence his entitlement to wearing a kilt—but had lived in England most of his life; was a cousin of our host, Johnnie's school friend Marcus; and had been a guards officer until quite recently. But now he was dedicating his life—and, I guessed, a private fortune—to his two great passions: flying and parachute jumping. A glamorous girl I'd noticed earwigging from the other side of the table chimed in, “Parachute jumping? Isn't that rather dangerous?”

“Of course it used to be,” he said, becoming more expansive with the added attention. “Those Montgolfiers and their French buddies back in the last century did a lot of experimenting with dogs. They didn't always survive.”

“Ooh, poor little poochies,” she simpered. “That's awfully mean.”

Most of the guests at our end of the table were now listening to the conversation. “Isn't a parachute dangerous if you jump out of a moving plane? Wouldn't it get tangled in the wings or the prop?” asked a military-looking chap opposite.

“Total myth, old man,” said Robbie, “invented by the Air Ministry. They were dead scared that fliers might jump and dump expensive chunks of ironware before it was absolutely necessary. But they've finally accepted that parachutes save lives, if they're the right kind.”

“Is there a wrong kind?” I found myself genuinely curious.

“Lord, yes. Parachutes that collapse in the middle, that get pushed in by wind, lines that tangle, packs that don't unfurl quickly enough. The design is critical.” He paused and took a long sip of wine, carefully wiping his lips with the napkin. His audience was waiting. “But the most important thing is the silk. It has to be just right. Not too thick, not too thin, not too porous, not too impervious.” Then he turned to me and lowered his voice. “Which is why, Miss Verner, I would like to have a serious conversation about silk with your father and brother—and you too of course—at some point very soon.”

“We'd be delighted,” I said, glowing in his attentiveness and flattered to be included. “But if I am to call you Robbie, you must stop calling me Miss Verner. Call me Lily, please.”

“So, lovely Lily,” he said, refilling my glass, “have you ever flown in a plane?”

“Er…no,” I stuttered nervously. “I'm not sure it's my sort of thing.”

“Would you like to give it a try? We could go for a spin.”

“Perhaps, but can I finish my dinner first?”

He laughed generously, and as dessert was served, I became vaguely aware of music coming from a distant room. “Can you hear the band, Miss Lily Verner? I'll wager you're a good dancer. Hope you like swing.”

I smiled and said nothing, to conceal my ignorance.

“Watch out for that one, Sis. Looks like a bit of a rogue and too old for you, anyway,” John whispered as we left the dining room. But I didn't care. The wine made me daring and confident, and I was determined to enjoy myself.

After a couple of rather sedate waltzes, Robbie went over and spoke to the bandleader. With broad smiles on their faces, the musicians switched pace and started to play a very fast jazzy number. He pulled me out onto the floor and started to dance like a wild thing, kicking his legs so high I barely dared look in case the skirt flew up too. He gestured to me to do the same, swinging me from side to side and twirling me around. It was exhilarating, dancing so freely, to such irresistible rhythms.

“It's the Lindy Hop,” he shouted over the music. “Just come over from America. Named after Charlie Lindberg. Fun, eh?”

I'd never heard of the man, but it certainly was fun, if rather absurd, dancing like this in our formal ball gowns and dinner jackets, in a country house ballroom with its bright merciless light glittering from chandeliers and mirrors. It was impossible to keep still, and we Lindy Hopped right through until midnight, when the band reverted to Scottish tradition and we welcomed the New Year with “Auld Lang Syne.”