Last Telegram (10 page)

“From my mother. She taught me traditional music: Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, you know? She trained to be a concert pianist, but it was difficult to make money this way, so she became instead a teacher.”

“That's a coincidence. We both have mothers who are pianists,” I said.

“But I let my mother down. I was a rebel. My friends took me to a jazz club and I did not play Beethoven anymore. Jazz was the only music for me. Bohemians, my father called us.” He took a drag of his cigarette and blew three perfectly formed rings into the still air.

“Wow. Where did you learn to do that? In the jazz clubs?”

“Those clubs got me into trouble too.”

I remembered that wet Sunday in the drawing room. “What you told us about…
Swingjugend
? What were they? What happened?”

“Jazz is forbidden and the government is closing the clubs. The
Jugend
want to keep the clubs open. It is for…” he struggled to find the right words.

“To protest?”

“Yes, that is it,” he said. “To protest the Nazis.” I hadn't the heart to correct him. I was still struggling to understand why such joyful music should be banned in the first place. “What is so bad about jazz?”

“It is negro music,” he said bluntly. “Not pure. Dirty. Like what they say about the Jews.”

I was shocked into silence. “Dirty?” This quiet, sensitive boy slouched so elegantly against the wall, contemplating his feet, that gleaming mop of dark hair falling over his face? The notion would be laughable, if it weren't so sickening. “Tell me what happened next.”

“When they arrested us, they said if they caught us again, we'd be sent to work camps. We didn't care. The most important thing was to make a stand against them, against…It is horrible, living in fear, people shouting at you in the street, throwing things.”

He looked away across the field, almost talking to himself. “When I got home,
Vati
told me they had to get me out of Germany. People never came back from the camps, he said. I thought he was crazy. How can I leave my family? But he found a sponsor for me only, and they have the money for just my fare. They will come later, they said, but now they have no jobs, they have no money to pay.” There was a break in his voice as it tailed away.

“You know my father is still trying very hard to get them work and visas?” I said. He had pulled all possible strings at the Rotary Club and the local Chamber of Commerce, but so far in vain. We all knew that if war came, it would be too late.

Stefan lit another cigarette, raised it with a trembling hand, and exhaled slowly. No smoke rings this time. “I will never forget that day. He would not let my mother and the girls come to the station in case she changed her mind. Everyone was crying, except for him. He was trying to be strong.”

His voice faltered and stopped. I put my hand gently onto his shoulder. Without warning, he threw down his cigarette, swiveled on the bench, and wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my neck. His hair smelled deliciously of sweat, shaving soap, and cigarette smoke. We held each other for a long moment, listening to each other's heartbeats, matching the pace of our breathing.

Eventually he pulled away. I wanted to say something more but couldn't find the right words, and then the klaxon sounded the end of tea break. As we walked back into the mill, we passed Bert returning to the finishing room. He was a short, bowed man getting on in years, who always wore the same grubby tweed jacket. I imagined him to be a widower, or more likely a bachelor who had never developed the social skills to attract a wife. He scowled and seemed barely to acknowledge us. I felt ridiculously guilty, as though I'd done something wrong just being seen with Stefan.

That night, the heat was oppressive. I couldn't sleep. Even hours later, I could feel the impression of that awkward embrace against me and it made my body feel heavy and hot. But what did it mean? Had he turned to me just for comfort? Or was there more to it? My thoughts were like a tangled skein. He was just a boy, nearly two years younger than me. Even if he really was older, as Leo had suggested at the camp, he could never admit it. If Father found out, he would be furious, might even send Stefan away. But nothing was going to happen.

And nothing did. Stefan and I continued to work closely at our looms, and often stood beside each other, looking for lost warp threads or checking the tension on the cloth beams. Occasionally, a private smile passed between us, and once or twice I caught him watching me. As the weeks went by, I wondered if that moment by the boiler house had meant anything at all.

Besides, Robbie was my ideal boyfriend: charming, rich, and fun. The perfect match. So why did my heart not leap when I thought of him?

Silk has a range of remarkable properties: it is rot-resistant, making it capable of being stored for many years without deterioration; it is non-allergenic, which makes it ideal for bandages; and it has very low conductivity and thus was widely used for insulation of electrical wiring before the advent of plastics.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

For several weeks, Father had been traipsing around the country meeting potential contractors, including Robbie's outfit in Hertfordshire.

Hitler had signed a non-aggression pact with Russia, which the papers said would effectively allow the Germans to invade Poland unhindered, so war seemed inevitable. All this was affecting our business terribly; it had never been worse. We'd had no new orders for weeks and faced the dismal prospect of having to lay workers off.

But that evening in late August, Father's face was bright with triumph. “It's still hush-hush, but our test samples have been accepted,” he said, pouring sherry. “Let's toast to that.”

“The ministry also wants a smallish quantity of fine white taffeta,” he went on, after we'd all raised our glasses. “Won't tell me what it's for, but one of the minions told me, on the QT, that it's for printing what they call escape and evasion maps. They're sewn inside airmen's uniforms, so if they're downed in enemy territory, they can find their way back.”

We sat down at the table and Mother brought out his favorite supper.

“I've made toad-in-the-hole to celebrate your success,” she said, starting to serve the sausages in their jackets of puffy Yorkshire batter. John was unusually quiet, I thought; he hadn't reacted with much excitement to Father's news. And then I remembered. It could be him, that airman downed behind the lines. Was he imagining what it would really be like, cold, hungry, frightened, and possibly injured, not knowing who he could trust? A map might be some comfort, I supposed, but not much.

“I learned something else today,” Father said, pouring gravy liberally over his mashed potato. “As of next week, the government's going to sequester all stocks of raw silk, so only mills with contracts for essential war uses will get any. Without these contracts, we'd probably have had to close, at least for the duration. It could have been a disaster for us. As it is, we'll be busier than ever. Well done, everyone.”

As I watched John raise his glass to toast our success, the thought suddenly struck me.
It's all very well for you,
I thought bitterly.
You
won't even be here to help.

• • •

A couple of days later, I caught sight of Robbie at the top of the weaving shed steps, scanning the rows of looms. He looked like some exotic creature among the weavers' dun overalls and head scarves in his expensive pin-striped suit, a glossy black briefcase under his arm.

Gwen went over to meet him and he bent to shout something in her ear. They came down the steps, and as they walked along the narrow aisle between the looms, she fell a few steps behind and imitated his military gait, straight-backed, chin in the air. A dozen weavers looked up, amused by her gentle mimicry. Robbie grinned back, confident their smiles were for him.

“Great day,” he shouted. “Just signed the parachute contract with your pa. Can you take a break?” He pointed toward the side door, opened to allow the breeze to circulate around the weaving shed. I nodded, untied my overall, pulled off my head scarf, tweaked my hair into shape, and gestured to Stefan to ask him to watch my looms. As we walked away I caught his eyes following me, and Gwen watching Stefan.

“Phew, it's hot in there. Don't know how you stand it,” Robbie said, once we were outside. “Who's the charmer?”

“Charmer?”

“Fellow at the loom next to you.”

“One of the German boys. What do you mean, charmer?”

“Never trust those sultry European types,” he said. There was a brittle edge to his voice.

While I was trying to think up a decent response without sounding defensive, he went on, “Now look here, old thing. I wanted to say that I'm sorry I haven't organized that trip to the Peaks I promised. Problems borrowing a plane.” Thank goodness, I thought. I'd dreaded the moment he'd suggest it again. “But we're thinking of going to Cambridge on Sunday,” he went on. “Take out a punt, have a picnic. The weather's wonderful and I need a bit of light relief. What do you say?”

“Sounds fun,” I said, relieved. “Who's we?”

“A couple of friends. And you, I hope.”

Any misgivings I might have felt were immediately brushed aside. With a group of people, nothing would get too heavy, I reasoned. I had visited Cambridge a few times before, and knew it to be a very beautiful, romantic city. But I'd never been taken punting before. Robbie had promised champagne. How glamorous it sounded, and what an adventure.

• • •

The day dawned cloudlessly, and by the time he arrived, it had turned into a glorious morning. I felt like royalty, easing myself into the Morgan in a carefully chosen strappy summer dress and sandals. The regiment of brass buttons on Robbie's blazer twinkled in the sun, and my parents waved with approving smiles. John was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he was piqued about not being invited, but hardly gave it a second thought.

When we reached the river, the punt looked so comfortable, with tartan rugs spread over the cushions and a large wicker picnic basket loaded in the front.

“Shouldn't we wait for the others?” I asked, as we prepared to climb on board.

“Others? Ah. Last-minute decision. They can't make it after all,” he said airily, taking my hand as I stepped onto the flat deck. “Didn't I say? Never mind, we can have a good time together, can't we?”

I sat down on the soft warm cushions and watched him dealing efficiently with the ropes, casting off, and pushing away from the bank. He must have planned it this way, I thought. It was not going to be the party I'd expected.

But it was impossible to be disappointed for long. From the Backs, the city seemed enchanted, the white filigree stonework of King's Chapel luminous against the unblemished blue of the sky. Robbie handled the unwieldy pole with great skill, and as we glided along the river, the swallows swooped close, dipping into the water and swirling into the air with shrill shrieks of warning.

Halfway to Grantchester, we moored by a quiet bank shaded by weeping willows, and curious cows came over, huffing at us with their sweet grassy breath before wandering away. He poured champagne and we toasted the English countryside, summertime, and even the increasingly unlikely peace.

I drank too quickly and the bubbles went to my head. For a while, we ate smoked salmon sandwiches and made silly conversation about nothing in particular. Robbie told stories and made me laugh. He refilled my glass several times and I didn't stop him. This must be what falling in love is like, I thought.

When we'd finished eating, he wedged his empty glass between the cushions and turned to me, taking my hands, his expression suddenly serious.

“Lily, my dear, you must know by now how I feel about you?”

I nodded uncertainly, my heart starting to pound. Was he going to tell me he loved me? So soon?

“I've knocked around a bit, as you've probably gathered, but you're something special. Like the song says, I've got you under my skin.”

I giggled nervously at the cliché, but he seemed unembarrassed.

“Why don't you come and give me a kiss?” he said, taking off his jacket, lying back, and patting the cushions beside him. I hesitated a moment, feeling oddly reluctant. Kissing lying down seemed a little intimate, but what harm could come, out in the open air?

I lay down beside him and we cuddled and then kissed gently for a while. It was delicious, lying in his strong arms, safe and protected. He stroked my hair and said it smelled like apple blossom. He told me I was beautiful.

Then we started kissing again and it became more intense. Just relax and try to enjoy it, I said to myself; this is the way it is meant to be. But his tongue felt like an invasion, as if he was trying to capture me with his mouth. I found it difficult to breathe.

Then, when I was distracted by this, I felt his hand move to my breasts and start to squeeze them, each in turn. This is supposed to feel sexy, I thought, but it was just annoying and mildly uncomfortable. As it went on, the pressure got stronger and started to hurt a bit, so I pushed his hand away. He didn't seem to take the hint. After a moment or two, his hand moved back. I pushed it away again.

To my relief, his hand stayed away this time. But then, to my alarm, I realized that it had moved downward, below his waist. The horrid thought flashed into my head that he was undoing his fly buttons. Surely not, I thought, not here? It scared me. I pulled away and started to sit up, but in a swift surprising movement that caught me unawares, his hand suddenly moved again, reaching up my skirt, almost to the top of my legs.

I squeaked with surprise and tried to push his hand away, but he took no notice, grabbing my arm and forcing it back over my head. He was so strong there was nothing I could do to resist. At the same time, he moved his leg heavily over mine and pinned me down. I tried to sit up again, but he was holding my wrist almost painfully tight, and his chest was like a dead weight on top of me. I was trapped, terrified of what he might do next. I felt the warmth of bare flesh on my leg and panicked.

“No, Robbie. No!” My shout echoed across the water and an alarmed coot squawked in sympathy. “Let me go!”

He held me a moment longer, as if considering his next move. Then I heard him mutter, “Oh, for Christ's sake.” He let go of my wrist and pushed me back roughly, almost violently, sat up, fumbled with his fly, and rummaged in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. He was red in the face, panting as if he'd run a steeplechase.

“Whatever's the matter with you?” he said gruffly. “You lead me on, then push me away.” He lit a cigarette and blew angry clouds of smoke across the water. I took deep breaths, trying to control the tears prickling the back of my throat.

“I'm sorry,” I said miserably, sitting up and straightening my clothes.

He was silent for a moment, then, “But there
is
something between us, isn't there?”

“I think so. I mean, yes. But not that, not yet.” My head was spinning from the champagne and I couldn't think straight.

“Don't you feel the same way about me?” It felt like an interrogation.

“I just…” I stuttered.

“Then what is it? Is there someone else? That Kraut boy?”

“No, not really.”

“No, not really,” he mimicked viciously. “You owe me the truth, Lily.”

Now the shock was receding, my head was starting to ache, and I started to feel irritated. “It's just that I'm not sure about us.”

“You don't fancy me?”

“Yes, I mean, no.”

“Is that a yes, you don't fancy me, or a no, you do?”

He took another long drag on his cigarette. As he turned away to exhale, I noticed for the first time the hair thinning on the crown of his head and felt a little sorry for him.

“I don't really know what I feel, if you want the honest truth,” I blurted. “I like being with you. We have fun, don't we? This has been a lovely day, and I'm sorry if I've spoiled it. I just don't think I'm ready for that. With anyone.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He passed me a large, white gentleman's handkerchief, and I blew my nose as elegantly as possible.

“You should have thought about that before, shouldn't you?” His cigarette end hissed as it hit the water. “You shouldn't promise what you don't intend to deliver.”

I hadn't promised anything, I thought angrily. But I didn't want to row with him anymore, so I bit my tongue. He stood up and adjusted his trouser belt, walked to the end of the punt, and took up the pole.

• • •

The drive back to Westbury was tense. I tried to lighten the mood by telling him the story of Gog Magog as we drove over the hills.

“They say giants sleep under here, did you know that?”

Robbie shook his head.

“King Gog led his Magog tribe of giants in a battle against the Romans. They found dozens of skeletons.”

“That's what you get with wars,” he muttered morosely.

When we got home, I kissed him on the cheek, just to be courteous, and thanked him for the day. He said rather curtly, “Better get off. Things to do, people to see. Be in touch soon.”

I knew he wouldn't, not this time, and realized that I didn't really care anymore. When John asked me, oh so breezily, how my “big date” went, I told him everything except the bit after the picnic, but then he asked when I was seeing Robbie again, and when I said, as casually as possible, “Probably not for a while,” he smelled a rat.

“I thought you were an item?” he said sharply. “You haven't cheesed him off, have you?”

“Don't be an idiot,” I said. “It's just I don't think we're really suited.”

“He's bloody keen on you. He pretty much admitted it to me, in so many words,” John said. “For goodness' sake, don't mess around with Robbie. You're playing with fire. Verners needs his contract.”

“He's signed it already,” I retorted.

“For an initial six months,” John said. “We need to keep him on side so he'll renew it.”

I reassured him, of course, but his words troubled me. I hadn't known the contract was so short. Did I really have to pretend to be in love with someone, just to make sure we got it renewed? The idea made me feel grubby, and I tried to push it to the back of my mind.

• • •

At work, I was becoming more confident under Gwen's careful tutelage. Though I'd struggled to master the technique, with a few economical movements I could now knot threads as fine as a single hair. There was a round knot for normal use, or a more complex flat one for very fine material. The knot had to be trimmed closely, leaving no stray ends. Like all the weavers, I held concealed in my right palm a pair of tiny metal shears, like an extra set of finely sharpened fingers.