Last Telegram (11 page)

At first it had seemed an impossibility to fix a single broken warp thread among so many thousands, but Gwen showed us how to find a tiny end, deftly rethread and retie it, in a matter of seconds. She assured us that it would become second nature, in time.

I was nearing the end of my apprenticeship, and I was proud of my new skills, feeling for the first time like a genuine weaver, not a fraud anymore. My hands were smooth and soft, coated with microscopic filaments of silk that molted from the fabrics we handled all day. And my lip-reading was fluent.

My unfavorable first impressions of Gwen were long forgotten, replaced by a deep admiration for her encyclopedic knowledge of loom mechanics, her appreciation of the artistry of silk and its many woven designs and colors, and the dextrous way she handled its gossamer threads. I'd come to realize that her eccentric fashion sense was merely a proud disregard for convention, and that beneath the stern demeanor was a fiercely intelligent mind. Yet my attempts at moving toward a closer friendship had, until now, been rebuffed. That's not to say we'd been unfriendly, but we had not become pals in the way that I'd hoped, that girl-to-girl way I had with Vera. There was still something mysterious about Gwen that I couldn't fathom.

Then, at long last, she invited me to tea. I felt curiously nervous as I arrived at the large Victorian house on the other side of Westbury and rang the bell for the top floor flat, as instructed.

The Gwen who answered the door was very different from the one I knew at the mill. In a flowery shirt and casual, even stylish, slacks, her curls freed from the severe turban she always wore at work, she seemed relaxed and softer, more feminine.

“I'm afraid it's three flights,” she said, leading the way. “My flat's in the old servants' quarters.”

As we reached the top of the stairs and she opened the door, a delicious smell of baking wafted out. “Mmm. What's cooking, Gwen?” I asked. “It's making my mouth water.”

“I've made scones, but they're not quite ready yet. Come in.”

The sloped ceilings of her little attic flat were so low I had to stoop my head. None of the furniture matched, and it had a comfortable, lived-in atmosphere.

“It's so homely,” I said. “How long have you lived here?”

“Six years or so. Ever since I came to Westbury,” she said. “Have a seat.”

“So what brought you here?” I asked. “You never did tell me.”

“It's a long story,” she sighed.

“You know almost everything about my family,” I said. “And I know almost nothing about yours. It's only fair.”

“How long have you got?”

“Until the scones are ready.”

“Then it'll be the edited version,” she said, settling comfortably into the sofa. She seemed so much gentler and warmer at home, somehow more vulnerable. With her back to the window, the sunlight blazed through her curls like a ginger halo, and she looked almost beautiful.

“My family are—were—a bit unusual,” she started with uncharacteristic hesitancy, and I found myself feeling mildly uneasy. What was she about to reveal, I wondered?

“Grandfather was a wealthy man, a silk merchant, and my father went into the business with him,” she went on. “He got pretty rich playing the stock market. He was clever and successful, but he wasn't really happy. He'd always wanted to be an artist, so he took up art classes and fell in love with his tutor—my mother.”

“Throwing over the traces? I like him already.”

“His parents opposed it, of course, but they married anyway and over the next few years he redeemed himself by making a fortune on the stock exchange. But then he defied them again. Quite suddenly, he threw in the towel and resigned from the company, sold some of his shares, and bought a big rambling old house in Essex. Said he wanted to dedicate his life to art and love. That's when Grandfather officially disowned him. And that's where I was born.”

“Wow,” I said, “what a romantic character.”

“You could call it that.” She sighed. “He was certainly a charmer, very clever but totally feckless. When I was in my second year of textile design, the stock market crashed and he lost all his—well,
our
—money. I had to leave art school and get a job as a waitress to support them. Over the next two or three years, he became more and more miserable and took to the bottle.” She paused again, distractedly twisting a curl in her finger, looking at something beyond me, beyond the walls of the attic room.

“Drink's a devil, Lily,” she said after a moment. I winced at the memory of what had happened in the punt, when I'd drunk too much.

“It gets people in its grip and sucks out their souls,” she said fiercely. “In the end, he was drunk most of the time, and Mother threw him out of the house. We haven't heard from him since.” She glanced out of the window, as if he might just appear in view.

Best not to ask any more about him, I thought. “You poor things. Where's your mother now?”

“She sold the house and rents a place near her sister in Dorset. I send checks when I can. We were penniless, literally, but Grandfather took pity on us and offered to try to find me a job. He introduced me to Harold—they knew each other through the Weavers' Company. I went to see him at Cheapside and he offered me a job in the design room, here in Westbury.”

“A designer? So how come you ended up a weaver?”

“To be a designer, you need to know about weaving and the rest of the process, and I knew precious little. So Harold put me on a weaver's apprenticeship and I loved it. Loved the silk and the grease and the looms. Never looked back, thanks to him.”

“And look at you now, assistant factory manager.”

“I'm lucky. I still enjoy it, even after six years.”

“What happened to the art, though? Where are your masterpieces?” I gestured round the room.

“It's difficult to hang anything on these sloping walls,” she said in an offhand way.

The smell of baking wafted mouthwateringly on the air. “Hang on a tick, I think those scones are done.” She leaped to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Would you show them to me?” I shouted. She didn't reply, so when she came back I repeated the question. She put the plate of scones on the table, with butter and raspberry jam.

“Have one while they're still warm,” she said, pouring more tea.

“Thanks, they look delicious.” We helped ourselves and ate and talked about things at work for a while, and then I remembered. “Really. I do want to see them, your paintings.”

“I don't show them to anyone, Lily.”

“We're friends, aren't we? That's what friends are for.” I mistook her reluctance for false modesty. “I'm not just being polite.”

“I'm flattered,” she said, “but they're life drawings, you know? Nudes. A bit personal. You might be shocked.”

“Try me,” I said breezily, picturing the Rubens I'd seen in the Royal Academy. “I'm unshockable.” How little I knew.

“You're very persistent,” she sighed, putting down her plate. She leaned behind the sofa to pull out a large cardboard portfolio and laid it on the hearthrug between us. Then she kneeled on the floor and I sat down beside her, now apprehensive about what she might be about to reveal. She untied the pink ribbons at either side of the portfolio. Then, as she turned the cardboard cover and the blank first page, it took all my self-control not to gasp with astonishment.

It was a drawing, in fluid and uncompromising charcoal lines, of a naked woman reclining sensuously on her back, with one knee bent and her arms relaxed above her head. The face was not fully drawn, but dark smudges around the eyes conveyed the same intensity I'd often seen in Gwen's. White chalk highlighted strong feminine curves, and dark bushes of underarm and pubic hair were fiercely scribbled in black.

I could feel myself blushing and Gwen's eyes on me, watching my face.

“She's very beautiful. Was she one of your models at art school?” I fumbled uncertainly.

“Not exactly.”

I hardly dared ask. “Someone you knew?”

“Yes, she was a friend.”

“Why ‘was'? Have you had a row?”

“Not really.” She paused again and knelt back on her heels, brushing her fingers through her hair, still looking at the drawing. To ease the awkwardness, I said, “Would you rather not talk about her?”

“It feels like a long time ago now,” she said flatly. “She was a fellow student in London. When I moved here it was impossible, just seeing her at weekends, all that pretense. It just fell apart.”

“Poor you. It's horrid when you argue with friends.”

She looked at me, oddly. “We weren't just friends, Lily,” she said in a quiet voice, leaning back against the sofa, uncrossing then recrossing her legs. “Look, can I tell you something in confidence?”

“Of course,” I said, fearful of what she was going to say.

“There's something you need to know about me.” I felt like a leaf being reluctantly and inexorably drawn into a whirlpool. There was no going back.

“She was my lover.”

Her
lover?
I tried to take in what she'd said. “You loved her?”

“We were lovers,” she said, to make sure I really understood.

Lovers. It meant they did “it.” They were the real thing.

My face burned, and my mind went blank. The air felt hot and heavy, compressed by the low ceilings. My brain skittered around the implication of the word and I had absolutely no idea how to respond.

“Oh my goodness. I knew you weren't married, but…” I pointed to her ringless finger, desperate not to sound shocked or blurt out something hurtful or stupid.

She turned back to the portfolio, pensively turning the loose leaves of heavy cartridge paper. Now there was nothing left to conceal. All the drawings were of the same woman; dressed and undressed, head and shoulder portraits, laughing, serious, coquettish. They felt so intimate, almost as if it were Gwen revealing herself.

There were loose charcoal sketches, tight pen and ink drawings, and smaller studies of toes, ears, hands—one showed fingers reaching into what looked like a tangle of wool. I was disturbed and fascinated, even a little excited, and way out of my depth.

She folded up the portfolio. “So now you know. Have I shocked you?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

A taut smile. “You will be discreet? Please? It's important in a small town like this. People don't understand.”

I nodded, my head in a spin. “Of course. Does anyone else know? My father…?”

“Good God, no,” Gwen interrupted emphatically, her eyes widening with alarm. “Harold gave me a job because Grandfather once did him a favor over some silk supplies in the twenties, that's what I heard, and because he knew what dire straits we were in. He must never find out, Lily, promise me that.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said. “I give you my word.”

She smiled wryly and we fell into an awkward silence. “Another scone? I can make more tea.” I had no choice but to say yes. To leave now would be rude and far too pointed.

When she came back with the teapot, Gwen said, “Now it's your turn to tell me about you. I can't help but notice that you seem to be getting along rather well with Mr. Cameron?”

“We've been on a few dates, nothing more,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I don't think it's going any further.”

“Good,” she said. “That's probably for the best. He's a customer. And a tricky character to boot,” she said, buttering another scone.

“You hardly know him,” I said, feeling oddly defensive.

“I know the type. With his background and money, he'll think he owns the world,” she said, “and girlfriends are just another possession.”

I said nothing, thinking that she had probably hit the nail on the head. But then she said, “Besides, I suppose you know someone else is sweet on you?”

“What do you mean, ‘sweet'? Who?”

“Young Herr Hoffmann.”

“Stefan?” My heart leaped. Stefan—sweet on me? The very thought made me suddenly giddy; a blast of heat flushed my cheeks and my stomach fizzled. I tried to sound dismissive. “Don't be silly. He hasn't said anything to me.”

“It's so bloody obvious.” She shook her head. “I can't believe you haven't noticed. You must be the only person in the mill who hasn't.” She put down her cup and looked directly into my face, her pale eyes piercing. “Lily, please be careful.”

“Careful of what, for goodness' sake?” I said. Why was she interfering like this?

“He's just a boy. Don't lead him on,” she said, more gently.

Now my stomach felt queasy, recalling what Robbie had said that day in the punt. “I'm not doing anything of the sort. Anyway, if you don't mind my saying, it really is none of your business, Gwen,” I retorted, a little too sharply.

“Hear me out, Lily. Please. It's more complicated than you think. He's German, and Jewish, and there's a war in the offing. And you're the boss's daughter. Things get round. Just be careful,” she repeated.

“Is this why you invited me here? To warn me off Stefan?” I asked, rattled now.

“No…Well, yes, a bit,” she admitted, with an apologetic smile. “I thought if the opportunity arose, it might be best to tell you before Harold hears about it. But it wasn't just that, silly. I wanted to get to know you better. I thought we could be friends, now you're going to stick around for a while?”

Unsure how to respond, I nodded and said that yes, it would be good to be friends, but that it was probably time for me to head back.

• • •

I walked the long route home to try to clear the turmoil in my head. Thinking about Stefan made me lightheaded; I felt like skipping with joy. Gwen was probably right about being careful, but now that I knew, the idea of doing nothing seemed almost unbearable. She was right about Robbie as well. He was a selfish man, used to getting his own way. I needed to treat him with care too. Why did life have to be so complicated?