Last Telegram (23 page)

The clock on the wall read eight o'clock. “The final test,” she announced. “If this is okay, we're in business.” When the result came in on the nail, we jumped up and down, laughing triumphantly.

“We did it!” I shouted.

“We're brilliant.” She stopped jumping and looked into my eyes. Her hands cradled my cheeks and for a brief, surreal moment I thought she might be about to kiss me. Just then, the door opened and Bert shuffled in, looking surprised, clearly wondering what we were doing in his finishing room.

He stood uncomfortably in his coat and scarf, shifting his weight and contemplating the floor as I explained we'd come in early to check what silk had been delivered from the weaving shed, and then ended up trialing the plant on manual. I made it sound like a spontaneous decision, not a planned takeover of his domain. Gwen nodded support.

“This morning's test results. They show it can be done on manual,” she said, pointing to the ledger. He scrutinized my scribbled figures in silence.

“I see.” He cleared his throat. “S'pose you want the rest of them rolls done?”

“Yes, we need all twenty finished by this afternoon,” I said. “Perfectly. There's a van coming from Cameron's around five. Gwen will stay and help you and Ruby do the rest.”

• • •

It was early afternoon when Camerons' factory manager phoned to confirm their driver would arrive at half past five. Would the twenty rolls be ready by then, he politely enquired. With fingers crossed, I said we were on track and promised to let them know of any delays. Then I headed to the finishing room. Bert was standing hunched outside the door, smoking. Hearing my feet on the gravel, he looked up, his gnarled face expressionless.

“How's it going, Bert?”

“Okay. A couple of problems.”

Dread dragged at my feet as we went inside. I looked around. “Where's Gwen?”

“Someone from the warping mill came and asked for her. Emergency, they said,” he mumbled. “'Bout an hour ago. We've been pushing on without her.”

“What results are you getting?” He gestured to the ledger. Beside my scribbles was a column in his old-fashioned handwriting:

March
2nd 1942

Roll
1 Avg 14.3 variation +/- 0.5

Roll
2 Avg 14.2 variation +/- 2.3

Roll
3 Avg 14.3 variation +/- 0.7

Roll
4 Avg 14.6 variation +/- 0.5

Roll
5 Avg 14.2 variation +/- 3.8

Roll
6 Avg 14.0 variation +/- 4.2

“Does this mean that some parts of Roll 6 could be only 9.8?”

He nodded.

“And others up to 18.2?”

I began to pace, trying to quell my rising anger. “This just won't do, Bert. Unless we can get at least twenty rolls finished within proper tolerances by five this afternoon, we could lose the contract. Gwen showed you how to do it. Whatever have you been doing differently with these last couple of rolls?”

I looked him in the eye. He shook his head dumbly, infuriatingly.

“For goodness' sake. Stop the machine. Stop what you're doing, Ruby. Go and find Gwen. I need her in my office, at once.” I stormed back to the main building.

As I heard Gwen's footsteps on the stairs, I willed myself to stay calm.

“What's up, Lily?”

“You left Bert and Ruby on their own to finish those rolls? Unsupervised?”

“There was an emergency in the warping room. I was only gone half an hour. They can cope.” Her defensiveness just riled me more.

“For Christ's sake! This is a far worse emergency. In that time they've managed to make a mess of two rolls. Haven't you been down to check?”

“Bloody hell,” she said. “It was going fine when I left. I showed them how to do it, and the results were perfect.”

“Well, they aren't now. Get back down there and sort it out. Don't leave them for a second, till you've got twenty rolls perfect,” I shouted.

Her face went ashen. She turned and left without a word.

The afternoon dragged on. I felt shamefaced for shouting and anxious about what was happening in the finishing room, but resisted the temptation to check on their progress. Around four o'clock, I was returning from the canteen with my tea when I met Gwen climbing the stairs. She was pale with exhaustion, her curls lank. We went into my office and shut the door.

“I'm sorry about being so horrible earlier, Gwen. I just lost it. The tension, all that.”

“I didn't take it personally.” She smiled weakly.

“How's it going?”

“Not so bad,” she said, sitting down. “We've finished. All but those two rolls you saw are now within an acceptable variation. We can give Camerons eighteen—that's worth a journey.”

“We promised him twenty.” My anger simmered, but I held it back.

“We've done our very best. We can get a further ten to him by the day after tomorrow.”

“I'd better get on the blower and warn him,” I said, dreading the response.
Seems
to
be
a
problem
with
you, Lily
.

“I've sent Bert and Ruby home early. They were shattered. Hope you don't mind.”

“Why don't you go home too? I'll deal with the delivery.” Anything to get her out of the office. I needed to think about what to do.

“Sure?”

I nodded. “I'll see you later. Don't wait for me. I'll grab something when I get in.”

With a touch on my shoulder, she was gone.

• • •

I was deeply asleep with my head on the desk when a horn sounded loudly in the yard, jolting me awake. The office clock read ten to seven. I was confused. It was dark outside and silent inside: no voices from the office, no rumble of looms from the weaving shed. It must still be evening. The horn went again, then a pause, followed by an impatient knocking. I stood up, fuzzy with sleep, brushed my fingers through my hair, went downstairs yawning, and opened the door.

“Robbie?” My heart sank. After such a difficult day, he was the last person I wanted to see.

“Sorry I'm so late. My driver had bad news and there was no one else,” he said quietly.

“Poor man.”

“His son. Caught it. In the desert. Bloody awful.”

We stood there on the doorstep in a pool of porch light and the cows on the water meadows mooed to each other as they settled for the night. I thought of how Stefan described his desert and tried to imagine a battle being fought in that sand and heat, flies and dust. How far away it felt.

“I wanted to come anyway. To say sorry. I was a cad on Friday. That phone call.”

He reached his hand toward my face. Instinctively I recoiled, taking a step back.

“Whoa,” he raised both hands, palms toward me. “You think I'm still tempted? Oh no. I got over you, Lily, a long while ago,” he said, with a sneer in his voice.

“Sorry. I just thought…” I stuttered. Why did he always catch me off guard?

“I was only pointing—is that a bruise?” he said, gesturing at my cheek.

I put my hand up and felt the trace of Father's blotter indented into my skin, where I'd slept on it.

“It's nothing,” I said, rubbing it.

“Good. So, have you got the twenty rolls you promised?”

For a few seconds I hesitated, still befuddled with sleep.

“I tried to phone, but there wasn't any answer,” I lied.

As he loomed above me, the overhead light shadowed furrows in his brow. “Lily, you
promised
. You said you'd bloody well deliver this time.” His body tensed and for a second I was terrified that he might really hit me. “For Christ's sake, I haven't come all this way…” he shouted.

Confused and alarmed by his sudden anger, I stuttered, “Yes, it's fine, fine. There's…”

“Twenty rolls? That was the deal, Lily. That's what you promised.” His words were like machine gun fire. “So? So what's it to be?”

There was no other answer I could give.

“Yes,” I said. “Twenty. Take twenty.”

Westbury silk has been worn by generations of royal brides in gowns of satin, with its luxurious feel and draping qualities, or of crisp taffeta which holds its shape for a “fairy tale” ballerina-style dress. And not just for princesses. A gown of white or cream silk is the dream choice of every bride.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

I covered up my deception well.

Early next morning, I moved rolls about in the finishing room so no one would notice I'd let the faulty ones go. I was especially pleasant to Gwen and even to Bert, to make up for yesterday's behavior. No one would ever find out, I reasoned, even smugly deceiving myself that my lie had saved the firm from losing the Cameron contract. I buried it deep and eventually stopped thinking about it. We were busier than ever and now Stefan was back in the country, my conscience was easily distracted.

I hadn't seen Stefan for nearly a year, and then, in June, I received an exciting invitation. “I'm at the caravan this weekend,” the telegram read. “Can you make it? Valley Farm, Coombe Martin.”

It took all day to cross the country by train to Bristol, then by bus to Ilfracombe, and an hour's wait for a taxi. We drove through the village and finally stopped at the entrance to a narrow lane with high hedges either side, a raised grassy mound running between its deep muddy tracks.

“Allroight if I leaves yew here?” the driver said. “Gew down the end, through the gate, ther'it'll be.” For much of the ride, I'd been trying to fathom his West County accent, but this was clear enough. I'd caught glimpses of Exmoor through gaps in the cloud, but now it had closed in properly and started to drizzle. With only a light jacket, no umbrella, no raincoat, and stupidly lightweight shoes, I was soon soaked and covered in mud to my ankles. We haven't seen each other for ages, I thought gloomily, and here I am looking like a drowned rat.

But when I saw Stefan, all six feet of him stooping in the doorway of the caravan with that sweet sultry smile, I no longer cared how bedraggled I looked.

The van, a tiny, dirty-cream blob the shape of a squashed egg nestled into the green fold of a bumpy field, belonged to a friend of Stefan's, a chap in the Corps who rented it out for just a few shillings. Despite the unpromising outward appearance, it was reasonably well supplied with basic equipment and spacious enough for a tiny kitchen and a dining table. The bench seats were already converted into a double bed and we were soon cozily wrapped in blankets smelling only mildly of mildew, listening to the rain splattering on the roof, and buffeted by the wind.

Later, when the weather cleared, we strolled along the lane to the village, with the foothills of the moor looming darkly ahead of us against the evening sky. “We could walk up there tomorrow,” he said.

“No boots,” I said, smiling. “What a shame. We might just have to stay in bed all day.” It felt deliciously carefree. No demands, nobody watching or judging us, nothing to conceal. We could do exactly what we wanted—for two whole days.

The pub was cheerless and almost empty, but the beer was plentiful and after a couple of pints we stopped noticing its sour taste. This is like normal life at last, I thought, watching him hungrily devour a plateful of cheese and potato pie. Just time to be ourselves, to get to know each other properly. No separations, no uniforms, no rationing, no war.

Over the weekend, we spent many more hours wrapped up in our blankets in the fug of the van. “It's like heaven on wheels,” I said.

“Perhaps we could run away, towing our house behind us?” he said, laughing. I quoted the passage about Toad and the open road from
The
Wind
in
the
Willows
, promising to lend him the book next time he came to Westbury.

“Make it soon,” I whispered into his ear.

“Very soon, I promise,” he murmured, kissing the back of my neck.

• • •

There were plenty of other distractions at work. I was even enjoying it, feeling more comfortable in my role as Acting Managing Director, learning about being a boss, when to be decisive and when to hold my tongue, that it was always better to listen carefully and consider before responding to questions, how to chair meetings that allowed people to have their say but didn't overrun, and how to be sympathetic but firm with tricky staff.

Even attending national committees held few fears for me these days. I was greeted warmly and respectfully—no longer the new girl. But I did miss the friendly face of Michael Merrison. We'd been receiving supplies of “his” Syrian raw, but I hadn't heard anything from him personally for over a year. Then his letter arrived.

2nd July 1943

Beirut

Dearest Lily,

Sorry it has taken so long to write. It's been jolly busy but I know that's no real excuse. Anyway, here I am, after an exciting journey and getting stuck into the job. Up until now I've been completely on my tod, but at last they've sent me some help.

And what a title they have given him—Assistant to the Chief Assistant, Ministry of Supply, Near and Middle East! This suggests that I am Chief Assistant, but who I am supposed to be assisting is more of a mystery.

But it does mean I can finally get some leave. It's back via Cairo again but it will be worth it—a whole six weeks! I can't wait to see the folks, and hope we can meet up too. Not sure if you will be in London at any point. What do you think?

Can't say much in a letter but we've been doing the rounds of people who oil the wheels: the President's aides & Ministers, key bods in the ex-pat fraternity, and the Archbishop, who's now a friend—who'd have thought it! Visiting hill farms & filatures here in the city.

I expect you are weaving “my” raw by now? It seems the ministry is also at last starting to appreciate what we've done out here. The raw might not be up to Japanese standards, but hopefully it's bringing our pilots down safely.

Time for bed. I hope to see you very soon.

Dear, sweet Michael. How little he knew about the problems his silk yarn had caused us. But I wasn't going to tell him. He was doing his best, and it was better than nothing.

A few weeks later, he telephoned. He was back in the country. “Can we meet?” he asked. “I'm down in London on Thursday.”

“It's a bit tricky for me to get away that day,” I said, flicking through the diary.

“I could come to Westbury instead, around teatime? Call it a business trip and charge it to the Ministry? I'd have a couple of hours before I have to get back.”

“Cracking idea,” I said. “It's been ages. We'll go for tea. But there won't be any Battenberg this time, I'm afraid.”

“Just seeing you will be treat enough for me,” he said sweetly.

As I waited for him at the station, I found myself curiously nervous and eager to see Michael again, with his big open smile and easy humor. So much had happened since then, and I looked forward to hearing about his Middle East adventures.

Even though we had only met once, we'd had such good fun together it felt as though I already knew him well, but when he climbed off the train at Westbury Station, he looked so stiff and serious I began to think my memory had deceived me. As we walked into town, making faltering small talk, I wondered whether the afternoon was going to be heavy going.

The Chantry Tea Room was run by a couple of elderly spinster sisters who had kitted out their front room with dark oak furniture and faded frilly chintz. Their teacakes and scones were legendary, though rumor had it that their wartime jam was disgusting.

We were the only customers that afternoon, and once we had been shown to our table, I opened my handbag and revealed the jar of Mother's homemade raspberry jam I'd sneaked from home.

“You cheeky little devil,” he whispered, laughing at last. “We can't use that. The old dears would be so insulted.”

“I don't see why not. We don't have to tell them,” I said.

When the scones and teacakes arrived, he tried the carrot jam and made a face. So I opened my jar under the table, and we giggled like schoolchildren as I made a sticky mess trying to sneak a dollop onto each of our plates. It broke the ice, and as we ate, he relaxed into the Michael I remembered.

“What we'd give for a slice of Battenberg these days,” he said, trying one of the dried-up pastries the ladies had proudly presented on a tiered porcelain cake stand. “The Arabs are hot on honey pastries, which are delicious, but I do yearn for a good old sponge.”

After that, our two hours rushed by as he entertained me with stories of his extraordinary journey out to Beirut via the Nile and Cairo then by flying boat across the Med, about the Lebanon and the filatures he'd been busy setting up in Beirut to process the cocoons into raw silk.

“Where do the cocoons come from?” I asked.

“I've been dead lucky getting introductions to dozens of old silk farmers living in the hills,” he said. “They usually only produce enough for their own use, or for their village, but I persuaded most of them to double their quantities. They'd do anything for a bit of extra cash at the moment,” he said. “But listen to this, Lily. Most of the big import/export merchants in Beirut were sending all their Iranian and Turkish raw to Italy, on a big contract from Mussolini. I couldn't think how to get my hands on it.”

“How did you?” I asked.

“I went to see them and noticed most of the men were wearing skullcaps. They were Jewish,” he laughed.

I was astonished. “They didn't realize who Mussolini was supporting?”

He shook his head. “But once I told them, and they went away and checked out my story, all their stocks were mine. For a good price too. Stroke of genius, though I say it myself.” So confident and kind, so solid and dependable. Not Hollywood handsome, but good-looking, with that exotic combination of dark hair and deep violet eyes.

When we came to say good-bye at the station, he held my hands, then awkwardly tried to kiss me on the mouth. I turned my face and his lips ended up on my earlobe.

“I'm so sorry,” he blustered. “I'm such an idiot.”

“There's nothing to apologize for,” I said, blushing foolishly.

“I didn't even think to ask whether you have a boyfriend.”

It felt brutal, but I had to be honest. “Actually I do. His name's Stephen.”

He looked abashed, struggling to find something to say. “Is he serving abroad?” he finally blurted out.

“He's with the Pioneer Corps,” I said quietly. It was not prestigious, I knew. Michael would wonder what kind of person this boyfriend was. But it was the truth.

“Lucky fellow,” he said wistfully, then frowned. “Oh no, I don't mean lucky being in the Pioneer Corps,” he faltered, then added, “Not that there's anything wrong with that.” Confusion flooded his face again. “Oh goodness. I'm digging myself into a hole here. Can't get anything right.”

The whistle went, and there were only a few seconds left.

“Please don't worry. I like you very much as you are,” I tried to reassure him. There was a longer blast on the whistle, and he climbed into the carriage and opened the window. As the train started to puff away, he shouted, “And you're a wonderful girl.”

A few months later, I received a Christmas card. Michael had made it himself—they were not widely available in the Lebanon, I assumed—a pen and ink drawing of him in swimming trunks on a beach, standing by a fir tree, and wearing a Father Christmas hat. Inside he wrote: “
Hope
Christmas
is
as
happy
as
possible. I had such a lovely time seeing you in Westbury that day, and thank you for the delicious jam! Sorry for being such a dolt. But I will always be your friend and if you ever change your mind…
”

• • •

It turned out to be the most memorable Christmas of my life.

We'd made a determined effort to be jolly, put in an early order for a goose from a local farmer, and had carefully saved carrots and potatoes from last year's crop. There were carrots in the pudding too, to make it a bit sweeter and cover up the shortage of sugar, but we made a brandy cream to improve the taste. We set aside four bottles of Frank's famously powerful turnip wine, and when Vera popped in on Christmas Eve, it was time to start celebrating.

She was bursting with excitement, eyes sparkling in her weary face.

“Look,” she said, pressing a copy of the Red Cross magazine,
Prisoner
of
War
, into Mother's hand. “It's a photo of John. He's dressed up as Nanki-Poo. In
The
Mikado
, would you believe it?”

We gathered around, eager to see. The small grainy photo showed a group of grinning men in bedsheet-kimonos and fake Mandarin mustaches, like a bunch of lads in the village pantomime.

“They look cheerful enough,” Mother said.

“Who was Nanki-Poo?” I asked, feeling painfully ignorant.

“A wandering minstrel, it's one of the lead roles. Look at his cardboard guitar,” Vera said, laughing. “John won't be doing much wandering this Christmas, but at least he's safer there than being in the thick of it.”

Mother peered more closely at the photograph, then kissed it. “This is a lovely Christmas present. Just knowing he's alive is enough for me.”

“With a bit of luck, the Allies'll crack on through Italy this year and get the Germans on the run,” Gwen said, popping the cork she'd been wrestling with. “Then they can all come home.”

I was barely listening, my head full of thoughts of Stefan. I hadn't seen him since our weekend in the caravan, though we'd spoken on the telephone every week or so. He'd hoped to get leave over Christmas but I'd had no word, and as the evening drew on I resigned myself to not seeing him.