Last Telegram (9 page)

Although I'd seen the machinery being installed, I hadn't watched it working before. John showed me how the silk went through two large baths of boiling water to be degummed and rinsed, and how to lift the silk onto hooks called stenters that stretched it back to its previous width. After that, it was hung in a hot air cupboard to dry and run through yet more rollers to be pressed.

“Looks simple, doesn't it? But it's not. The silk has to go over the rollers at exactly the right speeds, and at the same time the temperature in the vats has to be exact.”

He wiped his brow. “And even supposing we get all that right, we have to make sure the silk goes through the drier at the right speed and temperature so that it's just damp enough to be put through hot rollers to iron it—what we call calendering.”

Stacked on a rack were rolls of the untreated white silk Stefan and I had woven. “I've had the vats heating and the thermostat says they're at the right temperature, so shall we have another go? Help me up with this roll, would you?”

“Hang on a sec,” I said. “Didn't you say there was a problem with the thermostat?”

He frowned. Why was I asking difficult questions when I knew nothing about it? “How am I supposed to know if we don't try it first?”

“Use a thermometer? Good old-fashioned kind?”

“Where on earth can we get one of those at this time of night?”

I had a moment of inspiration. “Mother's jam thermometer, the brass one on the hook above the stove. I'll run back and get it.”

We lowered the thermometer into the vat on a piece of wire, and once the rolls were in place, John clicked a switch and the machinery started, pulling the silk through the first two vats. The steam ran in rivulets down our faces as we worked side by side, hooking the silk onto the stenters. John turned his attention to the control panel and checked the thermometer. I went outside to cool off.

When I came back, he said, “You were right, you know. The thermostat said two hundred and twelve degrees and cut out the heater, but the thermometer was only at a hundred and eighty-nine. I've had to adjust the thermostat higher still to get the water to boiling point. Bloody thing's obviously on the blink.” It was as though the machine had personally insulted him. Trying to conceal my smugness, I went to watch the silk emerge from the drier.

“Shouldn't this silk be rolling straight?” I called over the growl of the machinery. He left the control panel and came to look.

“Oh blast, what the hell is wrong now?” he cursed, rushing to hit the off switch. The machinery sighed slightly as it came to a halt. “If I run the rollers slowly in reverse, can you pull out the wrinkles?”

“I'll do my best.”

“Mind your fingers.”

“Will do, have a go.” As silk rewound, it became clear what had caused the problem. “I think this roller's slightly offset,” I called. “That's why the silk's not rolling up straight.”

He stopped the machine and came back. “By God, you're right, Lily. Can't bloody trust anyone.” He went to a tool box and pulled out a large spanner. “We'll have to adjust the axle.”

Finally we got started again, and when I next looked, the clock on the wall read half-past nine. We'd been working for two hours, but I'd hardly noticed the time passing.

“Now we have to test it,” he said. “Help me lift it over here. This thing's a burst tester, which checks how much strain the silk can take before it breaks. And then we have to put it through the porosity tester. That's the most important—it measures how quickly the air goes through the fabric.”

I hadn't noticed the two curious contraptions on the stainless steel tabletop. The smaller one looked rather like a sewing machine with a large dial attached to one side. John pulled out a few yards of material, laid it across the plate, and lowered the lever, trapping the silk snugly over the hole below. “Wind the handle, slowly.” As I turned the small wheel, the needle moved clockwise round its dial and the rubber expanded upward into a dome, stretching the cloth till there was a slight “whoof” as it broke.

“
Wundervoll
,” he said, releasing the lever and inspecting the hole. “Weft and warp broke together at eighty point three. That'll do nicely.” He wrote the result into a red-backed ledger.

With its orange rubber tubes and multiple dials, the porosity tester looked more like something out of science fiction. John positioned the silk and lowered the lever, compressing round rubber seals onto the material from both sides. When he pushed the button, the machine hissed and sighed for a few seconds. He scrutinized the needle as it leaped and settled on the dial, then threw his hands up into the air in triumph. “Fourteen point four, the golden number. At last.” He did a little jig and gave me a hug.

“Fourteen point four what?”

“Cubic feet per second, that's how fast the air is supposed to go through a square foot of fabric. It's air permeability—the porosity index Robbie was going on about.”

“It has to be that exact?”

“Within a close range. We ought to repeat the test a couple of times to make sure it's consistent. But we can do that tomorrow.”

I was too excited to wait. “We'll sleep better if we know it's right. Do a couple more now. It'll only take a few minutes.”

The next two came within the right range and we decided to call it a day. Walking back across the yard to the darkened house, he said, “Thanks for your help tonight, Sis.”

“I quite enjoyed it,” I said, glowing at the unexpected compliment.

“That thermometer was a stroke of genius, and I can't understand why no one spotted the wonky roller before.” He stopped. “Want a smoke before we go in?”

We sat on the front step and lit up.

“Whatever happened to your plans to go to London?” he asked. “Thought you couldn't wait to get away from here?”

“I'd like to sometime,” I said, wondering whether this was still true. “But working at the mill has turned out to be a lot more interesting than I imagined.”

“I hear good things about you from Gwen,” he said.

“She never says anything to me. What did she tell you?” I asked, quietly pleased.

“She says you've learned fast and you're a hard worker. Got an eye for detail,” he said, “just what you need in a weaver.”

“That's good to hear,” I said. “She goes on about how skilled Stefan is too, but she never tells him, so he's always worrying whether she likes him. I wonder why she never praises anyone directly?”

“Nature of the beast,” John laughed. “She's a funny old stick.”

We puffed in silence for a few moments.

“I don't want to be a weaver forever, but it's quite important, what we are doing here, don't you think?” I said.

“We're preparing for war,” he said gloomily. “War kills people.”

“Our parachutes will save lives, at least,” I said, not wanting to deflate my cheerful mood.

“That's one way of looking at it,” he said oddly, stubbing out the cigarette under his heel with surprising ferocity. I wondered what was on his mind, but forgot all about it until later, when Vera told me.

The silk we love for its softness and beauty is also one of the strongest and toughest fibers in the world. It has a strength of around five grams per denier compared with three grams per denier for a drawn wire of soft steel. It has much more elasticity than cotton or flax, and its resistance to shearing or twisting forces is considerably greater than that of the new rayons and nylons.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

At last, Vera got a weekend off. She came home rarely these days.

I missed my best friend, our gossip and silliness, our shared sense of the ridiculous. She could only talk on the public telephone in a noisy corridor of the nurses' home, and at my end Father tended to hang around, muttering about the cost of the calls, so we couldn't speak for long. All I'd gathered was that her matron was a tyrant, and the pressure of studying as well as working long shifts was beginning to tell.

On Friday evening, she arrived at the front door, still in her nurse's uniform, and pale with exhaustion.

“Just on my way home from the station,” she said. “Caught the six o'clock from Liverpool Street.”

I hugged her. “Are you here for the whole weekend?”

She nodded. “Abso-bloody-lutely. I'm shattered,” she sighed.

“Got anything special planned?”

“Sleeping a lot. Catching up with the folks. Seeing you, of course. Can't wait for a proper chinwag.”

“I can't wait either, it's dull as dishwater around here,” I grimaced. “Have you got time for a snifter?”

“I'd better get back to the folks soonish, but perhaps just a quick one.” She looked past me into the hall, in an odd sort of way. “Where's John?”

“In the finishing room as usual, I expect. Why?” She ignored the question.

“Shall we go and sit by the tree?” she said. “I really need some fresh air after London.”

“Take gee and tees with us?” I said.

“Now you're talking.”

The old Bramley apple tree had always been our favorite spot for our gossips, a place for sharing secrets about school or crushes on boys, where we could not be overheard. The sun was low in the sky, gleaming pinkly through the row of rustling poplars at the end of the orchard. The grass was tall, the clover still humming with bees, collared doves cooed calmingly as they settled for the night.

We sat on the wobbly wooden seat at the base of the tree, the ice in our glasses of gin and tonic tinkling cheerfully.

“It's so beautiful here, I never properly appreciated it before,” she sighed. “All the apple blossoms, and the candles on the horse chestnuts. You don't know how much I've missed green fields.”

“How's nursing?” I said. “I want to hear everything.”

“Oh, okay,” she said wearily.

“You don't sound so sure. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she said more firmly. “It's hard work. Great fun,” she tailed off and took a sip of her drink.

“But?” I said. “Come on, Vera. Something's happened. You can't hide anything from me, I know you too well.”

To my relief, she was smiling now. “I meant to save it for tomorrow. But I can't keep it in any more. Promise you won't be cross?”

“For heaven's sake, what's this all about?”

A pause, then she said quietly, “It's John and me.”

I didn't get it. “What about John and you?”

“We're dating.”

At first I didn't understand. “What? John? You? I don't believe it. You're joking.” From the look on her face, I could see she wasn't, and backtracked quickly. “Crikey…I mean…Oh, Vera.”

“We've been out for drinks in London. Twice. The second time, he kissed me.”

I forced a smile, but my stomach started to churn with a disagreeable mixture of emotions; faint disgust coupled with an overriding sensation of raw, almost painful, jealousy. It felt like a slap in the face.

Whatever did she see in him? I thought of the times we'd ganged up against him, to trick him or get him into trouble. And the time she cracked her head when he pushed her off the swing. I felt sure she'd never forgive him. But now they seemed to be ganging up against me. It felt as though John had stolen my best friend.

She started to gabble, words pouring out as if the dam had burst. “I've fancied him for a while, since he got back last year. But I couldn't really believe he was interested in me. When he invited me out, I thought he was just being kind. But we couldn't stop talking, he's so easygoing, and he makes me laugh. Next time we went to the cinema, he kissed me and said he hoped I felt the same as him. I think I might be in love.”

As she rattled on, I swigged my drink to quell the queasy feeling in my stomach. Yet I could see her happiness glowing through the weary pallor, returning roses to her cheeks, highlighting dimples flattened by tiredness. Why should I be so upset? My brother might be irritating but he was a decent chap, honest, and he had good prospects. Not a bad catch, and Vera was my best friend. Surely I should be happy for them both?

But there was something else in Vera's face, a guarded look I couldn't put my finger on. “Have you told anyone else about it?”

“No one. He wants to keep it that way for the moment. Promise you won't spill the beans?”

“My best friend spoons my brother. How can I keep that a secret?”

“If you don't, I may just have to keel you,” she said in that stagey piratical accent we used when we acted out the story of Peter Pan on the island. “Walk zee plank. Beware zee crocodiles.”

Laughing made me feel a little better. “When are you going to tell the world?”

“Soon, I think. Probably. Depends on what happens…”

“What do you mean, ‘what happens'? Are you planning to elope or something?” She sighed and put her face in her hands. “Vera?” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. “I thought you were happy.”

“I am, of course,” she said, sitting up, “but it's complicated.” She emptied her glass. “There's something else I've got to tell you. I just can't keep it to myself any longer.”

“Put me out of my misery,” I said. Surely she wasn't pregnant?

“Oh, Lily,” she blurted out suddenly, with a sob in her voice, “if there's a war, he says he's going to join up. Whatever am I going to do?”

The grass and the evening sky seemed to pale, like an overexposed photograph, and the persistent cooing of the collared doves became loud and irritating. “I don't believe it. Why's he told you, but not us?” I squeaked.

She shook her head, and quite suddenly, I was overcome with anger. “What a stupid, stupid, selfish boy,” I found myself shouting. “He never thinks of anyone else but himself. What about Mother and Father? They'll be devastated.”

“I shouldn't have told you,” she whispered, her voice cracked.

“He doesn't have to go. Father said he thought producing parachute silk would be a reserved occupation, like being a doctor or an engineer. They won't have to fight because they're needed here, at home.”

“I've already been through all that.” Her face was blotchy and wretched. “But he says he can't stay at home while other people fight, and the Germans will invade unless we stop them.” She started to sob properly now, shoulders shaking, the tears leaving grimy streaks on her cheeks.

I pulled out an insubstantial lacy handkerchief, rather grubby.

“He doesn't have to stop them in person,” I said, as Vera tried to dry her eyes. I watched the ants running up and down the bark of the tree, busy in their miniature world, and envied their simple lives. “How will we cope at the mill? Why hasn't he told us?”

“Because he knows your parents would try to dissuade him, that's why.” She gave a ragged sigh. “Bloody, isn't it? Men feel it's their duty to go and fight, but…hell, I'm so terrified I'll lose him, just as we've found each other.” A new tear overflowed, trickled down her cheek, and came to rest in a dimple.

“Let me talk to him.”

“Please don't. He'd be furious if he knew I'd told you.”

“Then
you'll
have to stop him.”

“You think I haven't tried?”

“This is so awful. Why do countries have to fight each other?”

We sat silently for a moment.

“Lord, is that the time?” She peered at the little watch pinned upside down to her breast pocket like a medal. “I've got to go. The parents will worry. When John gets in, would you mention that I'm back? Casually—you don't know about us, remember?”

“Shall I see you tomorrow, or have you got to see John instead?” I sounded like a jealous lover.

“Oh, Lily, don't be such an idiot. This won't stop us being best friends.” She jumped up, brushing the dust from her skirt. “I'm sorry all of this has come as such a shock. I didn't mean to gab about his joining up, but I've been so worried. You're the only person I can talk to.”

• • •

I watched the sun setting behind the poplars and listened to the evening chorus of birds noisily staking their territories. An absurd thought crossed my mind—if birds could settle their differences by singing, why couldn't countries find some similarly peaceable way of doing it? Why did they have to fight each other?

Didn't John realize his misguided sense of duty could get him killed? I had to try to dissuade him. But what chance was there of changing his mind when Vera had already tried and failed? He seemed so absolute these days, so certain of his opinions. He railed against Chamberlain's peace-making—in his view, nothing but brute force would stop the Nazis now. In any case, if I talked to him he'd be furious with Vera for breaking his confidence.

When I got back, the house was empty and a cold supper was laid on the kitchen table, covered with muslin, a note propped against the water jug. “
Gone
to
bed. Headache. Sorry. Mother
.” I had no appetite, anyway. I pulled an armchair over to the sitting room window, poured myself another large gin and tonic, and sat with my head full of angry, miserable thoughts, as the air grew thick with dusk and the room went dark around me.

• • •

The following day, Vera and I went shopping in Westbury for makeup to cheer ourselves up. We made a pact not to talk about war. Over strong tea and stale cakes in Mary's Café, I told her about my date with Robbie.

“Flying you away for the weekend, how romantic,” Vera sighed. “Sounds like something out of Hollywood.”

“I won't go, of course.”

“You
must
go. When would you get a chance like that again? To hell with your virginity, you've got to lose it some time.” Vera might already have lost hers, I thought, mildly disgusted at the thought of her and my brother doing it. But it wasn't the virginity thing that concerned me.

“To be honest, I'm not sure what I feel about him. He's so gentlemanly and handsome and he's got a beautiful car. Ma and Pa think he's the bee's knees. But…”

“But what?”

Why was I hesitating? I hardly knew myself. I'd been desperate for a boyfriend and desolate when Robbie had failed to follow up his promise. Now that he seemed keen, I was having doubts. And it wasn't just that I thought he was a bit fast.

“What's up, Lily?” A slow smile spread across her face. “There's someone else, isn't there? Goodness, you are a dark horse. Go on, spill it.”

“No,” I said firmly. “No one else, nothing to tell.”

There really was nothing, at least not that I could make sense of. But something unexpected had happened that I couldn't get out of my mind.

• • •

All week, the weather had been roasting and so hot in the weaving shed that we had struggled to keep our hands dry to avoid staining the silk with sweat. The canteen, with its wide windows, was also sweltering and provided no respite at tea breaks. Stefan, Kurt, and Walter had started to take their breaks outside to get some fresh air, and I was usually invited to join them.

That day, I found Stefan on the bench behind the boiler house, on his own. It was cool there, shaded from direct sunshine by the overhang of the building.

“Where are the others?” I asked. Kurt and Walter had recently been promoted from the packing shed to work in the new finishing room with Bert.

“They have to finish a couple of rolls before they can stop, Bert said.”

Across the meadows, a gentle breeze blew a blizzard of willow fluff. “Is it snowing, in June?” he said, as we sat down with our glasses of orange squash.

“It's just the seed from the cricket bat willows, silly.”

“Cricket bat willows?”

“Those tall, straight trees.” I pointed. “They use the wood for cricket bats.”

“All of those trees? That will make many bats.”

“Every English boy has to have one.”

“You and your cricket,” he laughed.

“It's like a religion,” I said.

“But why do they use that wood? Is it so special?”

“It is flexible and strong, and doesn't crack when you whack a cricket ball.”

“I know nothing about cricket, I'm a city boy,” he said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes, tapping the end, and taking out two. He lit them both and passed one to me. The intimacy of this gesture gave me a little jolt of pleasure. I found myself watching him without meaning to; no movement was superfluous. He reminded me of a sleek black cat.

“Tell me about your city,” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to blow smoke rings into the still air.

“Hamburg? It is a wonderful place. On a big river, the Elbe, a harbor, lots of ships. But most of all I like the music. It has many jazz clubs and bars.” The fingers on his left hand played silent notes on his knee.

“Where did you learn to play the piano?”