Last Telegram (21 page)

“Bloody difficult to find good people these days,” another agreed.

The conversation continued in this vein. I couldn't let the implied criticism of women workers go unchallenged.

“Actually, I find it's a good combination,” I found myself saying, hardly believing this authoritative voice was coming from me. “The old boys have plenty of experience and women make excellent weavers, quick to learn and very dextrous, don't you think?”

They stopped and looked at each other, apparently disconcerted by my intervention, wondering how to react. The younger man was grinning again, and he had just started to say something when a loud voice summoned us into the meeting room and the group broke up.

The Army and Air Force chaps moved first, filing confidently into what appeared to be their usual seats along either side of a long, oval mahogany table with a dazzling sheen. The businessmen courteously stood aside for me, and as I entered the room, I could see five khaki uniforms seating themselves on the far side, and on the nearside, six gray-blue uniforms taking their chairs. By the time I could see past the crowd of large backs, the only place untaken was next to the stout man who had shouted at me earlier.

“I thought Marilyn was clerking?” he said, peering at me with a puzzled expression as I sat down.

“My name is Lily Verner, how do you do,” I replied, with what I hoped was a forgiving smile. At that moment, he was distracted by something behind me, and I twisted around to see a young woman standing beside my chair, her notebook in hand. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized that she was Marilyn, the clerk, and I was sitting in her seat.

The room fell silent and every face turned toward me. I could see, at the other end of the table, the young businessman collecting an extra chair and placing it next to his.

“Miss Verner, would you like to sit here?” he called.

I walked the length of the room, cheeks burning, and sat down murmuring my gratitude. He slid a piece of paper toward me and I studied it carefully. It read:
Agenda. Minutes of previous meeting. Item 1: Parachute Silk Supplies. Item 2: Insulation Silk Supplies. Any Other Business. Date of Next Meeting
.

The stout person turned out to be the chairman, Sir George Markham, head of the silk section of the Ministry of Supply. He called the meeting to order and introduced himself, though no one else was invited to do so. Perhaps they all knew each other already. After my
faux
pas
with the seating, I was not about to pipe up.

People were distributing more pieces of paper titled
Minutes
of
the
Meeting, 29th November 1939
. I took a copy and passed the others on.

The name at the top, among the list of attendees, was like a slap in the face: Mr. Harold Verner. I was so busy being nervous that I'd completely forgotten he would have been here, the last time this meeting was held. Father had sat in this same room, probably with the same people in their same seats, less than a month before he died. And not just then, but many times before.

I could almost feel his solid presence, see him at this table, sitting with back straight, his face fully engaged with the proceedings, his voice calm and reasonable, making sure his points were always fully understood. Which chair had he sat on? What contributions had he made? Who were his allies, or even his friends?
It should be you here today, Father, not me,
I thought,
but you will never sit here again.
The sadness was dizzying, threatening to overwhelm me.

There was a hand on my shoulder, and I heard the nice young man's voice asking “Miss Verner, are you all right?”

I nodded and took a few deep breaths. Tell me what to do, I asked Father silently, how shall I react to these people, in these surroundings that are so familiar to you? But there was no reply.

“Agenda Item One,” the chairman announced firmly. “Raw silk supplies. You all know the problem, and the minister wants it sorted, sharpish. Put plainly, if we're going to win this war, we need more parachutes, and we're perilously short of raw silk. Japan is siding with the Axis powers and controls trade routes to China. It goes without saying that European silk is unobtainable. Over to you, gentlemen.”

Within moments, the two sides were sniping at each other across the table.

“Why can't you use cotton like our paratroopers—or are your fliers too grand for that?”

The Air Force returned fire. “You try fitting one of those bulky cotton jobs into the cockpit of a fighter plane, old man, you'd soon see why.”

“Gentlemen, please,” the chairman said wearily. “We have a mutual enemy to fight, remember?”

One of the business types raised his hand like a schoolchild. It struck me as a silly gesture for a grown man, and I thought of Vera. She'd have been sitting here, shoulders shaking, trying to stifle her giggles.

“Yes, Johnson?” asked the chairman.

“How are those R&D men getting on with nylon?”

“They're working hard on it, but they can't get the strength-to-bulk ratios right,” said the chairman. “We're pushing them hard, and hope to have a result soon.”

An RAF man sniped again, “Our chaps won't accept nylon 'chutes, even if you get the other things sorted. Anywhere near fire and it melts like candle wax. You feel what it's like to have a load of molten nylon running down your back and you'll realize why they're not keen.” His troops muttered support and the khaki side held their fire.

“I can see it's not going to be an easy one, but we can defer our decision until we've got the R&D results, if you're all agreed,” the chairman said, and there were nods around the table as they moved on to the next item on the agenda: insulation silk.

The room was airless and smelled of undisturbed dust. Through the windows, past the military haircuts, I watched the plane trees glittering green and silver in the sunshine, and for a moment, lost the thread of the discussion. Turning my gaze back into the room, I caught the young man looking at me again, his eyes so dark blue they seemed almost violet. A nice face, honest and dependable, I thought, failing to notice that the chairman was addressing me.

“Miss Verner, are you with us?”

I nodded, blushing again.

“I assume you are here because your father has another engagement? Do you have anything to contribute to this debate on his behalf?”

I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to tell you that my father passed away in December.” Everyone's eyes turned toward me. “So I am attending this meeting as acting managing director of Verner and Sons.”

Since no one responded, I took a deep breath and forced myself to carry on. “However, I am pleased to report that Verners is weaving more than three thousand yards of parachute silk every week, all of which has been accepted by your ministry as being of correct weight and porosity.” I could hear Father's voice now, leading my words. “We have also experimented, on behalf of the ministry, with cotton-silk mix using fine cotton for the warp, which is currently under testing.”

The chairman nodded encouragement, Marilyn was scribbling busily in her notebook, and suddenly everyone was paying attention. I could sense the young man beside me, urging me on.

“I am new to this committee,” I said, growing in confidence now. Father's voice had disappeared; I was speaking for myself. Perhaps Gwen was right; they might be more likely to listen to a woman. “But I hope to be able to contribute fully and will do whatever I can to support the sourcing of additional raw silk stocks or the development of new fibers.”

“Thank you, Miss Verner, for that helpful contribution. And please accept the condolences of myself and the committee for the sad loss of your father. He was a stalwart member of this committee.” There was a new warmth in the chairman's voice and mutterings of “hear, hear” around the table.

When the meeting finally ended, we filed back downstairs into the lobby, and as I headed straight for the door, longing for fresh air, the young businessman caught up with me.

“I am so sorry to hear about Mr. Verner. I only met him once but he seemed very knowledgeable, and a real gentleman,” he said. “Please let me introduce myself properly. I am Michael Merrison, of Merrisons silk merchants. We deserve a cup of tea after all that. There's a Lyons nearby, would you care to join me? They may even have something other than carrot cake—what a treat that would be.”

Over tea and Battenberg cake (a treat indeed) in the crowded, noisy Corner House, he told me about his family business, which sourced silk yarn from around the world. The company was based in Macclesfield, the center of the weaving industry. His northern vowels sounded mildly exotic.

“Do you supply Verners?”

“Of course. Since way back.”

“No wonder your name's familiar.”

We clicked at once, Michael and I, though at the time I thought little of it. He was self-assured without being arrogant, funny without being silly. Not handsome, but good-looking, with his brown curly hair and eyes that seemed never far from a smile. And he had perfect manners.

I felt a sense of kindred; his family and mine had known each other and worked together, perhaps for generations.

“Do you enjoy working for the family business?” I asked.

“Frankly, it was the last thing I imagined myself doing. I was going to be an explorer and find the source of the Nile.”

“Dr. Merrison, I presume?” People at neighboring tables turned and smiled at his generous guffaw.

“When Father finally persuaded me to hang up my pith helmet and join the yarn trade, I discovered it was surprisingly interesting. We all consider what we grow up with to be much more mundane than it really is.”

“It was like that for me. I was going to travel the world and learn languages till the war came along. Then I fell in love with silk.”

“Well, there's a silver lining,” he said. “Otherwise we might not have met.” The flirtatious smile reminded me of Stefan's, made me ache for him. I must be careful not to lead Michael on, I thought. But I would like him to be a friend.

“Is yours a reserved occupation too?”

“It is, but I joined up anyway, after Dunkirk.”

“What happened? Were you injured?”

He nodded, his mouth full of cake. “But it shames me to say I never saw active service. Hurt my back during training, and they couldn't fix it, so they paid me off.”

“Why's that so shameful?”

“They were such a great bunch. Now they're in North Africa in the heat and the sand, dying by the dozen, while I'm just swanning around in my pinstripes. It's hard to bear.”

“Hardly swanning. I'd have thought that making sure we have enough supplies of silk is pretty critical.”

“It's certainly a struggle at the moment, what with the Japanese blockade.” He paused, then leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Can I trust you with a secret, Lily?”

“Of course.”

“It's so exciting I can hardly keep it to myself. This morning, before the committee, I went to a meeting with Sir George's people in the ministry. We'd submitted a proposal for sourcing silk in the Middle East—in Syria and the Lebanon—and they've agreed to it. My father went a few years ago and he knows some people. They've asked me to go and get things moving, just as soon as it can be arranged.”

“My goodness. How exciting.”

“The hill farmers there have grown silkworms for centuries, but only for local use. They're not commercial. That's going to be my job. Get them producing more cocoons and set up filatures to reel it.”

“How on earth will you get there? You can't fly over France, or the Med. Or North Africa, surely.”

“It's going to be tricky.” He tapped the side of his nose. “They're working it out for me. There's talk of a flying boat up the Nile to Cairo.”

“Wow, you might find the source after all. When do you go?”

“Soon, I think. They're also organizing me a crash course in Arabic.” The violet-blue eyes beamed. “Sounds terrific, doesn't it?”

“Sounds terrifying. But if that's what you want to do.”

“Can we keep in touch?”

“Of course. But—” I started.

“No buts,” he put a finger to his lips. “No one can promise anything to anyone in this bloody war. All we can do is hope.”

• • •

On the train home, I reflected, with a warm glow, that it had been a very successful day. I had survived my first serious business meeting, held my own against the old hands, and had tea with a very agreeable young man.

My cheery “hello, I'm home” met with no reply, but I thought nothing of it and started up the stairs to get changed. Then I heard Gwen calling from the kitchen. “Lily, we're in here.” Her voice was urgent. I hurried in. She and Vera were sitting at the table.

“Vera, how lovely. Have you got the day off?” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I saw the telegram in her hand. She looked up with red eyes.

“John's missing in action.”

The silk moth caterpillar can lower itself to the ground by the silk thread it spins. In the 1920s, Leslie Irvin, of the Irvin Parachute Company, created an informal but elite international association called the “Caterpillar Club” for all those who have successfully used a parachute to bail out of a disabled aircraft. After authentication by the parachute maker, applicants receive a membership certificate and a distinctive lapel pin.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

Along, fearful fortnight passed till the day I came home from work to find Mother up and dressed, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Are you all right?” I said, trying not to sound too shocked. Since the telegram about John, she had taken to her bed again.

“I've had a call from John's squadron leader, dear,” she said in a small voice, spots of pink appearing on her pale cheeks with the effort of giving me her news. “He's alive. A prisoner of war.”

“Oh Mum. How wonderful.” I hugged her wasted frame and sat down, holding her two hands in mine. The late afternoon sun reflected off the mill walls opposite, filling the room with a peachy glow. Now John was alive perhaps she would start to live again too.

“Did he tell you any more?”

“He said their bomber was badly damaged by flak but they managed to get halfway home before they had to bail out into the North Sea. Oh my darling, God must have been with them.” She paused to wipe her eyes and went on, “They were rescued by a German patrol boat and taken to hospital in Belgium. Can you believe it? They got him well enough to travel to a camp in Germany.”

She waved a piece of paper with a hastily scribbled address, her eyes begging me for affirmation. “He must be all right now, don't you think?

I couldn't imagine what a prisoner of war camp could be like, but at least he was alive. “It's a miracle. Have you phoned Vera?”

“Oh yes,” she said, with a frail smile. “I should think the whole hospital knows by now. She said it was like every Christmas and birthday all rolled into one.” She gestured to a pile of books. “What do you think he'd like to read? I'm making up a parcel.”

After three long and anxious weeks, his first letter arrived. A pink aerogramme crammed with tiny writing in pencil, addressed from Stalag Luft Two, one of the camps for airmen.

Dearest People,

I am sure the past weeks have been difficult for you, but I hope this letter will put your fears at rest. I am alive and well, and with the company of the other fellows in the camp, life is perfectly good. I was lucky enough to be rescued and given excellent medical treatment for minor injuries. We have most of what we need, but what would be most welcome would be books, cigarettes, and a pair of warm pajamas…

And so he went on—as he would in future—in determinedly cheerful tone. We only learned after the war that his injuries had been serious: his leg broken in several places, not to mention losing most of his teeth.

His letters came irregularly, sometimes several at once, and some with black censor marks through words or even whole sentences. The way he told it, camp life sounded positively jolly, what with the plays and concerts they put on, the football matches they won and lost. He'd also made himself useful as an interpreter between the prisoners and the guards, he said.

But it was impossible to divine what his existence was really like. I imagined that, in reality, he was frightened and homesick, bored, cold, and hungry, suffering from deprivation and uncertainty, possibly even cruelty. But he never once let on.

Knowing John was safe gave Mother a new reason to live. As he and his fellow PoWs became her exclusive focus, she gradually gained in strength. The dining room table became her center of operations, piled with items for the next Red Cross parcel: carefully chosen books, knitted hats, scarves, and gloves, precious bars of chocolate, even gramophone records.

Packages arrived too—scripts of plays he'd requested for the camp drama society that had to be ordered from a special publisher, and extra-warm clothing from a London supplier that we couldn't buy locally. Every weekend was busy with fund-raising: making cakes and jam for bring-and-buy events, turning out clothes for jumble sales.

Arriving home one evening, I heard the faint tinkle of the piano in the drawing room. I listened closer—it was a cheerful, jazzy tune. It sounded so much like Stefan's touch that my heart jumped, recalling that Sunday he'd played after lunch. How long ago that seemed. I turned the handle and edged the door open. My initial disappointment—of course it couldn't have been Stefan—was immediately replaced with delight.

It was Mother, head bent over the keyboard, feeling her way through a ragtime number. I crept away, leaving the door ajar. When Gwen arrived home, she found me sitting on the stairs listening to Mother rehearse her old favorites: Debussy, Vaughan Williams, and finally, some old music hall songs.

“Shhh,” I gestured, finger to lips.

“God bless her.” Gwen's face lit up. She sat beside me, putting an arm around my shoulders.

At supper I broached the subject. “Lovely to hear you playing, Mother.”

She flushed with embarrassment. “I'm so rusty, my fingers just won't do what I want them to.”

“Sounded fine to us,” Gwen said.

“It'll come back quickly if you practice. When you're more confident, why don't you do a small concert to raise funds for the Red Cross?” I suggested, ignoring her horrified expression. “We could serve tea and cake, charge a small entrance fee. Invite Vera and her family and the other PoW families. It'd give them a tonic to hear some cheerful music.”

“I'm nothing like good enough to play in public yet,” she said firmly.

But she continued to practice every day, and after just a few weeks, we managed to convince her, set a date for the concert, put up posters, and made cakes. Vera persuaded the matron at the hospital to allow her the weekend off. We lugged thirty canteen chairs across the yard from the mill and squeezed them into the drawing room and hallway. When the afternoon arrived, people queued to get in through the door, and in the house it was standing room only.

The concert started and I posted myself at the door to greet latecomers. When I heard the familiar rumble of the Morgan's exhaust, my heart sank.

“Your ma wrote to tell me about her concert,” Robbie shouted cheerfully as he parked the car and bounded up the steps, as if nothing had passed between us the last time we met. “I wanted to support her, especially after the shock of losing your father, and with your bro in PoW camp. It must be tough for you all.”

Hardly trusting myself to be civil, I said nothing, but submitted to a kiss on the cheek out of politeness and showed him straight into the drawing room. The last time I had seen him was on that fateful evening in the garden, and I still wondered whether he'd had anything to do with the boys' internment. He had sent a rather formal letter of condolence following my father's death, but other than that we'd heard little from him.

Mother played beautifully. Vera, Gwen, and I watched from the back, all of us close to tears, as the audience applauded and called for an encore. At the tea after the concert, I steered clear of Robbie, but out of the corner of my eye could see how he was on his very best behavior, being charming and courteous to everyone, especially Mother, causing her to blush crimson with his copious compliments. At last he left, and I felt able to behave and breathe normally once more.

Mother was completely buoyed up by all the accolades she'd received, and that day I began to believe we might all recover from Father's death after all. If only John and Stefan would come home safely.

• • •

Then, one bright July morning, I was glancing quickly through the newspaper before leaving for work when my eye was caught by a headline.

“Do you have to read that gloomy stuff?” Gwen called through the kitchen door, brushing her hair in the hall mirror. “It's so depressing.”

It was such a tiny, discreet paragraph at the bottom of page five, I could so easily have missed it. “Come and look at this,” I shouted through the doorway.

“Must I? Have you seen the time? We're late for work.”

“Yes, you must. Come and tell me what it means.”

She gave a stagey groan and put her hand on my shoulder as she leaned over to read:

INTERNEES MAY JOIN UP

BRITAIN'S internees in Australia have been informed that they may be released if they apply and are accepted for enlistment in the British Pioneer Corps, the Department of the Army has confirmed today.

The words skittered with unanswered questions. Was the offer for all internees, regardless of their nationality? Would he apply?

If sufficient applications are received, a training program will be funded and delivered in Australia before their deployment overseas.

Would enough applications be received? If Stefan joined up, where would he be sent to fight? Would he come to England first? How would they travel? Would ships be able to get through?

With characteristic lack of sentiment, Gwen said, “Looks like your boy could be coming home.”

I studied the terse newspaper report again and again, trying to make sense of it, praying he would be safe, muttering in my head like a mantra: please let it be you, come home soon, oh please, stay safe and come home soon. His letters continued to arrive, but he didn't mention any opportunities for release—I realized that the two-month time delay meant that they would have been written long before the news reached him. In September, he wrote to say he was hopeful of coming home soon, but then his letters stopped and I began to wonder, even dared to hope, that this silence meant he was already in transit. I tried to ring the Department, but no one was prepared to talk to me. There was nothing for it but to wait.

Christmas came and went again, and I began to lose hope. But in January, I had only been back at work a few days when my secretary peered tentatively around the office door. She looked nervous. I'd told her not to put any calls through this morning.

“Miss Lily, sorry to interrupt, but there's a Mr. Stephen Holmes on the telephone. He's very persistent.”

“Can't you find out what he wants?” I said distractedly, trying not to sound cross. The annual accounts were overdue. They were pretty straightforward: the cost of incoming raw silk, plus labor, plus overheads, equals the price of parachute silk going out. But I needed to understand them before I could sign them off, and accounts were probably my least favorite part of the job.

A moment later she was back. “The gentleman wouldn't say. Personal, he said.”

“I don't know a Mr. Holmes, personally or otherwise. Tell him I'll phone back,” I said, becoming irritated.

She came back again, smiling as if she knew something I didn't.

“Yes, what is it now?” I snapped.

“Miss Lily, the gentleman says to ask whether the name Stefan means anything to you.”

The world seemed to stop for second. She said, still smiling, “Miss Lily? Are you all right?”

“Sorry, yes, I'm fine. I'll take it,” I said. The breath seemed to have stopped in my chest. “Thank you. Please put him through.”

My hand shook as I picked up the receiver. “Stefan? Is it really you? Where are you?”

“Stephen now, I'll explain later. In Liverpool. Just got off the ship.” His voice was just the same, warm and deep, but much more English. Only the tiniest hint of a German inflection remained. “We have to be quick, I've put in my last sixpence.”

“Can you come home?” I gasped. The ache to hold him was so fierce it seemed to stifle me.

“I'll be in London the day after tomorrow. Can you come?”

“Of course, where?” The pips started.

“Waterloo, midday,” he said, as the line cut off. I held the receiver, unwilling to let go of it, until the dialing tone sounded loudly in my ear. As I replaced it into the cradle, fat tears of relief welled over and dripped onto the ledger, smudging the figures. For some reason, this made me laugh out loud. To hell with accounts, I thought, drying my face and blotting the inky puddles with my hanky. What does anything matter, now he's home?

• • •

The next two days were a seesaw of high elation and deep anxiety. With some trepidation, I sat Mother and Gwen down that evening and explained what was happening. They were full of questions I couldn't answer: “What about Kurt and Walter?” and “Is he going to join up, like
The
Times
said?” But most important of all, both of them were supportive.

“You've waited so long for the lad, he obviously means a lot to you,” was what Mother said. “We have to take our happiness when we can find it these days.”

I was desperate to see him again, hold him, and keep him safe. It had been eighteen long, tough months; would he still find me attractive? I scrutinized myself in the mirror and could see the strains of war etched in my face. Almost without noticing, our lives had become drab and workaday and I had stopped worrying about my appearance. I'd lost weight from hard work and unappetizing rations, my skin was dingy from too little sunshine, my hair lackluster and the style strictly utility. My scar, though fading well, still showed as a pink line from temple to chin. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used makeup.

Then it occurred to me that Stefan would certainly also have changed, after his terrible experiences on the ship and in the desert. Would he look different? Would he be hardened, even embittered, I wondered. Why couldn't he come home, to Westbury? If he'd joined the Pioneer Corps, what did they do, where would he be posted?

The night before, my anxieties focused into a panic about practicalities. What should I wear? Most of my clothes were threadbare and dowdy, and of course I had no ladder-free nylons. There was a smart dress and matching coat I kept for special occasions, but that might be overdoing it. Or would the casual trousers and the jacket, even with its patched elbows, look more like the Lily he'd known before? After much fretting and consultation with Gwen, I opted for slacks with a pink cardigan borrowed from Mother. The color flattered my complexion and the mock pearl buttons gave a touch of glamour. I'd have to wear my old duffel for warmth, but I could sling it off as I went to meet him, I thought, smiling as I allowed myself to imagine the moment.