Читать книгу The Last Telegram - Liz Trenow - Страница 9

Another outstanding property of silk is its resilience, which can be demonstrated by crushing a silk handkerchief in one hand and a cotton handkerchief in the other. When released, the silk version will spring or jump upwards, the cotton one will stay crushed for some time. It is this property, along with its strength, toughness, elasticity and resistance to fire and mildew that makes silk so valuable for the manufacture of parachutes.

From The History of Silk, by Harold Verner

Long afterwards, John liked to embarrass me by claiming, sometimes publicly, that eight generations of weaving history had been rescued by his little sister’s sex appeal.

It’s true that Verners survived the catastrophe of war because of our contracts to weave parachute silk. While other mills folded or were converted into armament or uniform factories, we made it through, and came out the other side. But the invitation that arrived for John just a few months after I started work at the mill was really the start of it all. ‘It’s from my old school chum,’ he said, ripping open the heavy bond envelope with its impressively embossed crest. He proudly placed the gilt-edged card next to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece in the drawing room.

Mr John Verner and partner. New Year’s Eve, 1938. Black tie. Dinner and dancing 8 p.m., carriages 2 a.m. Overnight accommodation if desired, it read. Underneath was scrawled: Do come, Johnnie. Would be good to see you again. Marcus.

‘His ma and pa have a pile near the coast,’ he said. ‘They’re faded gentry but still not short of a bob or two. Should be a good bash.’ I was green with envy, of course. Vera’s latest bulletins from London had left me feeling very sorry for myself. She had discovered the ‘local’ next to the nurses’ home, met lots of dishy doctors and went to the flicks at least once a week. Even with Christmas coming up, my social calendar was blank, and I was bored stiff.

So I didn’t hesitate a single second when John said, a couple of days later, ‘Want to come with me to that New Year’s Eve bash, schwester? Dig out the old glad rags,’ he went on, ‘we both deserve a break.’ But I had no glad rags, at least nothing remotely passable for a sophisticated do. In the code language of formal invitations, ‘black tie’ meant women should wear ball gowns. Where would I find one of those in Westbury? And even if I could, how could I possibly afford it?

Then I remembered the blue-green shot silk that had so thrilled me on my first day at the mill, and asked Father if I could have a few yards as a Christmas present. I pored over fashion magazines, trying to imagine what style would make the most of my beanpole figure. It had to be modern, but formal enough to pass muster in ‘black tie’ company. At last I found the perfect pattern; the dress had a halterneck bodice that flowed into a wide full-length skirt to emphasise my waistline, and a bolero jacket for warmth.

In the days after Christmas Mother and I slaved over her old treadle sewing machine, and I endured countless pin-prickled fittings to get the dress just right. Now it was finished, and I barely recognised the elegant young woman looking back from the long mirror in my room. The cut of the gown and the shimmering silk made my figure, usually obscured in slacks and baggy jumpers at the factory, positively curvy.

My experiments with lipstick and mascara seemed to highlight interesting new features in a face I’d always considered plain. Even my straight brown bob seemed more sophisticated when I tucked the hair behind my ears to show off Mother’s emerald drop-earrings. We had fashioned a little clutch bag from scraps of leftover silk, and my old white satin court shoes – with low heels, I didn’t want to tower over any potential partner – had been tinted green by the dye works, to match the colour of the warp.

You’ll do, I thought, observing myself sideways, sticking out my chest and practising a coy, leading-lady smile. You might even get asked for a dance or two.

As we drove up the mile-long drive through acres of parkland and caught sight of the manor, my excitement gave way to apprehension. It was a red-brick Victorian gothic mansion with stone-arched windows, ornate chimneys and little turrets topping each corner of the building. Today I’d call it grandiose but at the time I was awestruck. The driveway was stuffed with smart motors: Jaguars, MG sports and Bentleys. John parked our modest Morris well out of view.

We were welcomed into a cavernous oak-panelled hallway by a real butler who led us upstairs to our rooms, carrying my case while I held the dress on its hanger before me like a shield. I feared I would never retrace our route as we trod endless gloomy corridors, taking frequent turns past dozens of identical doors.

My bedroom, when we finally reached it, seemed the size of a ballroom. It had once been very grand, I could see, but now the chintz curtains and bed coverlet were faded, and a miserly coal fire in a small grate made little impact on the overall chilliness. As I waited several minutes for a small stream of tepid water to emerge from the tap at the sink, I imagined the miles of piping it had to pass through to reach this distant room.

Shivering, I pulled on the dress and peered into the foxed glass of the mirror to apply my make-up, cursing as I dropped blobs of mascara onto my cheek. In the dim light of a single bulb hung from high in the ceiling I couldn’t be sure whether I’d managed to scrub it off properly.

But it was ten past eight and I couldn’t postpone the moment any longer. Tottering nervously through the maze of corridors, I lost my way several times. Eventually I found the top of the stairs and, having managed to negotiate these without tripping, followed the roar of voices to the drawing room. There, about forty people were knocking back champagne and talking at the tops of their voices, as if they had known each other for years.

I looked around urgently for John but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I found myself near a tall man holding court to three young women who waved their long cigarette holders ostentatiously and giggled a lot. With some alarm I noticed that the man was wearing what I at first took for a skirt but then realised was a Scottish kilt. I hugged myself into the corner against the wall, trying not to stare, and was greatly relieved when the gong sounded for dinner. Then, to my dismay, I noticed that the man in the skirt was smiling in my direction. The three girls glared as he walked over and offered his hand.

‘Robert Cameron, pleased to meet you. Would you do me the pleasure of accompanying me to dinner?’

‘Lily Verner, good evening.’ I said, as I returned the handshake and noted his startlingly blue eyes.

‘May I just say, Miss Verner, that dress is a stunner. Extraordinary colours. Silk, isn’t it?’ He took my arm and steered me firmly in the direction of the dining room. As we walked I stole a closer look; a kind of furry purse affair hung from his waist that I later learned was called a sporran. The kilt ended at the knees, and below that were hairy legs clad only in white socks, a small dagger stuffed into the top of one of them. It felt uncomfortably intimate being so close to those bare legs, and I barely dared imagine what he might or might not be wearing beneath those swinging pleats.

By the precision of his courtesies I guessed Mr Cameron had once been in the forces but wasn’t any more, not with those raffish sideburns. Slightly receding hair and deep smile lines suggested he was in his late twenties, and the high colour at his cheekbones and the small bulge above his crimson cummerbund seemed to evidence a life already well led.

‘And where have they been hiding you, Miss Lily Verner?’ he asked, helping me to be seated and then sitting himself beside me. I faltered, wishing I’d thought about this beforehand, planned what I would say. In this elevated company I could hardly admit I was an apprentice silk weaver.

‘Oh, I’ve been around,’ I answered airily, trying to sound sophisticated.

‘Then tell me where you found this beautiful gown,’ he persisted.

I tried to think of a posh London shop where they might sell ball gowns, but my mind went blank. Out of the blue, I decided to be completely honest. What did it matter, I’d never see any of these people again.

‘From our family’s silk mill,’ I said, ‘Verners, in Westbury. My father’s the managing director.’

I’d anticipated a blank look, or at least a swift change of subject, but to my great surprise Mr Cameron leapt to his feet, clipped his heels in a military manner, bowed deeply, picked up my hand and kissed it.

‘My goodness. Silk? How splendid. You look like a wee angel, but now here’s proof you’ve been sent from heaven, Lily Verner.’ Forty diners in the process of taking their places peered curiously at us between the silver candelabra, as I blushed to the tips of my ears. A few seats away on the opposite side, John raised his eyebrows: Are you all right with that man?

Mr Cameron sat down again. ‘You could be the answer to my prayers. Let’s get some wine and you can tell me all about it.’

‘There’s not such a great deal to tell,’ I said, overwhelmed by his display of enthusiasm. I wasn’t used to such effusive compliments.

‘Rubbish,’ he said robustly. ‘I want to know everything, from start to finish. And you absolutely must call me Robbie.’

He clicked his fingers at a waiter and barked an order for wine, then listened with great attention as, between sips of nondescript soup, I told him about the mill, the silk, where it came from, how we wove it, the trade we supplied. Feeling bolder by the minute, I even admitted that I worked there, adding quickly, ‘Just as a stopgap of course.’

‘How charming,’ he said, his face close to mine as he poured me another glass of wine, ‘a beautiful girl like you, working in a silk mill. That’s a new one on me.’

‘But now you must tell me about you,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable, ‘and why you are so interested in silk.’

As we washed down the main course of rubbery grey meat with liberal quantities of red wine, he explained that he had been born in Scotland – hence his entitlement to wearing a kilt – but had lived in England most of his life, was a cousin of our host, Johnnie’s school friend Marcus, and had been a guards officer until quite recently. But now he was dedicating his life – and, I guessed, a private fortune – to his two great passions: flying, and parachute jumping. A glamorous girl I’d noticed earwigging from the other side of the table chimed in, ‘Parachute jumping? Isn’t that rather dangerous?’

‘Of course, it used to be,’ he said, becoming more expansive with the added attention. ‘Those Montgolfiers and their French buddies back in the last century did a lot of experimenting with dogs. They didn’t always survive.’

‘Ooh, poor little poochies,’ she simpered, ‘that’s awfully mean.’

Most of the guests at our end of the table were now listening to the conversation. ‘Isn’t a parachute dangerous if you jump out of a moving plane? Wouldn’t it get tangled in the wings or the prop?’ asked a military-looking chap opposite.

‘Total myth, old man,’ said Robbie, ‘invented by the Air Ministry. They were dead scared that fliers might jump and dump expensive chunks of ironware before it was absolutely necessary. But they’ve finally accepted that parachutes save lives, if they’re the right kind.’

‘Is there a wrong kind?’ I found myself genuinely curious.

‘Lord, yes. Parachutes that collapse in the middle, that get pushed in by wind, lines that tangle, packs that don’t unfurl quickly enough. The design is critical.’ He paused and took a long sip of wine, carefully wiping his lips with the napkin. His audience was waiting. ‘But the most important thing is the silk. It has to be just right. Not too thick, not too thin, not too porous, not too impervious.’ Then he turned to me and lowered his voice, ‘Which is why, Miss Verner, I would like to have a serious conversation about silk with your father and brother – and you too of course – at some point very soon.’

‘We’d be delighted,’ I said, glowing in his attentiveness and flattered to be included, ‘but if I am to call you Robbie, you must stop calling me Miss Verner. Call me Lily, please.’

‘So, lovely Lily,’ he said, refilling my glass, ‘have you ever flown in a plane?’

‘Er … no,’ I stuttered nervously, ‘I’m not sure it’s my sort of thing.’

‘Would you like to give it a try? We could go for a spin.’

‘Perhaps, but can I finish my dinner first?’

He laughed generously, and as dessert was served I became vaguely aware of music coming from a distant room. ‘Can you hear the band, Miss Lily Verner? I’ll wager you’re a good dancer. Hope you like Swing.’

I smiled and said nothing, to conceal my ignorance.

‘Watch out for that one, Sis. Looks like a bit of a rogue and too old for you, anyway,’ John whispered as we left the dining room. But I didn’t care. The wine made me daring and confident, and I was determined to enjoy myself.

After a couple of rather sedate waltzes, Robbie went over and spoke to the bandleader. With broad smiles on their faces, the musicians switched pace and started to play a very fast jazzy number. He pulled me out onto the floor and started to dance like a wild thing, kicking his legs so high I barely dared look in case the skirt flew up too. He gestured to me to do the same, swinging me from side to side and twirling me around. It was exhilarating, dancing so freely, to such irresistible rhythms.

‘It’s the Lindy Hop,’ he shouted over the music. ‘Just come over from America. Named after Charlie Lindbergh. Fun, eh?’

I’d never heard of the man but it certainly was fun, if rather absurd, dancing like this in our formal gowns and dinner jackets, in a country house ballroom with its bright merciless light glittering from chandeliers and mirrors. It was impossible to keep still, and we Lindy Hopped right through until midnight, when the band reverted to Scottish tradition and we welcomed in the New Year with ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

After champagne toasts to ‘a peaceful 1939’, Robbie proved equally accomplished at quicksteps and foxtrots, guiding me firmly across the floor and spinning me round at every opportunity. It felt so safe in his arms, and it was so easy to be graceful, that I was disappointed when the band stopped and the dancers started to drift away.

Robbie escorted me to the foot of the stairs with his arm fitted snugly around my waist.

‘Goodnight, Miss Lily Verner.’ He put a finger to my chin, tipped my face upwards and pinned his lips to mine. My first kiss. I’d expected it to be more exciting, but it just felt a bit awkward, and after a polite pause I pulled away.

‘I’ve had a lovely evening, but I must go to bed now,’ I gabbled.

He was unabashed. ‘You’ve already made it very special, you sweet thing. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.’ He kissed my nose this time, and patted my backside as I turned to run up the stairs. As I climbed into my chilly bed, churning with champagne and confusion, I wondered if I might be falling in love.

Next day we were eating breakfast in proper country-house style – bacon, eggs, kedgeree and kippers served on ornate silver hotplates casually arrayed on the antique sideboard – when we heard the sound of an aircraft flying low over the house.

A small bi-plane came into view, circling twice, each time lower than before, and John said, ‘Crikey. Look Lily, he’s coming in.’

Sure enough, to our astonishment the plane flew even lower and then landed bumpily on the parkland between the trees, scattering the peacefully grazing flocks of deer.

‘It’s just Robbie showing off again,’ said Miranda, our host’s sister, to whom we’d been introduced the night before. Sure enough, as the plane drew to a halt, we saw his leather-clad figure emerging from the cockpit, jumping down and starting to lope towards the house. Before long he was helping himself to a hearty plateful of kedgeree and joining us at the table.

‘Flying make you hungry?’ John said casually, as if this kind of arrival at breakfast happened every day in our family.

‘Ravenous.’ Robbie shook clouds of pepper over his plate. ‘I’ve been up since six.’ We chatted for a while about last night, what fun it had been, and then he turned to John and said, almost offhand, ‘Lovely day for a spin, old man. Care to join me? She can take a co-pilot and a passenger. Perhaps Lily would like to come too?’

‘That’d be cracking,’ John said, his face lighting up.

I panicked. ‘Not for me, thank you. I haven’t got anything warm to wear. Anyway, don’t you think we should be getting home, John?’

‘I’d really like to go,’ he said. ‘Come on, sis. You’re always moaning about life being boring. Have a bit of fun. When are you going to get a chance like this again?’

‘I’ll lend you my jacket, and a headscarf and gloves,’ Miranda chipped in.

‘See?’ said Robbie triumphantly. ‘No excuses now, Missy Lily.’ It was pointless resisting. I swallowed my nerves, finished my coffee and went with Miranda to get togged up.

My terror as we took off was soon replaced with the enchantment of seeing a familiar landscape from an entirely new perspective. We flew southwards along the coast and then turned inland, following the river towards Westbury. From the air the town looked so small and insignificant, like a toy village. We buzzed low over the mill and The Chestnuts, but there was no sign of life. I imagined Father reading his newspaper by the drawing room fire, grumbling about irresponsible pilots interrupting the peace on his holiday.

Just a few days later John got a telephone call from Robbie, inviting himself to a meeting.

‘He insists Lily must be there too,’ he said, with a big wink in Father’s direction. ‘I couldn’t possibly imagine why.’

‘It’s because he knows I understand about silk,’ I snapped, but a bit of me hoped he was right. Since New Year’s Eve I’d thought about nothing but Robbie Cameron, his confidence and perfect manners, the casual skill with which he manoeuvred that little plane, the strong arms lifting me down from its wing after we had landed, and how my legs had turned to jelly afterwards. In my head, I’d run through the events of that evening a hundred times, hoping it really was the start of something new, so the prospect of seeing him again was exciting and a little nerve-racking. Would he still like me, or was that just a one-night thing, I wondered?

Robbie arrived looking formal and business-like, in an expensive-looking pinstriped suit and public school tie. He shook hands with John and me and then, as we waited for Father in the visitor’s room at the mill, examined the framed certificates and photographs hanging on the walls. I saw his gaze linger on one of Father at Buckingham Palace proudly showing the King a piece of Verners silk woven for the coronation, and he made appreciative remarks as I showed him the leather-bound sample books containing every design Verners had woven in the past one hundred and fifty years.

When Father came in I watched him sizing up Robbie as they shook hands. ‘Welcome to Verners, Mr Cameron,’ he said, ‘I’ve ordered coffee. Let’s sit down and you can tell us why you are here.’

‘Well, sir,’ Robbie started, ‘in a nutshell, I need a supplier of reliable quality parachute silk. I’m a parachute designer and manufacturer and I want to expand my company.’

‘We don’t weave parachute silk, as you probably know,’ Father said cautiously, reminding me of the way he played whist and bridge. Even with us children, he would keep his cards close to his chest, his face giving nothing away.

‘But we could do, Father,’ John said. ‘Let’s not count anything out. But I want to know more. Why parachuting? I can see why flying is fun, but why would anyone want to jump out of a plane?’

‘It’s the thrill of it,’ Robbie said. ‘Nothing like it. I trained as a pilot, as you know, so I had to learn how to use a parachute. But when I took up parachute jumping as a hobby it soon became obvious that the ’chutes needed to be redesigned to make them safer. Last year I met an American who had created some new designs along exactly the same lines as I’d envisaged, and he was already testing them. So we set up a company together to manufacture them. So far we haven’t had any major orders, but we’re working on it.’

‘If it’s just a hobby activity what makes you think there’s going to be much call for them?’ John asked.

‘It won’t just be a hobby, if we go to war,’ Robbie said, suddenly serious. ‘At the moment there’s one major competitor producing parachutes for the Air Ministry, and though they say that’s enough for their current requirements, they seem to be blind to what the Russians and Germans are up to.’

‘And what are they up to, precisely?’ Father asked.

‘Testing parachutes for dropping ground troops and equipment into battle zones. Last year the Russians dropped twelve hundred men, a hundred and fifty machine guns and other armoury, and assembled them all within ten minutes. It was even reported in Flight magazine, so the government can’t claim they don’t know what’s happening. But they don’t seem to be taking any notice.’

‘While they’re talking there’s still hope,’ Father said. ‘No one wants another war.’

‘I totally agree, sir, but anyone who thinks we can avoid it is in cloud cuckoo land,’ Robbie said, grimly. ‘My uncle’s just returned from Germany. He saw Nazi paratroops on exercise, and read a newspaper article by one of their generals about their plans for an airborne invasion of England.’

The atmosphere in the little room seemed to have become oppressive, reminding me of the day John arrived home with his talk of pogroms. I busied myself refilling the coffee cups. I hated people talking about war. It terrified me and I prayed it would never happen.

‘We’ll have to agree to disagree on this,’ Father said, pulling out his pipe and lighting it, as we waited for his next move. And then he said, ‘But in the meantime, Mr Cameron, how can Verners be of help to you?’

‘We need to be ready to go into immediate parachute production when the demand comes, and believe me, it will,’ Robbie said. ‘If I were in your position, Mr Verner, I’d be starting test weaves of parachute silk and investing in finishing machinery. So you could do the whole job on the spot.’

Father puffed on his pipe, his expression noncommittal.

‘It’s worth considering, Father,’ John said. ‘There won’t be much demand for silk ties and facings if we do go to war.’

Father nodded thoughtfully. ‘But it’s an expensive investment. We would have to be certain there’s really a demand before jumping into anything like that. We’d be putting all our chips on the chance of war.’

‘I take your point, sir,’ Robbie said, ‘but the thing is, with parachute silk you have to get everything right. The quality of the yarn, the weave and the finishing. They’re all critical to create the right porosity. Otherwise the parachutes are worse than useless. What we need is a company like yours, with a reputation for quality,’ he gestured at the photographs on the wall, ‘and generations of experience, who can get it right, from the start.’

You wily devil, I thought, you know exactly how to flatter my father into agreeing: heritage, quality, reputation. You’re saying all the right things. But then he paused for a moment, and said those words that more than sixty years later still fill my heart with dread. ‘Get it right and you save lives, sir. Get it wrong and you’ve got dead pilots.’

After that there wasn’t much more discussion. Father agreed to consider his proposal, and John offered to take Robbie on a tour of the mill. I began to fear he might leave without even a moment’s reference to New Year’s Eve, but as he shook my hand to say goodbye, he pressed it warmly for a fraction longer than usual. ‘It’s been such a pleasure,’ he said, his voice lowering to an intimate whisper. ‘I will see you again very soon, Lily Verner, that’s a promise.’

The intense blue gaze and colluding wink left me blushing and enchanted, all over again.