Last Telegram (6 page)

After champagne toasts to “a peaceful 1939,” Robbie proved equally accomplished at quicksteps and foxtrots, guiding me firmly across the floor and spinning me around at every opportunity. It felt so safe in his arms, and 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.

“Good night, Miss Lily Verner.” He put a finger to my chin, tipped my face upward, 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 biplane appeared in view, circling twice, each time lower than before, and John said, “Crikey. Look, Lily, he's coming in.”

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 toward 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 copilot 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 head scarf 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 southward along the coast and then turned inland, following the river toward 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 maneuvered that little plane, the strong arms lifting me down from its wing after we had landed, and how my legs had turned to jelly afterward. 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-wracking. Would he still like me, or was that just a one-night thing, I wondered?

• • •

Robbie arrived looking formal and businesslike, in an expensive-looking pin-striped 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, 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 armory, 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 good-bye, 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.

The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 resulted in a mass migration of French Protestants, known as Huguenots, which has parallels throughout the twentieth century. This change in the law stripped non-Catholics of their civil and religious rights, resulting in the flight of around 250,000 skilled and wealthy refugees. Many were silk weavers of great talent who settled in England and particularly in Spitalfields, East London.

—
The
History
of
Silk
by Harold Verner

After four months, my limbs were growing more used to the physicality of weaving: the day-long standing and walking between looms, bending over the woven material to check for faults, crouching under the warp to find lost threads, heaving boxes of pirns to refill the shuttle. But at the end of each shift, my legs still felt heavy as loom weights, my eyes stung from their constant scrutiny of the fine Jacquard designs, and my eardrums were bruised by the constant noise.

It had been a bitter cold February, and the news was depressing. Hitler was war-mongering, claiming that Jewish bankers were responsible for leading Europe into a conflict that would result in the annihilation of their race. As we waited for John to return home from a meeting in London that evening, the logs in the fire crackled so alarmingly in the hearth that Father put the fireguard in place. “More spit than heat, these willow logs,” he grumbled, sitting back down in his favorite armchair. “Like that maniac Hitler.”

I didn't want to think about Hitler. My mind was focused on dinner—the delicious smell of baked potatoes was making my stomach rumble. But at long last, John arrived with a metallic tang of wintry air as he headed for the fire. His suit was crumpled, a shirt button missing.

Mother followed him into the room. “Supper's ready, my dears,” she said.

“Can I have a moment to warm up, Ma?” John said. “It was bloody cold on that train tonight. Got held up for ages just outside London.” He stood on the hearthrug with his back to the blaze, robustly rubbing his buttocks.

“Did you hear the news?” Father said.

“No,” John said. “What is it this time?”

Father summarized the bulletin.

“More excuses for his pogroms, and all of us powerless to stop it,” I said.

“Actually, I think I've found a way we can do something, just a small thing, to help,” John said, his face brightening.

“Go on then, spill it,” I said impatiently.

“While the train was held up, I got chatting to some chaps in my carriage,” John started. “They were talking about Jewish children coming into England. Apparently there's been an agreement with the Germans. They're being allowed to send anyone eighteen or under out of the country, for a price, and if they've got a sponsor.”

He began to pace restlessly in front of the fire. “Things are getting really desperate,” he went on. “They're being hounded. Not just closing businesses, but even synagogues too. Being sent off to work camps. Children being banned from their schools. It's no wonder the parents are trying to send them to safety.”

“So where are these children going to?” I asked.

“The trains are traveling to Holland, and the children are being put onto boats to Harwich.”

“What happens when they get here?”

“Some of them have got sponsor families who come to collect them. But the problem is,” John stopped pacing now and looked carefully at Father and Mother in turn, “some of them have been let down by their sponsors and haven't got anywhere to go. They're stuck in a holiday camp somewhere in Essex.”

A vision of children, unwanted and in a foreign land, chased away my hunger.

John's voice was firm now. “I'd like to do something. What do you think?”

“Sherry, anyone?” Father said. He never liked to be rushed into decisions. No one responded, but he walked slowly to the sideboard all the same and poured four glasses from the decanter, arranged them neatly on a silver tray, and handed them around.

“I'll come to the point,” John said, taking his glass and emptying it with a single gulp. “We've got a big house, and we can afford it. Why don't we take some of them in?”

Father returned the tray to the sideboard and set it down carefully before turning back to us. “Just how do you think this is going to work?” he said in that low, reasonable tone he adopted when he needed more time to consider. “The three of us are at the mill all day. We can't expect your mother to take on a bunch of children at the drop of a hat.”

“We can't ignore it, either,” John said, squaring his shoulders. “I can't, anyway.”

As the alcohol traveled soothingly down my throat and warmed my stomach, I wrestled with contradictory emotions. The last thing I wanted was a house full of noisy children, but it didn't feel right just to do nothing. “How old did you say they are?” I asked.

“Five to seventeen,” John said.

An idea popped into my head. “Then couldn't we take some older ones?”

“Go on,” John sat down on the sofa next to me.

“Find them somewhere nearby where they can live independently but keep an eye on them and help them?” I was struggling to form a plan. “What about that cottage down the road? The one to let?”

“Aren't you getting carried away, Lily?” Father said, still in his reasonable voice. “There are just a few things you perhaps haven't considered. Who would look after them? What would they do? What would they live on?”

I refused to be deterred. “Why can't we give them jobs at the factory? Weavers start straight from school, at fifteen.”

John nodded vigorously in support, but Father finally cracked.

“You're in fantasy land, both of you,” he boomed, getting to his feet. “Of course it's tough for the Jews, but in case you hadn't noticed, business here is tough too. We can't just create new jobs from nowhere. There's the cost of extra wages, and not just that, you have to consider our own staff. We can support the Jews in other ways, contribute financially if necessary, but we can't just take on a bunch of untrained boys at the mill. So you can stop trying to persuade me.”

He turned to Mother. “Is dinner ready, dear?”

John scowled, and we both stayed quiet. The conversation was closed, for the moment, but we could bring Father around, I knew, given time. He just needed to believe he was in control, so we had to find a more subtle approach.

Two days later, I ambushed him in his study. “Can I have a word?”

“Come in,” he said, looking up from his newspaper.

Above the fireplace hung the Verner family tree, framed in gilt and written in ornamental script on yellowing parchment. I knew it almost by heart. At the very top was the founder of the family firm:
Joseph
Verner, silk weaver (1662–1740) b Spittle Fields, m Mary (1684)
. “You know how proud we Verners are to be descended from Huguenots?” I said.

He frowned, puzzled at my sudden interest. “Go on?”

“They were immigrants, weren't they? Fleeing from persecution by the Catholics?”

The frown smoothed into an indulgent smile. “This is about those Jewish children, isn't it, my darling? I knew you wouldn't let it go.”

I smiled back, pushing home my advantage. “So what do you think?”

“You're right about the Verners,” he said, “but that was then. It was different.”

“How different?” I was determined not to let him argue me out of it.

“The Huguenots were craftsmen, weavers, and throwsters. England needed their skills. There was a good economic reason for letting them into the country.”

“But if England hadn't given them refuge, what would have happened to them? They'd have been killed like all the rest. Where would our family be now?”

“Look, Lily, I understand what you are saying. I still believe we can stop this trouble if we can only persuade the Germans to topple that madman. Then these children can go back to their families. Best place for them.”

“Of course you're right,” I conceded. “But what happens to them in the meantime? Can you imagine what it must be like to be stuck in that holiday camp?”

He filled his pipe and puffed it into life. Finally he said, “Leave it with me. I'll have another think. Perhaps I'll talk to Jim and Gwen and ask them to take soundings with the staff.”

“Thank you.” I hugged him, savoring his soothing smell of Old Virginia and hair oil.

“No guarantees, mind,” he said, turning back to his desk. “Now run along and help your mother with supper. I've got work to do.”

The plan worked, just as I'd hoped. Over Sunday lunch, Father announced with some triumph, as if it had been his very own idea, that the mill manager Jim Williams had agreed to take on three new apprentices as weavers, warpers, or throwsters, depending on their skills.

John's forkful of food halted halfway to his mouth. “How did this happen?” he mouthed across the table.

“Tell you later,” I mouthed back, smiling smugly.

“But we can't collect them yet,” Father was saying. “I have to be up in town all next week.”

John had put his knife and fork down now. “We could go instead,” he said. “Lily and I can sort it out.”

“Please, Father,” I pleaded. “I can't bear to think of those children waiting. They might even be sent back to Germany.”

He pondered for a few seconds and then said, “I'll check with Jim. See if he wants to go, or if he's happy to delegate the job to you two.” Across the table, John was giving me a surreptitious thumbs-up. “It's boys we want, remember,” Father said firmly. “No more than three. Strong lads who'll really knuckle down to it.”

• • •

It was a dismal day as we drove in the rusty works van to the holiday camp. Clouds hung like damp sheets over the flat Essex fields, and when we reached the coast, the marshy land dissolved into the North Sea in shades of sullen gray.

The road looked familiar. Surely this wasn't the same place I'd been as a child, on holiday with a friend's family? As we came closer, the memories started to flood back. The holiday had been a disaster. I was horribly homesick, and to make things worse, I was terrified of the flame-haired clown in a harlequin suit who had patrolled between the chalets each morning after breakfast, summoning us to the morning's entertainments. He reminded me of the Pied Piper illustration in my book of fairy tales, and I was convinced that the children who followed him would never come back. So I refused to go with the clown, feigning all kinds of exotic ailments, and spent the rest of the holiday in my bunk bed, feeling humiliated and miserable.

“You're very quiet, Sis. What's on your mind?” John said. When I told him, he laughed. “Not too many clowns there these days, I don't suppose,” he said.

At the entrance, the words were still legible under peeling paint: “Welcome to Sunnyside Holiday Camp.” The gate was guarded, and spirals of barbed wire coiled along the top of the fence. We were ushered through and directed up a concrete driveway toward a group of buildings in the distance.

As we came closer, we could see a gang of older boys kicking a football around on a patch of worn grass, and other children huddled against a chill wind on benches outside one of the pastel-painted chalets. Their faces were solemn and pale, like rows of white moons, turning to watch our van.

Pinned to each child's coat was a label. “Like little parcels,” I said. John nodded, grim-faced.

We stopped and climbed out and the boys left their football game and ran over, crowding round us, firing questions in their strange guttural tongue. They stopped in surprise when John started speaking in fluent German, and when he'd finished they began chattering even more excitedly than before.

“Don't worry,” he said to me. “They're only asking who we are and why we are here. They want to know where we're from and if we can help. What they mostly seem to want to know is if we can take them to Piccadilly Circus,” he laughed. “They're desperate for a bit of the high life, and who can blame them?”

At last an adult appeared, pushing his way through the gaggle. He was short, prematurely balding, and scruffily dressed in workmen's jeans and a thick jacket, so different from the crisply intimidating holiday camp staff of my childhood memory. I warmed to him immediately.

“You must be John and Lily Verner? Welcome to Sunnyside. Name's a bit ironic on a day like today, don't you think? I'm Leo Samuels. They call me duty manager, though that's just a posh title for chief muggins.” He beamed as we shook hands. “Now, what can we do for you, or rather, what can you do for us? Come into the office and let's keep warm while we talk.” To the boys he said, “
Geduldig
Sein
, be patient.”

As we walked, he apologized for the way they had pestered us. “You understand, they've been through terrible times, and being out here in the wilds of Essex isn't helping. They need to get settled as soon as possible.”

One of the larger chalets at the end of a row had a hastily painted sign:
Kindertransport
All
Enquiries
. Up two steps, a wooden balcony led through glazed double doors into a small living area next to a kitchenette, with what must have been bedrooms on either side. Leo gestured to a table covered in a chaos of papers and dirty mugs and went to fill the kettle. “Do sit down. Tea or coffee? How do you take it?”

He chattered cheerfully as he rinsed out three mugs in a cluttered basin, waiting for the kettle to boil. “Sorry for the mess, but we're on a shoestring here,” he said, pushing aside untidy piles of papers and boxes on the table to make space for the tray.

“We're all volunteers, and it's a bit hand-to-mouth, to say the least. Of course, we're dead lucky they've let us have this place for free. You probably know that the boss is Jewish; that always helps. Otherwise we're totally dependent on charity, and right now people have other things on their minds than helping a bunch of German children.”