The Last Telegram

‘I bet you’ll get the old battle-axe,’ he said, crunching loudly on his toast.

‘Language, and manners, please, John,’ Mother muttered mildly.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘Gwen Collins. Assistant weaving floor manager. Does most of the training. Terrifying woman.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement.’

‘Don’t listen to your brother, you’ll get on splendidly,’ Mother said encouragingly. ‘You never know, you might even enjoy it.’

I was unconvinced. Setting off across the yard, the short trip I had seen my father and, more recently, John, take every morning, I felt depressed: this was far from the glamorous life I’d planned. But why were butterflies causing mayhem in my stomach – was I afraid of being ridiculed as the gaffer’s daughter, I wondered, of letting him down? Or scared that I might not be able to learn fast enough, that people might laugh behind my back? Oh, get a grip Lily, I muttered to myself. This is a means to an end, remember? Besides, you haven’t let anything beat you yet and you’re not about to start now.

I took a deep breath and went through the big green double doors into the mill, and climbed the long wooden stairs to Father’s office.

My first impressions of Gwen Collins were certainly not favourable. She wasn’t exactly old – in her late twenties I judged – but otherwise John’s description seemed pretty accurate. An unprepossessing woman, dumpy and shorter than me, in a shapeless brown overall and trousers with men’s turn-ups, she had concealed her hair beneath an unflattering flowery scarf wrapped and knotted like a turban. There was something rather manly about her – a disregard for how others saw her, perhaps. Her expression was serious, even severe. But something softened it, gave her an air of vulnerability. Then I realised what it was: I had never seen anyone with so many freckles. They covered her face, merging into blobs which almost concealed the pale, nearly translucent skin beneath. She’d made no effort to hide them with make-up. Even her eyelids were speckled.

I returned the forceful handshake with what I hoped was a friendly smile. ‘Pleased to meet you, Gwen. Father tells me you’re going to teach me all you know. He says you’re a mine of information.’

‘Mr Harold is very kind, the regard is mutual,’ she replied without returning the smile, and without even a glance at Father. Pale green eyes regarded me with unsettling intensity beneath her almost invisibly blonde eyelashes.

After an awkward pause she said briskly, ‘Right, we’ll make a start in the packing hall, so you can learn about what we produce, then we’ll go round the mill to see how we weave it.’ With no further pleasantries, she turned and led the way, striding down the corridor so purposefully I had to trot to keep up.

The packing hall was – still is today – a large room running the length of the first floor of Old Mill. Sun poured in through six tall windows along the southern wall, and the room was almost oppressively warm with that dry, sweet smell of raw silk that would soon become part of my very being. Along the opposite wall were deep wooden racks stacked from floor to ceiling with bolts of cloth.

In the centre, two workers stood at wide tables edged with shiny bronze yard-rules, expertly measuring, cutting, and rolling or folding bundles of material and wrapping them with sturdy brown paper and string. On the window side four others sat at tilted tables like architects’ drawing boards, covered with cloth stretched between two rolls, one at the top and another at the bottom.

‘These are pickers,’ Gwen said, introducing me as ‘Miss Lily, Mr Harold’s daughter’. As we shook hands they lowered their eyes deferentially, probably cursing the fact that they would have to watch their language with another Verner hanging around.

‘Just call me Lily, please,’ I stuttered. ‘It’s my first day and I’ve got a lot to learn.’ Naïvely, I imagined they might in time consider me one of them.

‘They check the silk and mark each fault with a short red thread tied into the selvedge, that’s the edge of the fabric,’ Gwen said, pointing at the end of the roll. ‘For every fault we supply an extra half yard – it’s our reputation for quality.’ I nodded frequently, trying to appear more enthusiastic than I felt. ‘Now, how much do you know about silk?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ I admitted, embarrassed. Surely a Verner should have silk in the blood?

I caught the first hint of a smile. ‘I’ll take that as a challenge, then.’

Gwen turned to a shelf and lifted a heavy roll onto the table, steadied an end with one hand and, in a single deft movement, grasped the loose end of the material and pulled out a cascade that unravelled like liquid gold.

‘Wow,’ I said, genuinely dazzled. She crumpled a bundle between her hands, lowering her ear to it. ‘Listen.’ I bent my head and she scrunched it again. It sounded like a footstep on dry snow, or cotton wool tearing. ‘That’s called scroop, a good test for real silk when it’s been dyed in the yarn.’ As I crumpled it the vibration ran through my hands, up my arms and into my ears, making me shiver.

She rolled up the gold with practised ease and pulled out a bolt of vivid scarlet, deep purple and green stripes, spread it across the table with that same skilled movement, then expertly folded a diagonal section into a necktie shape and held it beneath her chin. ‘Tie materials are mostly rep stripes and Jacquard designs,’ she said, ‘woven to order for clubs and societies. Men so love their status symbols, don’t they?’ Again, I saw that puzzling crimp at the corner of her eyes.

‘Jacquard?’

‘Type of loom. Clever bit of kit for weaving patterns, brought here by your Huguenot ancestors. You’ll see our looms when we go down to the weaving shed.’

She unravelled a third roll. This one had a navy background with a delicate gold fleur-de-lys pattern. She pulled a small brass object from her pocket, carefully unfolding it into a tiny magnifying glass hinged onto two plates, one of which had a square hole. She placed this on the silk and gestured for me to put my eye to the glass.

The motif was so enlarged that hair-like individual silk threads, almost invisible to the naked eye, looked like strands of wool so thick that I could measure them against the ruler markings along the inner square of the lower plate. ‘I had no idea,’ I murmured, fascinated by the miniature world under the glass. ‘There’s so much more to it than I ever imagined.’ As I looked up, the glint of satisfaction that passed across Gwen’s face reminded me of my Latin teacher when I’d finally managed to get those wretched declensions right.

She moved along the racking and pulled out a fat roll. ‘This one’s spun silk,’ she said, unravelling the cloth and draping it over my hands. It was heavy, the texture of matt satin, the colour of clotted cream, and wonderfully sensuous. It felt deliciously soft and warm, like being stroked with eiderdown, and almost without thinking I lifted it to my cheek. Then I caught that knowing smile again, felt self-conscious and handed it back rather too hastily. Gwen’s manner was unnerving; most of the time she was coolly professional and business-like, but sometimes her responses were disconcertingly intimate, as though she could read my thoughts.

She looked up at the clock. ‘It’s nearly coffee-break. Just time for the pièce de résistance.’

At first I thought the taffeta was aquamarine. But when its shimmering threads caught the light, the colour shifted to an intense royal blue. It was like a mirage, there one moment and gone the next. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s shot silk. A blue weft shot through a green warp.’ She held up a length, iridescent as a butterfly wing, into a shaft of sunlight. I almost gasped.

As I took a piece of cloth and angled it to watch the colours change, I could feel Gwen’s pale eyes interrogating my response. And in that moment I realised I’d never before properly appreciated silk, its brilliant, lustrous colours, the range of weaves and patterns. Father and John never talked about it this way.

That morning Gwen showed me how to use all my senses; not just seeing the colours and feeling its weave, but holding it up to the light, smelling it, folding to see how it loses or holds a crease, identifying the distinctive rustles and squeaks of each type of material, examining its weave under a magnifier, enjoying its variety. I was already hooked, like a trout on a fly-line, but I didn’t know it yet. Only later did I come to understand how Gwen simply allowed the silk to seduce me.

The canteen, a large sunny room at the top of Old Mill that smelled not unpleasantly of cabbage and cigarette smoke, seemed to be the heart of the mill. A team of cheerful ladies provided morning coffee, hot midday meals and afternoon teas with homemade cakes and biscuits. Men and women sat at separate tables talking about football and politics, families and friendships. Weavers and warpers kept together, as did throwsters. Loom engineers – called tacklers – were a strong male clan in their oily overalls. The dyers, their aprons stained in many colours, another. But a shared camaraderie crossed divides of gender and trade; old hands teased the newcomers, and if they responded with good humour they became part of the gang.

Gwen wasn’t part of any gang, and seemed immune from canteen banter. We sat down at an empty table and she pulled off her turban, running her fingers through the ginger curls that corkscrewed round her head. Without her working woman’s armour she seemed more approachable.

‘Why haven’t we met before, Gwen? Were you brought up in Westbury?’

She shook her head, stirring three teaspoons of sugar into chocolate-brown tea.

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Six years. Six happy years, mostly,’ she said, that rare smile lighting her face and giving me permission to ask more.

‘Whatever made you want to become a weaver?’ I said.

‘I started out wanting to be an artist. Went to art school. One thing led to another …’

I was intrigued. I’d never met anyone who had been to art school and, from what I’d heard, they were full of bohemians. But Gwen didn’t seem the type. ‘Golly. Art school? In London?’

‘It’s a long story,’ she said, stacking her teacup and plate. ‘Another time, perhaps.’

‘So what brought you to Verners?’ I persevered.

‘Your father, Lily.’ She paused, looked away, out of the canteen window towards the cricket willow plantation on the other side of the railway line. ‘He’s a very generous man. I owe him a lot.’ I felt a prickle of shame for not having appreciated him much. He was my Father, strict but usually kindly, rather remote when he was wrapped up in work. I’d never considered how others might regard him.

The squawk of the klaxon signalled the end of break-time. Over the loud scraping of utility chairs – the stackable sort of metal piping with slung canvas seats and backs – Gwen shouted, ‘Time to learn about the heart of the business, Miss Lily.’

After the peace of the packing hall, the weaving shed was a shock. As the door opened the noise was like running into a wall. Rows of grey-green looms stretched into the distance, great beasts, each in their own pool of light, a mass of complex oily iron in perpetual noisy motion – lifting, falling, sliding, striking, knocking, crashing, vibrating. How could anyone possibly work in this hellish metallic chaos?

The weavers seemed oblivious, moving unhurriedly between their looms, pausing to watch the material slowly emerge from the incessant motion of the shuttle beam, or stooping over a stilled machine. I quickly realised that they were skilled lip-readers and could hold long conversations in spite of the noise. But much of the time their eyes were focused intently on the cloth.

That first evening, John mocked me for falling asleep on the sofa and had to wake me for supper. As I prepared for bed I wondered what I would have been doing in Geneva. Getting dressed for a party, perhaps, or having hot chocolate and pastries in a café? For the moment I was too tired for regrets. Ears ringing, eyes burning, legs aching, my head full of new information, I wondered how I would get up and do the same again tomorrow.

The following day I was relieved to discover that we were spending it in the relative peace of the winding mill. Here, the silk skeins shimmered and danced as they rotated on their spindles releasing threads to be doubled, twisted and wound onto bobbins, and from bobbins onto pirns that would go into the shuttles. I learned the difference between the warp – the lengthways threads held taut between two rollers at either side of the loom – and the weft, the cross-threads woven into the warp from the shuttle.

Gwen no longer seemed so formidable. I was quickly learning to respect her skill and deftness, and her encyclopaedic knowledge of silk in all aspects of its complex manufacture. But she was still an enigma. Why would an educated woman like her choose to come and live in Westbury, to work in a mill?

I would find out soon enough.

Chapter Four

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.’