The Last Telegram

‘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.

Chapter Five (#ulink_ba0ab435-8b40-5e18-964d-137d5b96ca6c)

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.

FromThe 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 one 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 favourite 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 summarised 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. The Jews in Germany are allowed to send anyone eighteen or under out of the country, for a price, and only 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 travelling to Holland and the children are being put onto boats to Harwich.’

‘What happens when they get here?’

‘Some of them have 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 round.

‘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 travelled 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 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 round, I knew, given time. He just needed to believe he was in control, so we just 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, gilt-framed 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.