The Last Telegram. Liz Trenow

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СКАЧАТЬ on the blower. Wishes to speak to my beautiful daughter,’ Father said, exchanging approving glances with Mother.

      ‘I’ll keep my hat then,’ John said, making triumphant nudge-nudge gestures as I went to the telephone, cheeks burning.

      The days till Saturday dragged slowly by. I was so excited at the prospect of my first proper date I could barely sit still. I emptied my wardrobe and chest of drawers trying on a dozen combinations of outfits, eventually settling on a tartan skirt and baby-blue cashmere twinset which felt both casual but also flatteringly feminine. My new silk stockings, fresh out of the pack, felt sleek and sexy. At last the evening arrived.

      As I sat in the cinema with Robbie’s arm around my shoulders I realised with a little thrill of excitement that he bore more than a passing resemblance to the star of the film, James Stewart. Being in the company of this handsome man felt deliciously glamorous.

      Afterwards we went for a drink in the pub and it was past eleven by the time we returned home. Robbie offered his hand and I climbed with as much elegance as I could muster out of the low-slung car. He wrapped an arm around my waist, and with his other hand turned my face to his and kissed me. At first it was demure, like before, but then I felt him push my lips apart with his tongue, exploring my mouth with it. I felt myself in the hands of a skilled operator, closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in the moment.

      But the sensation wasn’t what I expected, not swoony, like in the movies. All I could think of was that he tasted of cigarettes and beer. I was glad when he stopped.

      ‘You dear sweet thing,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘We must do this again. We could have some serious fun together. Tell you what, I’ve got a friend who has a cottage in the Peaks. I could borrow a friend’s plane and fly you there for a weekend. What do you think?’

      ‘That sounds … cracking,’ I stuttered. I could hardly concentrate as he kissed me goodbye, my head was in such a spin. Whatever did he mean? Was he really suggesting we should have a dirty weekend? That was a bit fast, even for James Stewart.

      ‘You were back late last night. Have a nice time, dear?’ Mother enquired as we cleared the breakfast dishes.

      ‘Lovely. The film was a laugh,’ I mumbled. ‘James Stewart’s a great actor.’

      ‘Charming young man, isn’t he? Your father’s quite taken with him,’ she said, distractedly.

      Robbie was ideal boyfriend material. I was sure that I was falling in love. But how could I know for certain? What was I supposed to feel? Vera had been promised a weekend off soon, and I couldn’t wait to tell her everything.

      A few days later Mother, John and I were eating supper informally at the kitchen table. Father had stayed over in London. Out of the window I could see the mill in darkness, except for the lights of the new finishing plant casting bright stripes across the empty yard.

      John pushed the ham and potato salad around his plate.

      ‘Not hungry dear?’ Mother asked.

      ‘I’m fine,’ he snapped.

      ‘Sorry it’s only a cold meal tonight, but I thought, with this weather.’

      ‘I said I’m fine.’ Like the slam of a shuttle.

      Another silence, then he banged down his knife and fork. ‘It’s that ruddy vat in the finishing plant. I just can’t get the thermostat and timer to work properly. I’ve tried and tried. We’ve wasted God knows how much silk by over-boiling it. Now it’s useless for parachutes and no one else is going to want it. We’ve spent thousands on this kit but unless we can get the silk right sharpish, we’ll never get the contracts to pay off the debt.’

      He sighed, rubbing his stubbly cheek. ‘I’ll just have to go back after supper and have another go.’

      ‘Do you have to? You look all done in,’ Mother murmured.

      ‘Shall I come and help?’ I said, surprising myself.

      ‘Why should you? You’ve done a day’s work already.’

      ‘It’s important to me too you know, the future of the mill and all that.’ He raised his eyebrows. I barely understood how it had happened, but my apprenticeship no longer felt like filling in time until something better came along. I was starting to care.

      ‘Come on then,’ he said, pushing away his chair and getting up from the table. ‘A pair of fresh eyes won’t do any harm.’

      Unlike the weaving shed, with its oily smells and dark looms, the finishing plant was dazzling – brightly lit and newly whitewashed, with shiny stainless steel vats and tubes, steamy and clean-smelling like a laundry.

      Although I’d seen the machinery being installed I hadn’t watched it working before. John showed me how the silk went through two large baths of boiling water to be de-gummed and rinsed, and how to lift the silk onto hooks called stenters which stretched it back to its previous width. After that it was hung in a hot air cupboard to dry, and run through yet more rollers to be pressed.

      ‘Looks simple, doesn’t it? But it’s not. The silk has to go over the rollers at exactly the right speeds, and at the same time the temperature in the vats has to be exact.’

      He wiped his brow. ‘And even supposing we get all that right, we have to make sure the silk goes through the drier at the right speed and temperature so that it’s just damp enough to be put through hot rollers to iron it – what we call calendering.’

      Stacked on a rack were rolls of the untreated white silk Stefan and I had woven. ‘I’ve had the vats heating and the thermostat says they’re at the right temperature, so shall we have another go? Help me up with this roll, would you?’

      ‘Hang on a sec,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you say there was a problem with the thermostat?’

      He frowned. Why was I asking difficult questions when I knew nothing about it? ‘How am I supposed to know if we don’t try it first?’

      ‘Use a thermometer? Good old-fashioned kind?’

      ‘Where on earth can we get one of those at this time of night?’

      I had a moment of inspiration. ‘Mother’s jam thermometer, the brass one on the hook above the stove. I’ll run back and get it.’

      We lowered the thermometer into the vat on a piece of wire and, once the rolls were in place, John clicked a switch and the machinery started, pulling the silk through the first two vats. The steam ran in rivulets down our faces as we worked side by side hooking the silk onto the stenters. John turned his attention to the control panel and checking the thermometer. I went outside to cool off.

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