The Last Telegram by Liz Trenow

Author:Liz Trenow
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: 1940's-1950's, Twentieth Century, Historical, General Fiction
ISBN: 9781402279454
Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark
Published: 2013-02-04T16:00:00+00:00

15

The medieval age of chivalry was an age of silk. Epic poems of gallantry and heroic deeds were circulated by wandering troubadours, tournaments were bedecked with silk-hung tents and banners, and rich silks caparisoned the horses. Knights received a silken sleeve or veil as a “gage,” a token of honor from the lady symbolically defended in the joust.

—The History of Silk by Harold Verner

Christmas 1940 was only enlivened by the arrival of John, who had been given a few days leave, and Vera, who caught the last train out of London on Christmas Eve and had to stand all the way. They were both exhausted, and when we asked John about the bombing raids, he clammed up. When Vera wasn’t with us at The Chestnuts, he spent most of the time sleeping.

I spent much of the time in bed too, wrapped up against the cold, reading and rereading the three precious aerogrammes that had arrived from Stefan, my few tenuous links with the boy who consumed my thoughts. At least he was safe, tucked away in the Australian desert and well away from war, I reasoned, even though his absence made an aching gap in my life. We were all glad when Christmas was over so that we could stop pretending that we were enjoying ourselves and get back to work. But we should have treasured every moment.

It was just a few days later and early morning when the measured rings sounded insistently through our sleepy house. I met Father on the landing, still in his pajamas. “Go back to bed, I’ll get it,” I said, heading downstairs, wrapping my dressing gown tight against the winter chill.

The woman at the other end of the phone was flustered. “Is that Grace?”

“No, it’s Lily. Who’s this?”

“Beryl. From the London office.”

“Beryl. Of course. Good morning,” I said, taken aback. She usually sounded so calm and efficient.

“Have you been listening to the news?”

“No, not yet.” I glanced at the grandfather clock. It was ten past seven.

“Is Harold awake? I need to speak to him. There’s been a hell of a raid. They say Cheapside’s been hit.” I sat down heavily on the hall chair to catch my breath. This could be a disaster. The London office housed not only hundreds of precious customer files and accounts ledgers, but also the Verners archive of silk samples, dating back two hundred years.

Father was coming downstairs in his red paisley dressing gown. “Who is it?”

“Beryl. She says the office might have been bombed.”

He took the receiver and spoke calmly into it. “Beryl, good morning. Harold here.” As he listened, his face, already shadowed with morning stubble, turned grayer still.

“Have you rung anyone else? The police?” I couldn’t hear her reply.

“There’s nothing else for it, then. I’m on my way.” Then, more firmly. “No, Beryl, you are absolutely not to go. I can handle it. Stay at home and I’ll telephone you as soon as I know anything further.”

He put the receiver carefully into its cradle and turned to Mother and me, steadying himself with a hand on the telephone table.

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