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1

 

The History of Silk owes much to the fairer sex. The Chinese Empress Hsi Ling is credited with its first discovery, in 2640 BC. It is said that a cocoon fell from the mulberry tree, under which she was sitting, into her cup of tea. As she sought to remove the cocoon its sticky threads started to unravel and cling to her fingers. Upon examining the thread more closely she immediately saw its potential and dedicated her life thereafter to the cultivation of the silkworm and production of silk for weaving and embroidery.

—The History of Silk by Harold Verner

 

Perhaps because death leaves so little to say, funeral guests seem to take refuge in platitudes. “He had a good innings…Splendid send-off… Very moving service…Such beautiful flowers…You are so wonderfully brave, Lily.”

It’s not bravery: my squared shoulders, head held high, that careful expression of modesty and gratitude. Not bravery, just determination to survive today and, as soon as possible, get on with what remains of my life. The body in the expensive coffin, lined with Verners’ silk and decorated with lilies and now deep in the ground, is not the man I’ve loved and shared my life with for the past fifty-five years.

It is not the man who helped to put me back together after the shattering events of the war, who held my hand and steadied my heart with his wise counsel. The man who took me as his own and became a loving father and grandfather. The joy of our lives together helped us both to bury the terrors of the past. No, that person disappeared months ago, when the illness took its final hold. His death was a blessed release and I have already done my grieving. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

After the service the house fills with people wanting to “pay their final respects.” But I long for them to go, and eventually they drift away, leaving behind the detritus of a remembered life along with the half-drunk glasses, the discarded morsels of food.

Around me, my son and his family are washing up, vacuuming, emptying the bins. In the harsh kitchen light I notice a shimmer of gray in Simon’s hair (the rest of it is dark, like his father’s) and realize with a jolt that he must be well into middle age. His wife Louise, once so slight, is rather rounder than before. No wonder, after two babies. They deserve to live in this house, I think, to have more room for their growing family. But today is not the right time to talk about moving.

I go to sit in the drawing room as they have bidden me, and watch for the first time the slide show that they have created for the guests at the wake. I am mesmerized as the TV screen flicks through familiar photographs, charting his life from sepia babyhood through monochrome middle years and into a Technicolor old age, each image occupying the screen for just a few brief seconds before blurring into the next.

At first I turn away, finding it annoying, even insulting.What a travesty, I think, a long, loving life bottled into a slideshow. But as the carousel goes back to the beginning andthe photographs start to repeat themselves, my relief that heis gone and will suffer no more is replaced, for the first timesince his death, by a dawning realization of my own loss.

It’s no wonder I loved him so; such a good-looking man,active and energetic. A man of unlimited selflessness, ofmany smiles and little guile. Who loved every part of me,infinitely. What a lucky woman. I find myself smiling back,with tears in my eyes.

My granddaughter brings a pot of tea. At seventeen, Emilyis the oldest of her generation of Verners, a clever, sensitivegirl growing up faster than I can bear. I see in her so muchof myself at that age: not exactly pretty in the conventionalway—hernose is slightly too long—butstriking, withsmooth cheeks and a creamy complexion that flushes at theslightest hint of discomfiture. Her hair, the color of blackcoffee, grows thick and straight, and her dark inquisitive eyesshimmer with mischief or chill with disapproval. She hasthat determined Verner jawline that says “don’t mess withme.” She’s tall and lanky, all arms and legs, rarely out of thepatched jeans and charity-shopjumpers that seem to be allthe rage with her generation these days. Unsophisticated butself-confident,exhaustingly energetic—andalways fun. Hadmy own daughter lived, I sometimes think, she would havebeen like Emily.

At this afternoon’s wake the streak of crimson she’semblazoned into the flick of her fringe was like an exoticbird darting among the dark suits and dresses. Soon she willfly, as they all do, these independent young women. But for now she indulges me with her company and conversation,and I cherish every moment.

She hands me a cup of weak tea with no milk, just how Ilike it, and then plonksherself down on the footstool next tome. We watch the slide show together for a few moments,and she says, “I miss Grandpa, you know. Such an amazingman. He was so full of ideas and enthusiasm—Iloved theway he supported everything we did, even the crazy things.”She’s right, I think to myself.

“He always used to ask me about stuff,” she goes on. “Hewas always interested in what I was doing with myself. Notmany grown-ups do that. A great listener.”

As usual my smart girl goes straight to the heart of it. It’ssomething I’m probably guilty of, not listening enough.“You can talk to me, now that he’s gone,” I say, a bit tooquickly. “Tell me what’s new.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I really do,” I say. Her legs, in heart-patternedblacktights, seem to stretch for yards beyond her miniskirt, and myheart swells with love for her, the way she gives me her undividedattention for these moments of proper talking time.

“Have I told you I’m going to India?” she says.

“My goodness, how wonderful,” I say. “How long for?”

“Only a month,” she says airily.

I’m achingly envious of her youth, her energy, herfreedom. I wanted to travel too at her age, but war got inthe way. My thoughts start to wander until I remember mycommitment to listening. “What are you going to do there?”

“We’re going to an orphanage. In December, with agroup from college. To dig the foundations for a cowshed,”she says triumphantly. I’m puzzled, and distracted by the ideaof elegant Emily wielding a shovel in the heat, her slenderhands calloused and dirty, hair dulled by dust.

“Why does an orphanage need a cowshed?”

“So they can give the children fresh milk. It doesn’t getdelivered to the doorstep like yours does, Gran,” she saysreprovingly. “We’re raising money to buy the cows.”

“How much do you need?”

“About two thousand. Didn’t I tell you? I’m doing asponsored parachute jump.” The thought of my preciousEmily hanging from a parachute harness makes me feelgiddy, as if capsized by some great gust of wind. “Don’tworry, it’s perfectly safe,” she says. “It’s with a professionaljump company, all above board. I’ll show you.”

She returns with her handbag, an impractical affair coveredin sequins, extracts a brochure, and gives it to me. I pretendto read it, but the photographs of cheerful children preparingfor their jumps seem to mock me and make me even morefearful. She takes the leaflet back. “You should know allabout parachutes, Gran. You used to make them, Dad said.”

“Well,” I start tentatively, “weaving parachute silk wasour contribution to the war effort. It kept us going whenlots of other mills closed.” I can picture the weaving shed asif from above, each loom with its wide white spread, shuttlesclacking back and forth, the rolls of woven silk growingalmost imperceptibly thicker with each turn of the weightedcloth beam.

“But why did they use silk?”

“It’s strong and light, packs into a small bag, and unwrapsquickly because it’s so slippery.” My voice is steadying nowand I can hear that old edge of pride. Silk seems still to bethreaded through my veins. Even now I can smell its musty, nutty aroma, see the lustrous intensity of its colors—emerald,aquamarine, gold, crimson, purple—andrecite the exoticnames like a mantra: brigandine, bombazine, brocatelle, douppion,organzine, pongee, schappe.

She studies the leaflet again, peering through the longfringe that flops into her eyes. “It says here the parachuteswe’re going to use are of high-quality one-point-nine-ounceripstop nylon. Why didn’t they use nylon in those days?Wouldn’t it have been cheaper?”

“They hadn’t really invented nylon by then, not goodenough for parachutes. You have to get it just right for parachutes,”I say and then, with a shiver, those pitiless wordsslip into my head after all these years. Get it wrong and you’vegot dead pilots.

She rubs my arm gently with her fingertips to smoothdown the little hairs, looking at me anxiously. “Are youcold, Gran?”

“No, my lovely, it’s just the memories.” I send up a silentprayer that she will never know the dreary fear of war, whenall normal life is suspended, when the impossible becomesordinary, when every decision seems to be a matter of life ordeath, when good-byesare often for good.

It tends to take the shine off you.

A little later Emily’s brother appears and loiters in his adolescentway, then comes and sits by me and holds my handin silence. I am touched to the core. Then her father comesin, looking weary. His filial duties complete, he hoverssolicitously. “Is there any more we can do, Mum?” I shakemy head and mumble my gratitude for the nth time today.

“We’ll probably be off in a few minutes. Sure you’ll beall right?” he says. “We can stay a little longer if you like.”

Finally they are persuaded to go. Though I love theircompany, I long for peace, to stop being the brave widow,to release my rictus smile. I make a fresh pot of tea, and thereon the kitchen table is the leaflet Emily has left, presumablyto prompt my sponsorship. I hide it under the newspaper andpour the tea, but my trembling hands cause a minor storm inthe teacup. I decant the tea into a mug and carry it with twohands to my favorite chair.

In the drawing room, I am relieved to find that the slideshow has been turned off, the TV screen returned to itsinnocuous blackness. From the wide bay window lookingwestward across the water meadows is an expanse of greeneryand sky that always helps me to think more clearly.

The Chestnuts is a fine, double-bayedEdwardian villa,built of mellow Suffolk bricks that look gray in the rain butin sunlight take on the color of golden honey. Not grand,just comfortable and well-proportioned,reflecting how myparents saw themselves, their place in the world. They builtit on a piece of spare land next to the silk mill during a particularlyprosperous period just after the Great War. “It’s silkumbrellas, satin facings, and black mourning crepe we haveto thank for this place,” my father, always the merchant,would cheerfully and unself-consciously inform visitors.

Stained-glassdoor panels throw kaleidoscope patterns oflight into generous hallways, and the drawing room is sufficientlyspacious to accommodate Mother’s baby grand aswell as three chintz sofas clustered companionably around ahandsome marble fireplace.

To the mill side of the house, when I was a child, was awalled kitchen garden, lush with aromatic fruit bushes anddeep green salads. On the other side, an ancient orchard provided an autumn abundance of apples and pears, so muchtreasured during the long years of rationing, and a grasstennis court in which worm casts ensured such an unpredictablebounce of the ball that our games could never be toocompetitive. The parade of horse chestnut trees along itslower edge still bloom each May with ostentatious candelabraof flowers.

At the back of the house is the conservatory, restoredafter the doodlebug disaster but now much in need of repair.From the terrace, brick steps lead to a lawn that rolls outtoward the water meadows. Through these meadows, yellowwith cowslips in spring and buttercups in summer, meandersthe river, lined with gnarled willows that appeared to mychildhood eyes like processions of crook-backedwitches. Itis Constable country.

“Will you look at this view?” my mother would exclaim,stopping on the landing with a basket of laundry, resting iton the generous windowsill and stretching her back. “Peoplepay hundreds of guineas for paintings of this, but we see itfrom our windows every day. Never forget, little Lily, howlucky you are to live here.”

No, Mother, I have never forgotten.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

The room smells of old whiskey and wood smoke andreverberates with long-agoconversations. Family secrets lurkin the skirting boards. This is where I grew up. I’ve neverlived anywhere else, and after nearly eighty years it will be awrench to leave. The place is full of memories: of my childhood,of him, of loving and losing.

As I walk ever more falteringly through the hallways,echoes of my life—mundaneand strange, joyful anddreadful—arelike shadows, always there, following myfootsteps. Now that he is gone, I am determined to makea new start. No more guilt and heart-searching.No more“what-ifs.”I need to make the most of the few more yearsthat may be granted to me.

 

 

2

 

China maintained its monopoly of silk production foraround three thousand years. The secret was eventuallyreleased, it is said, by a Chinese princess. Givenunhappily in marriage to an Indian prince, she was sodistressed at the thought of forgoing her silken clothingthat she hid some silkworm eggs in her headdress beforetraveling to India for the wedding ceremony. In thisway they were secretly exported to her new country.

—TheHistory of Silk by Harold Verner

 

It’s a week since the funeral, and everyoneremarks on how well I’m doing, but in the past coupleof days, I’ve been unaccountably out of sorts. Passing thehall mirror, I catch a glimpse of a gaunt old woman, rathershorter than me, with sunken eyes and straggly gray hair,dressed in baggy beige. That can’t be me, surely? Have Ishrunk so much?

Of course I miss him, another human presence in thehouse, though the truth is that it’s been hard the last fewyears, what with the care he needed and the worry I livedthrough. Now I can get on with the task at hand: sorting outthis house, and my life.

Emily comes around after school. I’m usually delighted to see her and keep a special tin of her favorite biscuits for suchoccasions. But today I’d rather not see anyone.

“What’s up, Gran? You don’t usually refuse tea.”

“I don’t know. I’m just grumpy for some reason.”

“What about?’

“I haven’t a clue, perhaps just with the world.”

She looks at me too wisely for her years. “I know whatthis is about, Gran.”

“It’s a crotchety old woman having a bad day.”

“No, silly. It’s part of the grieving process. It’s quite natural.”

“What do you mean, the grieving process? You grieve,you get over it,” I snap. Why do young people today thinkthey know it all?

She’s unfazed by my irritation. “The five stages ofmourning. Now what were they?” She twists a stub of hairin her fingers and ponders for a moment. “Some psychologistwith a double-barreledname described them. Okay,here we go. Are you paying attention? The five stagesof grieving are,” she ticks them off on her long fingers,“denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—somethinglike that.”

“They’ve got lists for everything these days: ten steps tosuccess, twenty ways to turn your life around, that kind ofrubbish,” I grumble.

“She’s really respected, honestly. Wish I could rememberher name. We learned it in psychology. You should thinkabout it. Perhaps you’ve reached the angry stage?”

She goes to make the tea, leaving me wondering. Whywould I be angry? Our generation never even consideredhow we grieved, though heaven knows we did enough ofit. Perhaps there was too much to mourn. We just got onwith it. Don’t complain, make the best of a bad lot, keepon smiling. That’s how we won the war, or so they told us.

Emily comes back with the tea tray. Along with knowingeverything else, she seems to have discovered where I hidethe biscuits.

“No school today?”

“Time off before exams. I’m supposed to be studying,”she says airily. “What are you up to?”

“Packing.Sorting out stuff for the charity shop.”

“Can I help?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more.”

After tea we go upstairs to the spare room, where I’vemade a tentative start at turning out cupboards and wardrobesthat have been untouched for years. Inside one ofthese mothball-scentedmausoleums we find three of mysuits hanging like empty carapaces. Why have I kept themfor so long? Ridiculous to imagine that one day I mightagain wear a classic pencil skirt or a fitted jacket. It’s beendecades since I wore them, but they still carry the imprintof my business self: skirts shiny-seatedfrom office chairs,jacket elbows worn from resting on the table, chin in hand,through many a meeting.

“Now that’s what you call power dressing,” Emily says,pulling on a jacket and admiring herself in the long mirroron the inside of the door. “Look at those shoulder pads, andsuch tiny waists. You must have been a looker, Gran. Can Ikeep this one? Big shoulders are so cool.”

“Of course, my darling. I thought they went out inthe eighties.”

“Back in again,” she says, moving the piles of clothesand black bin liners and sitting down on the bed, patting the empty space beside her. “You really enjoyed your job,didn’t you?”

“I suppose so,” I say, joining her. “I never really thoughtabout it before. We were too busy just getting on with it.But I suppose I did enjoy it.” I hear myself paraphrasing whatsomeone said to me long ago: “It’s a kind of alchemy, youknow. Like turning dull metal into gold. But better, becausesilk has such beautiful patterns and colors.”

“That’s rather poetic,” she says. “Dad never talks about itlike that.”

“Neither did your grandfather,” I say. “Men are never anygood at showing their emotions. Besides, even with somethingas wonderful as silk, you tend to take it for grantedwhen you work with it every day.”

“Didn’t you ever get bored?”

I think for a moment. “No, I don’t believe I ever did.”

“You didn’t seem especially happy when I asked youabout parachute silk the other day.”

I wish the words would not grip my heart so painfully.“It’s only because I don’t like the idea of you jumping out ofa plane, dearest girl,” I say, trying to soothe myself as muchas her.

“I’ll be fine, Gran,” she says breezily. “You mustn’tworry. We’re doing other stuff to raise money too. If youfind anything I could put in for our online auction whenyou’re turning out your cupboards, that would be amazing.”

“Anything you like,” I say. She turns back to the wardrobeand seems to be rummaging on the floor.

“What’s this, Gran?” comes her muffled voice.

“I don’t know what you’ve found,” I say.

As she pulls out the brown leather briefcase my heart doesa flip, which feels more like a double cartwheel. It’s batteredand worn, but the embossed initials are still clear on the lid.Of course I knew it was there, but for the past sixty years ithas been hidden in the darkest recesses of the wardrobe—andof my mind. Even though I haven’t cast eyes on it fordecades, those familiar twin aches of sorrow and guilt start tothrob in my bones.

“What’s in it, Gran?” she asks, impatiently fiddling withthe catches. “It seems to be jammed.”

It’s locked, I now recall with relief, and the key is safely inmy desk. Those old brass catches are sturdy enough to withstandeven Emily’s determined tugging. “It’s just old papers,probably rubbish,” I mutter, dazed by this unexpecteddiscovery. I know every detail of what the case contains, ofcourse, a package of memories so intense and so painful thatI never want to confront them again. But I cannot bringmyself to throw it away.

Perhaps I will retrieve it when she is gone and get rid ofit once and for all, I think. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. “Pop itback in the wardrobe, darling. I’ll have a look later,” I say, ascalmly as I can muster. “Shall we have some lunch?”

 

***

After this little shock, my enthusiasm for packing goes into asteep decline. I need to pop to the shop for more milk, butit’s just started raining, so I am hunting in the cupboard underthe stairs for my summer raincoat when something catchesmy eye: an old wooden tennis racket, still in its press, with arusty wing nut at each corner. The catgut strings are baggy,the leather-wrappedhandle frayed and graying with mold.

I pull it out of the cupboard, slip off the press, and takea few tentative swings. The balance is still good. And then,without warning, I find myself back in that heat wave dayin 1938—July,it must have been. Vera and I had played adesultory game of tennis—noshoes, just bare feet on thegrass court. The only balls we could find were moth-eaten,and before long we had hit all of them over the chain-linkfence into the long grass of the orchard. Tiptoeing carefullyfor fear of treading on the bees that were busily foraging inthe flowering clover, we found two. The third was nowhereto be seen.

“Give up,” Vera sighed, flopping face down on the court,careless of grass stains, her tanned arms and legs splayed likea swimmer, her red-paintedfingernails shouting freedomfrom school. I laid down beside her and breathed out slowly,allowing my thoughts to wander. The sun on my cheekbecame the touch of a warm hand, the gentle breeze in myhair his breath as he whispered that he loved me.

“Penny for them?” Vera said, after a bit.

“The usual. You know. Now shut up and let me get backto him.”

Vera had been my closest friend ever since I forgave herfor pulling my pigtails at nursery school. In other words, formost of my life. By our teens, we were an odd couple; I’dgrown a good six inches taller than her, but despite doingall kinds of exercises my breasts refused to grow, while Verawas shaping up nicely, blooming into the hourglass figure ofa Hollywood starlet.

I was no beauty, nor was I exactly plain, but I longed tolook more feminine and made several embarrassing attemptsto fix a permanent wave into my thick brown hair. Eventoday the smell of perm lotion leaves a bitter taste in mymouth, reminding me of the frizzy messes that were thecatastrophic result of my bathroom experiments. So I’dopted instead for a new chin-lengthbob that made me feeltremendously bold and modern, while Vera bleached herhair a daring platinum blond and shaped it into a Hollywoodwave. Together we spent hours in front of the mirrorpracticing our makeup, and Vera developed clever ways toemphasize her dimples and Clara Bow lips. She generouslydeclared that she’d positively die for my cheekbones andlong eyelashes.

In all other ways, we were very alike—laughedat thesame things, hankered after the same boys, loved the samemusic, felt strongly about the same injustices. We were botheighteen, just out of school, and aching to fall in love.

“Do I hear you sighing in the arms of your lover?”

“Maisoui, un très sexy Frenchman.”

“You daft thing.Been reading too much True Romance.”

More silence, punctuated by the low comforting chug of atractor on the road and cows on the water meadows callingfor their calves. School seemed like another country. A mildanxiety about imminent exam results was the only blip in afuture that otherwise stretched enticingly ahead. Then Verasaid, “What do you think’s really going to happen?”

“What do you mean? I’m going to Geneva to learn Frenchwith the most handsome man on earth, and you’re going toempty bed pans at Barts. That’s what we planned, isn’t it?”

She ignored the dig. “I mean with the Germans. Hitlerinvading Austria and all that.”

“They’re sorting it out, aren’t they?” I said, watchingwisps of cloud almost imperceptibly changing their shapes in the deepest of blue skies. That very morning at the breakfasttable, my father had sighed over The Times and muttered,“Chamberlain had better get his skates on. Last thing weneed is another ruddy war.” But here in the sunshine, Irefused to imagine anything other than my perfect life.

“I flipping well hope so,” Vera said.

The branch-linetrain to Braintree whistled in the distance,and the bruised smell of mown grass hung heavily inthe air. It seemed impossible that armies of one country weremarching into another, taking it over by force. And not so faraway: Austria was just the other side of Switzerland. Peoplewe knew went on walking holidays there. My brother wentskiing there just last winter and sent us a postcard of improbablypointed mountains covered in snow.

The sun started to cool, slipping behind the poplars andcasting long stripes of shade across the meadow. We got upand started looking again for the lost ball.

“We’d better get home,” I said, suddenly remembering.

“Mother said John might be on the boat train this afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you say? He’s been away months.”

“Nearly a year. I’ve missed him.”

“I thought you hated him,” she giggled, walking backwardin front of me. “I certainly did. I’ve still got the scar fromwhen he pushed me off the swing accidentally-on-purpose,”she said, pointing to her forehead.

“Teasing his little sister and her best friend was all part ofthe game.” The truth was that like most siblings John and Ihad spent our childhood tussling for parental attention, butto me he was always a golden boy: tall like a tennis ace, witha fashionable flick of dark blond hair at his forehead. Notintellectual, but an all-arounder:good at sports, musical likemy mother, and annoyingly confident of his attractiveness togirls. And yes, I had missed him while he’d been awaystudying in Switzerland.

 

***

Vera and I were helping to set the tea in the drawing roomwhen the bell rang. I dashed to the front door.

“Hello, Sis,” John boomed, his voice deeper than Iremembered. Then, to my surprise, he wrapped his armsaround me and gave me a powerful hug. He wouldn’t havedone that before, I thought. He stood back, looking me upand down. “Golly, you’ve grown. Any moment now you’llbe tall as me.”

“You’ve got taller too,” I said. “I’ll never catch up.”

He laughed. “You’d better not. Like the haircut.”Reeling from the unexpected compliment, surely the first I’dever received from my brother, I saw his face go blank for asecond and realized Vera was on the step behind me.

“Vera?” he said tentatively. She nodded, running fingersthrough her curls in a gesture I mistook for shyness. Herecovered quickly. “My goodness, you’ve grown up too,”he said, shaking her hand. She smiled demurely, looking upat him through her eyelashes. I’d seen that look before, butnever directed at my brother. It felt uncomfortable.

“How did the exams go, you two?”

I winced at the unwanted memory. “Don’t ask. Truth willout in a couple of weeks’ time.”

Mother appeared behind us and threw her arms roundhim with a joyful yelp. “My dearest boy. Thank heavens youare home safely. Come in, come in.”

He took a deep breath as he came through the door intothe hallway. “Mmm. Home sweet home. Never thought I’dmiss it so much. What’s that wonderful smell?”

“I’ve baked your favorite lemon cake in your honor. You’rejust in time for tea,” Mother said. “You’ll stay too, Vera?”

“Have you ever known me to turn down a slice of yourcake, Mrs. Verner?” she said.

Mother served tea, and as we talked, I noticed how Johnhad changed, how he had gained a new air of worldliness.Vera had certainly spotted it too. She smiled at him morethan really necessary and giggled at the feeblest of his jokes.

“Why are you back so soon?” Father asked. “I hope youcompleted your course?”

“Don’t worry, I finished all my exams,” John said cheerfully.“Honestly. I’ve learned such a lot at the Silkschüle, Pa.Can’t wait to get stuck in at the mill.”

Father smiled indulgently, his face turning to a frown asJohn slurped his tea—hismanners had slipped in his yearaway from home.

Then he said, “What about your certificates?”

“They’ll send them. I didn’t fail or get kicked out, if that’swhat you are thinking. I was a star pupil, they said.”

“I still don’t understand, John,” Father persisted. “The coursewasn’t due to finish till the end of the month.” John shook hishead, his mouth full of cake. “So why did you leave early?”

“More tea, anyone?” Mother asked, to fill the silence. “I’llput the kettle on.”

As she started to get up, John mumbled, almost to himself,“To be honest, I wanted to get home.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear,” she said. “We allget homesick sometimes.”

“That’s not it,” he said in a somber voice. “You don’tunderstand what it was like. Things are happening overthere. It’s not comfortable, ’specially in Austria.”

“Things?” I said, with an involuntary shiver. “What things?”

“Spit it out, lad,” Father said gruffly. “What’s this all about?”

John put down his cup and plate and sat back in his chair,glancing out the window toward the water meadows at thatConstable view. Mother stopped, still holding the pot, andwe all waited.

“It’s like this,” he started, choosing his words with care.“We’d been to Austria a few times—youknow, we wentskiing there. Did you get my postcard?”

Mother nodded. “It’s on the mantelpiece,” she said,“pride of place.”

“It was fine that time. But then, a few weeks ago, we wentback to Vienna to visit a loom factory. Fischers. The owner’sson, a chap called Franz, showed us around.”

“I remember Herr Fischer, Franz’s father. We boughtlooms from him once. A good man,” Father said. “How arethey doing?”

“It sounded as though business was a bit difficult. As hewas showing us round, Franz dropped a few hints, and whenwe got outside away from the others, I asked him directlywhat was happening. At first he shook his head and refusedto say anything, but then he whispered to me that they’dbeen forced to sell the factory.”

“Forced?” I asked. “Surely it’s their choice?”

“They don’t have any choice,” John said. “The Nazishave passed a new law that makes it illegal for Jewish peopleto own businesses.”

“That’s outrageous,” Father spluttered.

“His parents think that if they keep their heads down itwill all go away,” John said as I struggled to imagine how allof this could possibly be happening in Vienna, where theytrained white horses to dance and played Strauss waltzes onNew Year’s Eve.

“Is there any way we can help them, do you think?”Mother said sweetly. Her first concern was always to supportanyone in trouble.

“I’m not sure. Franz says it feels unstoppable. It’s prettyfrightening. They don’t know where the Nazis might gonext,” John said solemnly. “It’s not just in business, youknow. I saw yellow stars painted on homes and shops.Windows broken.Even people being jeered at in the street.”He turned to the window again with a faraway look, as ifhe could barely imagine what he’d seen. “They’re calling ita pogrom,” he almost whispered. I’d never heard the wordbefore, but it sounded menacing, making the air thick andhard to breathe.

Mother broke the silence. “This is such gloomy talk,”she said brightly. “I want to celebrate my son’s return, notget depressed about what’s happening in Europe. Morecake, anyone?”

Later, Vera and I walked down the road to her home.She lived just a mile away, and we usually kept each othercompany to the halfway point. “What do you think?” Iasked when we were safely out of the house.

“Hasn’t he changed? Grown up.Quite a looker these days.”

“Not about John,” I snapped irritably. “I saw you flutteringyour eyelashes, you little flirt. Lay off my brother.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t lose your rag.”

“I meant, about what he said.”

“Oh, that,” she said. “It sounds grim.”

“Worse than grim for the Jews,” I said. “I’m not sure whata pogrom is exactly, but it sounds horrid.”

“Well, there’s not much we can do from here. Let’s hopeyour father’s right about Chamberlain sorting it out.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

She didn’t reply at once, but we both knew what theanswer was.

“Doesn’t bear thinking about,” she said.

 

***

When I got back, Father leaned out of his study door.

“Lily? A moment?”

It was a small room with a window facing out onto themill yard, lined with books and heavy with the fusty fragranceof pipe tobacco. It was the warmest place in the house, andin winter, a coal fire burned constantly in the small grate.This was his sanctuary; the heavy paneled door was normallyclosed, and even my mother knocked before entering.

It was one of my guilty pleasures to sneak in and lookat his books when he wasn’t there—TheSilk Weavers ofSpitalfields, Sericulture in Japan, The Huguenots, So Spins theSilkworm, and the history of a tape and label manufacturerinnocently titled A Reputation in Ribbons that always mademe giggle. Most intriguing of all, inside a plain box file weredozens of foolscap sheets filled with neat handwriting andwritten on the front page in confident capitals: A HISTORYOF SILK, by HAROLD VERNER. I longed to ask whetherhe ever planned to publish it but didn’t dare admit knowingof its existence.

I perched uneasily on the desk. From his leather armchairby the window, Father took a deep breath that was nearly,but not quite, a sigh.

“Mother and I have been having a chat,” he started,meaning he’d decided something and had told her what hethought. My mind raced. This was ominous; whatever couldit be? What had I done wrong recently?

“I won’t beat around the bush, my darling. You’ve read thereports and now, with what John told us this afternoon…”

“About the pogrom?” The word was like a lump in my mouth.

He ran a hand distractedly through his thinning hair,pushing it over the balding patch at the back. “Look, I knowthis will be disappointing, but you heard what he told us.”

I held my breath, dreading what he was about to say.

“In the circumstances, Mother and I think it would beunwise for you to go to Geneva this September.”

A pulse started to thump painfully in my temple. “Unwise?What do you mean? I’m not Jewish. Surely this pogromthing won’t make any difference to me?” He held my gaze,his expression fixed. He’d made up his mind. “It isn’t fair,” Iheard myself whining. “You didn’t stop John going.”

“That was a year ago. Things have changed, my love.”

“The Nazis aren’t in Switzerland.”

He shook his head. “Not yet, perhaps. But Hitler is anambitious man. We have absolutely no idea where he willgo next.”

“But Chamberlain…?” I was floundering, clinging toflotsam I knew wouldn’t float.

“He’s doing his best, poor man.” Father shook his headsadly. “He believes in peace, and so do I. No one wantsanother war. But it’s not looking too good.”

I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. In the spaceof two minutes, my future life, as far as I could see it, hadslipped away, and I was powerless to stop it. “But I have togo. I’ve been planning it for months.”

“You don’t need to make any quick decisions. We’ll letGeneva know you won’t be going in September, but otherthan that, you can take your time.” Father’s voice was stillcalm and reasonable. I felt anything but.

“I don’t want to take my time. I want to go now,” I whined,like a petulant child. “Besides, what would I do instead?”

He felt in his pocket for his tobacco pouch and favoritebriar pipe. With infuriating precision, he packed the pipe,deftly lit a match, held it to the bowl, and puffed. After amoment he took it from his mouth and looked up, his facealight with certainty. “How about a cooking course? Alwayscomes in handy.”

I stared at him, a hot swell of anger erupting inside myhead. “You really don’t understand, do you?” I registeredhis disapproving frown but the words spilled out anyway.“Because I’m a girl you think my only ambition is to be aperfect little wife, cooking my husband wonderful meals andputting his slippers out every evening.”

“Watch your tone, Lily,” he warned.

To avoid meeting his eyes, I started to pace the Persianrug by the desk. “Times have changed, Father. I’m just asintelligent as any man, and I’m not going to let my brain gosoggy learning to be a wonderful cook or a perfect seamstress.I don’t want to be a wife either, not yet anyway. Iwant to do something with my life.”

“And so you shall, Lily. We will find something for you.

But not in Geneva, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter,” he said firmly. “And now I think we should finishthis discussion. It’s time for bed.”

I nearly slammed the study door behind me but thoughtbetter of it at the last minute and pulled it carefully closed.In my bedroom, I cursed Father, Chamberlain, and Hitler, inthat order. I loved my room, with its pretty damask curtainsand matching bedcover, but these treasured things nowseemed to mock me, trapping me here in Westbury. Aftera while, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realizedhow wretched I looked. Self-pitywould get me nowhere,and certainly not into a more interesting life. I needed to getaway from home, perhaps to London, to be near Vera. Butwhat could I do? I was qualified for nothing.

I remembered Aunt Phoebe. She was a rather distantfigure, a maiden aunt who lived in London with a lady companion,worked in an office somewhere, drove an AustinSeven all over Europe, and cared little for what anyone elsethought about her unconventional way of life. Perhaps Icould train as a secretary, like her? Earn enough to rent alittle flat? The idea started to seem quite attractive. It wasn’tas romantic as Geneva, but at least I would get away andmeet some interesting people.

Now all I had to do was convince Father that this was areasonable plan.

At breakfast next day, I crossed my fingers behind my backand announced, “I’ve decided to get a job in London. Veraand I are going to share a bedsit.” I hadn’t asked her yet, butI was sure she would say yes.

“Lovely, dear.” Mother was distracted, serving breakfasteggs and bacon from the hotplate.

“Sounds fun,” John said, emptying most of the contentsof the coffee jug into the giant cup he’d bought in France.

“Vera’s a good laugh. What are you going to do?”

“Leave some coffee for me,” I said. “I could do anything,but preferably something in an office. I’ll need to get someexperience first. I thought perhaps I could spend a fewweeks helping Beryl at Cheapside?” Beryl managed Verners’London office. “What do you think, Father?”

“Well, now,” he said, carefully folding his newspaperand placing it beside his knife and fork. “Another Verner inthe firm? There’s an idea.” He took the plate from Motherand started to butter his toast, neatly, right to the edges. “Avery good idea. But you’d have to work your way up likeeveryone else.”

“What do you mean, ‘work my way up’?” Was he deliberatelymisinterpreting what I’d said?

“You’d have to start like John did, as a weaver,” he said,moving his fried egg onto the toast.

“That’s not what I meant. I want secretarial experience, inan office. Not weaving,” I said sharply. “I don’t need to knowhow to weave the stuff to type letters about it. Does Berylhave to weave?”

He gave me a fierce look, and the room went quiet. Motherslipped out, muttering about more toast, and John studied thepattern on the tablecloth. Father put down his knife and forkwith a small sigh, resigned to sacrificing his hot breakfast forthe greater cause of instructing his willful daughter.

“Let me explain, my dearest Lily, the basic principlesof working life. Beryl came to us as a highly experiencedadministrator, and you have no skills or experience. Youknow very well that I do not provide sinecures for myfamily, and I will not give you a job just because you are a Verner. As I said, you need to learn the business from thebottom up to demonstrate that you are not just playing at it.”

He took a deep breath and then continued. “But I’ll makeyou an offer. Prove yourself here at Westbury, and if, aftersix months, you are still determined to go to London andtake up office work, I will pay for you to go to secretarialcollege. If that is what you really want. Otherwise, it’s acookery course. Take it or leave it.”

 

 

3

Weaving is the process of passing a “weft” thread,normally in a shuttle, through “warp” threads woundparallel to each other on a “beam” of the total width ofthe cloth being woven. The structure of the weave isvaried by raising or lowering selected warp threads eachtime the weft is passed through.

—TheHistory of Silk by Harold Verner

 

I never intended to become a silk weaver, but HerrHitler and my father had left me with little choice.

Of course, I was already familiar with the mill, from livingnext door, carrying messages for Mother, or visiting to askFather a favor. It held no romance for me—itwas just abuilding full of noisy machinery, dusty paperwork, and hard-edgedcommerce. The idea of spending six months there feltlike a life sentence.

Then, as now, the original Old Mill could be seen clearlyacross the factory yard from the kitchen window of TheChestnuts: two symmetrical stories of Victorian red brick;a wide, low-pitchedslate roof; green painted double frontdoors at the center; two double sash windows on eitherside and three above. These days it’s just a small part of thecomplex my son runs with impressive efficiency.

Behind Old Mill stretches an acre of modern weavingsheds where the Rapier looms clash and clatter, producingcloth at a rate we could never have imagined in my day.Even now, in the heat of summer, when the doors areopened to allow a cooling breeze, I hear the distant loomslike the low drone of bees. It reassures me that all is well.

The ebb and flow of work at the mill had always beenpart of our family life. In those days, employees arrived anddeparted on foot or by bicycle for two shifts every weekday,except for a fortnight’s closure at Christmas and the annualsummer break. It’s the same now, except they come by carand motorbike. Families have worked there for generations,ever since my great-great-grandfathermoved the business outof London, away from its Spitalfields roots. In East Anglia,they found water to power their mills and skilled weaverswho had been made redundant by the dying wool trade.

Even today the weavers’ faces seem familiar, though Ino longer know them by name. I recognize family traits—heavybrows, cleft chins, tight curls, broad shoulders, unusualheight or slightness—thathave been handed down fromfather to son, from mother to daughter. They are loyal types,these weaving families, proud of their skills and the beauty ofthe fabrics they produce.

Then, as now, vans pulled into the yard several times a weekto deliver bales of raw yarn and take away rolls of woven fabric.When not required at the London office, my father walkedto work through the kitchen garden gate and across the yardand came home for the cooked lunch that Mother had spentmuch of the morning preparing. She rarely stepped foot in themill. Her place was in the home, she said, and that’s how sheliked it.

 

***

When I arrived at breakfast that first day, John looked me upand down and said smugly, “You’d better change that skirt,Sis. You’re better off in slacks for bending over looms. Andyou’ll regret those heels after you’ve been on your feet fornine hours.”

“While you sit on your backside pushing papers around,”I grumbled, scowling at his smart new suit and striped tie.It was bad enough that I had to start as a lowly apprenticeweaver, but John had recently been promoted to the office,which made it worse.

I’d never envied what was in store for him: a lifelongcommitment to the responsibility of running a silk mill ina rural town. As the eighth generation of male Verners,it was unthinkable that he would do anything other thanfollow Father into the business and take over as managingdirector when he retired. John was following the naturalorder of things.

“I bet you’ll get the old battle-ax,”he said, crunchingloudly on his toast.

“Language, and manners please, John,” Mother mutteredmildly.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Gwen Collins. Assistant weaving floor manager.Doesmost 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 mighteven enjoy it.”

I was unconvinced. Setting off across the yard, the short trip I had seen my father, and more recently John, take everymorning, I felt depressed: this was far from the glamorouslife I’d planned. But why were butterflies causing mayhemin my stomach—wasI afraid of being ridiculed as the gaffer’sdaughter, I wondered, of letting him down? Or scared thatI might not be able to learn fast enough, that people mightlaugh behind my back? Oh, get a grip, Lily, I muttered tomyself. This is a means to an end, remember? Besides, you haven’tlet anything beat you yet, and you’re not about to start now.

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

My first impressions of Gwen Collins were certainly notfavorable. She wasn’t exactly old—inher late twenties Ijudged—butotherwise John’s description seemed prettyaccurate. An unprepossessing woman, dumpy and shorterthan me, in a shapeless brown smock and trousers with men’sturn-ups,she had concealed her hair beneath an unflatteringflowery scarf wrapped and knotted like a turban. There wassomething rather manly about her—adisregard for howothers saw her, perhaps. Her expression was serious, evensevere. But something softened it, gave her an air of vulnerability.Then I realized what it was: I had never seen anyonewith so many freckles. They covered her face, merging intoblobs that almost concealed the pale, nearly translucent skinbeneath. She’d made no effort to hide them with makeup.Even her eyelids were speckled.

I returned the forceful handshake with what I hoped wasa friendly smile. “Pleased to meet you, Gwen. Father tellsme you’re going to teach me all you know. He says you’rea mine of information.”

“Mr. Harold is very kind; the regard is mutual,” shereplied without returning the smile and without even aglance at Father. Pale green eyes regarded me with unsettlingintensity beneath her almost invisibly blond eyelashes.

After an awkward pause, she said briskly, “Right, we’llmake a start in the packing hall, so you can learn about whatwe produce, then we’ll go round the mill to see how weweave it.” With no further pleasantries, she turned and ledthe way, striding down the corridor so purposefully I had totrot to keep up.

The packing hall was—stillis today—alarge room runningthe length of the first floor of Old Mill. Sun poured inthrough six tall windows along the southern wall, and theroom was almost oppressively warm, with that dry, sweetsmell of raw silk that would soon become part of my verybeing. Along the opposite wall were deep wooden racksstacked from floor to ceiling with bolts of cloth.

In the center, two workers stood at wide tables edgedwith shiny bronze yard-rules,expertly measuring, cutting,and rolling or folding bundles of material and wrapping themwith 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 thetop and another at the bottom.

“These are pickers,” Gwen said, introducing me as “MissLily, Mr. Harold’s daughter.” As we shook hands, theylowered their eyes deferentially, probably cursing the factthat they would have to watch their language with anotherVerner 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 mightin time consider me one of them.

“They check the silk and mark each fault with a short redthread 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’sour reputation for quality.”

I nodded frequently, trying to appear more enthusiastic thanI felt. “Now, how much do you know about silk?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” I admitted, embarrassed. Surely aVerner 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 thetable, steadied an end with one hand, and, in a single deftmovement, grasped the loose end of the material and pulledout a cascade that unravelled like liquid gold.

“Wow,” I said, genuinely dazzled.

She crumpled a bundle between her hands, lowering herear to it. “Listen.”

I bent my head, and she scrunched it again. It sounded likea footstep on dry snow or cotton wool tearing.

“That’s called scroop, a good test for real silk when it’sbeen dyed in the yarn.”

As I crumpled it, the vibration ran through my hands, upmy arms, and into my ears, making me shiver.

She rolled up the gold with practiced ease and pulledout 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 shapeand held it beneath her chin. “Tie materials are mostly repstripes and Jacquard designs,” she said, “woven to orderfor clubs and societies. Men so love their status symbols,don’t they?”

Again, I saw that puzzling crimp at the corner of hereyes. “Jacquard?”

“Type of loom. Clever bit of kit for weaving patterns,brought here by your Huguenot ancestors. You’ll see themwhen we go down to the weaving shed.”

She unravelled a third roll. This one had a navy backgroundwith a delicate gold fleur-de-lispattern. She pulled asmall brass object from her pocket, carefully unfolding it intoa tiny magnifying glass hinged onto two plates, one of whichhad a square hole. She placed this on the silk and gestured forme to put my eye to the glass.

The motif was so enlarged that hair-likeindividual silkthreads, almost invisible to the naked eye, looked like strandsof wool so thick that I could measure them against the rulermarkings along the inner square of the lower plate. “I had noidea,” I murmured, fascinated by the miniature world underthe glass. “There’s so much more to it than I ever imagined.”As I looked up, the glint of satisfaction that passed acrossGwen’s face reminded me of my Latin teacher when I’dfinally 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 anddraping it over my hands. It was heavy, the texture of mattesatin, the color of clotted cream, and wonderfully sensuous. Itfelt 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 wasunnerving: most of the time she was coolly professional andbusinesslike, but sometimes her responses were disconcertinglyintimate, as though she could read my thoughts.

She looked up at the clock. “It’s nearly coffee-break.Justtime for the pièce de résistance.”

At first, I thought the taffeta was aquamarine. But when itsshimmering threads caught the light, the color shifted to anintense royal blue. It was like a mirage, there one moment andgone the next. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s shot silk. A blue weftshot through a green warp.” She held up a length, iridescentas a butterfly wing, into a shaft of sunlight. I almost gasped.

As I took a piece of cloth and angled it to watch thecolors change, I could feel Gwen’s pale eyes interrogatingmy response. And in that moment, I realized I’d never beforeproperly appreciated silk, its brilliant, lustrous colors, therange of weaves and patterns. Father and John never talkedabout it this way.

That morning, Gwen showed me how to use all mysenses, not just seeing the colors and feeling the weave, butalso holding the silk up to the light, smelling it, folding to seehow it lost or held a crease, identifying the distinctive rustlesand squeaks of each type of material, examining its weaveunder a magnifier, enjoying its variety. I was already hooked,like a trout on a fly-line,but I didn’t know it yet. Only laterdid I come to understand how Gwen simply allowed the silkto seduce me.

 

***

The canteen, a large sunny room at the top of Old Mill thatsmelled not unpleasantly of cabbage and cigarette smoke,seemed to be the heart of the mill. A team of cheerful ladiesprovided morning coffee, hot midday meals, and afternoonteas with homemade cakes and biscuits. Men and women satat separate tables talking about football and politics, familiesand friendships. Weavers and warpers kept together, as didthrowsters. Loom engineers—calledtacklers—werea strongmale clan in their oily overalls; the dyers, their aprons stainedin many colors, another. But a shared camaraderie crosseddivides of gender and trade; old hands teased the newcomers,and if they responded with good humor they became partof the gang.

Gwen wasn’t part of any gang and seemed immune fromcanteen banter. We sat down at an empty table, and shepulled off her turban, running her fingers through gingercurls that corkscrewed round her head. Without her workingwoman’s armor, she seemed more approachable.

“Why haven’t we met before, Gwen? Were you broughtup in Westbury?”

She shook her head, stirring three teaspoons of sugar intochocolate-browntea.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Six years. Six happy years, mostly,” she said, that raresmile 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 went to artschool, 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 and looked out the canteen window toward the cricket willow plantation on theother side of the railway line. “He’s a very generous man. Iowe him a lot.”

I felt a prickle of shame for not having appreciated himmuch. He was my father, strict but usually kindly, ratherremote when he was wrapped up in work. I’d never consideredhow others might regard him.

The squawk of the klaxon signaled the end of break-time.Over the loud scraping of utility chairs—thestackable sortof metal piping with slung canvas seats and backs—Gwenshouted, “Time to learn about the heart of the business,Miss Lily.”

After the peace of the packing hall, the weaving shed wasa shock. As the door opened, the noise was like runninginto a wall. Rows of gray-greenlooms stretched into thedistance, great beasts each in their own pool of light, a massof complex oily iron in perpetual noisy motion—lifting,falling, sliding, striking, knocking, crashing, vibrating. Howcould anyone possibly work in this hellish metallic chaos?

The weavers seemed oblivious, moving unhurriedlybetween their looms, pausing to watch the material slowlyemerge from the incessant motion of the shuttle beam orstooping over a stilled machine. I quickly realized that theywere skilled lip-readersand could hold long conversationsin spite of the noise. But much of the time, their eyes werefocused intently on the cloth.

 

***

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

The following day, I was relieved to discover that wewere spending it in the relative peace of the winding mill.Here, the silk skeins shimmered and danced as they rotatedon their spindles, releasing threads to be doubled, twisted,and wound onto bobbins, and from bobbins onto pirns thatwould go into the shuttles. I learned the difference betweenthe warp—thelengthways threads held taut between tworollers at either side of the loom—andthe weft—thecross-threadswoven into the warp from the shuttle.

Gwen no longer seemed so formidable. I was quicklylearning to respect her skill and deftness, and her encyclopedicknowledge of silk in all aspects of its complex manufacture.But she was still an enigma. Why would an educatedwoman like her choose to come and live in Westbury, towork in a mill?

I would find out soon enough.

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