Read Last Telegram for Free Online Page B

I quickly realized 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.
    â€¢ • •
    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 encyclopedic 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.

4
    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 upward, 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.
    â€” The History of Silk by Harold Verner
    Long afterward, 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 8:00 p.m., carriages 2:00 a.m. Overnight accommodation if desired , it read. Underneath was scrawled: Do come, Johnnie. Would be good to see you again. Marcus.
    â€œHis 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 been 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. 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