Last Telegram Read Online Free PDF

warp threads each time the weft is passed through.
    â€” The History of Silk by Harold Verner
    I never intended to become a silk weaver, but Herr Hitler and my father had left me with little choice.
    Of course, I was already familiar with the mill, from living next door, carrying messages for Mother, or visiting to ask Father a favor. It held no romance for me—it was just a building full of noisy machinery, dusty paperwork, and hard-edged commerce. The idea of spending six months there felt like a life sentence.
    Then, as now, the original Old Mill could be seen clearly across the factory yard from the kitchen window of The Chestnuts: two symmetrical stories of Victorian red brick; a wide, low-pitched slate roof; green painted double front doors at the center; two double sash windows on either side and three above. These days it’s just a small part of the complex my son runs with impressive efficiency.
    Behind Old Mill stretches an acre of modern weaving sheds where the Rapier looms clash and clatter, producing cloth at a rate we could never have imagined in my day. Even now, in the heat of summer, when the doors are opened to allow a cooling breeze, I hear the distant looms like the low drone of bees. It reassures me that all is well.
    The ebb and flow of work at the mill had always been part of our family life. In those days, employees arrived and departed on foot or by bicycle for two shifts every weekday, except for a fortnight’s closure at Christmas and the annual summer break. It’s the same now, except they come by car and motorbike. Families have worked there for generations, ever since my great-great-grandfather moved the business out of London, away from its Spitalfields roots. In East Anglia, they found water to power their mills and skilled weavers who had been made redundant by the dying wool trade.
    Even today the weavers’ faces seem familiar, though I no longer know them by name. I recognize family traits—heavy brows, cleft chins, tight curls, broad shoulders, unusual height or slightness—that have been handed down from father to son, from mother to daughter. They are loyal types, these weaving families, proud of their skills and the beauty of the fabrics they produce.
    Then, as now, vans pulled into the yard several times a week to deliver bales of raw yarn and take away rolls of woven fabric. When not required at the London office, my father walked to work through the kitchen garden gate and across the yard and came home for the cooked lunch that Mother had spent much of the morning preparing. She rarely stepped foot in the mill. Her place was in the home, she said, and that’s how she liked it.
    â€¢ • •
    When I arrived at breakfast that first day, John looked me up and down and said smugly, “You’d better change that skirt, Sis. You’re better off in slacks for bending over looms. And you’ll regret those heels after you’ve been on your feet for nine hours.”
    â€œWhile 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 apprentice weaver, but John had recently been promoted to the office, which made it worse.
    I’d never envied what was in store for him: a lifelong commitment to the responsibility of running a silk mill in a rural town. As the eighth generation of male Verners, it was unthinkable that he would do anything other than follow Father into the business and take over as managing director when he retired. John was following the natural order of things.
    â€œI bet you’ll get the old battle-ax,” he said, crunching loudly on his toast.
    â€œLanguage, and manners please, John,” Mother muttered mildly.
    â€œWho’s that?” I asked.
    â€œGwen Collins. Assistant weaving floor manager. Does most of the training. Terrifying woman.”
    â€œThanks for the