Chapter Four

       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 upwards, 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.

      From The History of Silk, by Harold Verner

      Long afterwards, 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 p.m., carriages 2 a.m. Overnight accommodation if desired, it read. Underneath was scrawled: Do come, Johnnie. Would be good to see you again. Marcus.

      ‘His 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 went 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,’ he went on, ‘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 possibly afford it?

      Then I remembered the blue-green shot silk that had so thrilled me on my first day at the mill, and asked Father if I could have a few yards as a Christmas present. I pored over fashion magazines, trying to imagine what style would make the most of my beanpole figure. It had to be modern, but formal enough to pass muster in ‘black tie’ company. At last I found the perfect pattern; the dress had a halterneck bodice that flowed into a wide full-length skirt to emphasise my waistline, and a bolero jacket for warmth.

      In the days after Christmas Mother and I slaved over her old treadle sewing machine, and I endured countless pin-prickled fittings to get the dress just right. Now it was finished, and I barely recognised the elegant young woman looking back from the long mirror in my room. The cut of the gown and the shimmering silk made my figure, usually obscured in slacks and baggy jumpers at the factory, positively curvy.

      My experiments with lipstick and mascara seemed to highlight interesting new features in a face I’d always considered plain. Even my straight brown bob seemed more sophisticated when I tucked the hair behind my ears to show off Mother’s emerald drop-earrings. We had fashioned a little clutch bag from scraps of leftover silk, and my old white satin court shoes – with low heels, I didn’t want to tower over any potential partner – had been tinted green by the dye works, to match the colour of the warp.

      You’ll do, I thought, observing myself sideways, sticking out my chest and practising a coy, leading-lady smile. You might even get asked for a dance or two.

      As we drove up the mile-long drive through acres of parkland and caught sight of the manor, my excitement gave way to apprehension. It was a red-brick Victorian gothic mansion with stone-arched windows, ornate chimneys and little turrets topping each corner of the building. Today I’d call it grandiose but at the time I was awestruck. The driveway was stuffed with smart motors: Jaguars, MG sports and Bentleys. John parked our modest Morris well out of view.

      We were welcomed into a cavernous oak-panelled hallway by a real butler who led us upstairs to our rooms, carrying my case while I held the dress on its hanger before me like a shield. I feared I would never retrace our route as we trod endless gloomy corridors, taking frequent turns past dozens of identical doors.

      My bedroom, when we finally reached it, seemed the size of a ballroom. It had once been very grand, I could see, but now the chintz curtains and bed coverlet were faded, and a miserly coal fire in a small grate made little impact on the overall chilliness. As I waited several minutes for a small stream of tepid water to emerge from the tap at the sink, I imagined the miles of piping it had to pass through to reach this distant room.

      Shivering, I pulled on the dress and peered into the foxed glass of the mirror to apply my make-up, cursing as I dropped blobs of mascara onto my cheek. In the dim light of a single bulb hung from high in the ceiling I couldn’t be sure whether I’d managed to scrub it off properly.

      But it was ten past eight and I couldn’t postpone the moment any longer. Tottering nervously through the maze of corridors, I lost my way several times. Eventually I found the top of the stairs and, having managed to negotiate these without tripping, followed the roar of voices to the drawing room. There, about forty people were knocking back champagne and talking at the tops of their voices, as if they had known each other for years.

      I looked around urgently for John but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I found myself near a tall man holding court to three young women who waved their long cigarette holders ostentatiously and giggled a lot. With some alarm I noticed that the man was wearing what I at first took for a skirt but then realised was a Scottish kilt. I hugged myself into the corner against the wall, trying not to stare, and was greatly relieved when the gong sounded for dinner. Then, to my dismay, I noticed that the man in the skirt was smiling in my direction. The three girls glared as he walked over and offered his hand.

      ‘Robert Cameron, pleased to meet you. Would you do me the pleasure of accompanying me to dinner?’

      ‘Lily Verner, good evening.’ I said, as I returned the handshake and noted his startlingly blue eyes.

      ‘May I just say, Miss Verner, that dress is a stunner. Extraordinary colours. Silk, isn’t it?’ He took my arm and steered me firmly in the direction of the dining room. As we walked I stole a closer look; a kind of furry purse affair hung from his waist that I later learned was called a sporran. The kilt ended at the knees, and below that were hairy legs clad only in white socks, a small dagger stuffed into the top of one of them. It felt uncomfortably intimate being so close to those bare legs, and I barely dared imagine what he might or might not be wearing beneath those swinging pleats.

      By the precision of his courtesies I guessed Mr Cameron had once been in the forces but wasn’t any more, not with those raffish sideburns. Slightly receding hair and deep smile lines suggested he was