Last Telegram by Liz Trenow Page A

“I’ve had the vats heating and the thermostat says they’re at the right temperature, so shall we have another go? Help me up with this roll, would you?”
    â€œHang on a sec,” I said. “Didn’t you say there was a problem with the thermostat?”
    He frowned. Why was I asking difficult questions when I knew nothing about it? “How am I supposed to know if we don’t try it first?”
    â€œUse a thermometer? Good old-fashioned kind?”
    â€œWhere on earth can we get one of those at this time of night?”
    I had a moment of inspiration. “Mother’s jam thermometer, the brass one on the hook above the stove. I’ll run back and get it.”
    We lowered the thermometer into the vat on a piece of wire, and once the rolls were in place, John clicked a switch and the machinery started, pulling the silk through the first two vats. The steam ran in rivulets down our faces as we worked side by side, hooking the silk onto the stenters. John turned his attention to the control panel and checked the thermometer. I went outside to cool off.
    When I came back, he said, “You were right, you know. The thermostat said two hundred and twelve degrees and cut out the heater, but the thermometer was only at a hundred and eighty-nine. I’ve had to adjust the thermostat higher still to get the water to boiling point. Bloody thing’s obviously on the blink.” It was as though the machine had personally insulted him. Trying to conceal my smugness, I went to watch the silk emerge from the drier.
    â€œShouldn’t this silk be rolling straight?” I called over the growl of the machinery. He left the control panel and came to look.
    â€œOh blast, what the hell is wrong now?” he cursed, rushing to hit the off switch. The machinery sighed slightly as it came to a halt. “If I run the rollers slowly in reverse, can you pull out the wrinkles?”
    â€œI’ll do my best.”
    â€œMind your fingers.”
    â€œWill do, have a go.” As silk rewound, it became clear what had caused the problem. “I think this roller’s slightly offset,” I called. “That’s why the silk’s not rolling up straight.”
    He stopped the machine and came back. “By God, you’re right, Lily. Can’t bloody trust anyone.” He went to a tool box and pulled out a large spanner. “We’ll have to adjust the axle.”
    Finally we got started again, and when I next looked, the clock on the wall read half-past nine. We’d been working for two hours, but I’d hardly noticed the time passing.
    â€œNow we have to test it,” he said. “Help me lift it over here. This thing’s a burst tester, which checks how much strain the silk can take before it breaks. And then we have to put it through the porosity tester. That’s the most important—it measures how quickly the air goes through the fabric.”
    I hadn’t noticed the two curious contraptions on the stainless steel tabletop. The smaller one looked rather like a sewing machine with a large dial attached to one side. John pulled out a few yards of material, laid it across the plate, and lowered the lever, trapping the silk snugly over the hole below. “Wind the handle, slowly.” As I turned the small wheel, the needle moved clockwise round its dial and the rubber expanded upward into a dome, stretching the cloth till there was a slight “whoof” as it broke.
    â€œ Wundervoll ,” he said, releasing the lever and inspecting the hole. “Weft and warp broke together at eighty point three. That’ll do nicely.” He wrote the result into a red-backed ledger.
    With its orange rubber tubes and multiple dials, the porosity tester looked more like something out of science fiction. John positioned the silk and lowered the lever, compressing round rubber seals onto the material from both sides. When he pushed the button,