Last Telegram by Liz Trenow Page B

the machine hissed and sighed for a few seconds. He scrutinized the needle as it leaped and settled on the dial, then threw his hands up into the air in triumph. “Fourteen point four, the golden number. At last.” He did a little jig and gave me a hug.
    â€œFourteen point four what?”
    â€œCubic feet per second, that’s how fast the air is supposed to go through a square foot of fabric. It’s air permeability—the porosity index Robbie was going on about.”
    â€œIt has to be that exact?”
    â€œWithin a close range. We ought to repeat the test a couple of times to make sure it’s consistent. But we can do that tomorrow.”
    I was too excited to wait. “We’ll sleep better if we know it’s right. Do a couple more now. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
    The next two came within the right range and we decided to call it a day. Walking back across the yard to the darkened house, he said, “Thanks for your help tonight, Sis.”
    â€œI quite enjoyed it,” I said, glowing at the unexpected compliment.
    â€œThat thermometer was a stroke of genius, and I can’t understand why no one spotted the wonky roller before.” He stopped. “Want a smoke before we go in?”
    We sat on the front step and lit up.
    â€œWhatever happened to your plans to go to London?” he asked. “Thought you couldn’t wait to get away from here?”
    â€œI’d like to sometime,” I said, wondering whether this was still true. “But working at the mill has turned out to be a lot more interesting than I imagined.”
    â€œI hear good things about you from Gwen,” he said.
    â€œShe never says anything to me. What did she tell you?” I asked, quietly pleased.
    â€œShe says you’ve learned fast and you’re a hard worker. Got an eye for detail,” he said, “just what you need in a weaver.”
    â€œThat’s good to hear,” I said. “She goes on about how skilled Stefan is too, but she never tells him, so he’s always worrying whether she likes him. I wonder why she never praises anyone directly?”
    â€œNature of the beast,” John laughed. “She’s a funny old stick.”
    We puffed in silence for a few moments.
    â€œI don’t want to be a weaver forever, but it’s quite important, what we are doing here, don’t you think?” I said.
    â€œWe’re preparing for war,” he said gloomily. “War kills people.”
    â€œOur parachutes will save lives, at least,” I said, not wanting to deflate my cheerful mood.
    â€œThat’s one way of looking at it,” he said oddly, stubbing out the cigarette under his heel with surprising ferocity. I wondered what was on his mind, but forgot all about it until later, when Vera told me.

7
    The silk we love for its softness and beauty is also one of the strongest and toughest fibers in the world. It has a strength of around five grams per denier compared with three grams per denier for a drawn wire of soft steel. It has much more elasticity than cotton or flax, and its resistance to shearing or twisting forces is considerably greater than that of the new rayons and nylons.
    â€” The History of Silk by Harold Verner
    At last, Vera got a weekend off. She came home rarely these days.
    I missed my best friend, our gossip and silliness, our shared sense of the ridiculous. She could only talk on the public telephone in a noisy corridor of the nurses’ home, and at my end Father tended to hang around, muttering about the cost of the calls, so we couldn’t speak for long. All I’d gathered was that her matron was a tyrant, and the pressure of studying as well as working long shifts was beginning to tell.
    On Friday evening, she arrived at the front door, still in her nurse’s uniform, and pale with exhaustion.
    â€œJust on my way home from the station,” she said. “Caught the six