noise of the looms, or standing on tiptoe to shout into his ear; Stefan bending like a weeping willow over the loom, his fringe flopping in his eyes. She mimicked the way he constantly brushed the hair back from his forehead, offered him her flowery headscarf and made him laugh. His eyes followed her face intently, struggling to lip-read in a foreign language.
‘That boy’s a fast learner,’ she said at the end of that first week. We were doing the Friday evening loom checks together, covering woven cloth and warps with dust sheets, ensuring that shuttle arms were securely docked, winding up loose threads and tucking away spare spools, turning off the power at each machine. Making everything safe for the weekend.
‘He’s got real aptitude,’ she added. I could hear the warmth in her voice and even as I knew she was right – he already understood the elegant mechanics of the loom, how to balance the weights and tensions, and was deftly locating and retying lost warp threads – I felt a pinch of envy. She’d never praised me like that, not to my face at least.
‘You’d better watch out. He’ll soon be teaching you,’ I laughed, trying to conceal my annoyance.
‘I look forward to it. He’s a very polite, charming young man. Deeper than the other two. Has an artistic touch. What do you think?’
‘You’d know better than me,’ I said, niggled she’d found something else to admire. ‘With that art school background you said you’d tell me about.’
‘You should come for tea some time, then maybe I will.’
‘So you keep promising,’ I said. I’d dropped so many hints over the past weeks, with no response, that I was starting to wonder why she was so reluctant. Did she just not like me enough to invite me into her personal life? Or was there something else, something she didn’t want to reveal? Gwen was such an enigma.
As we finished our rounds and parted at the front door she touched me lightly on the shoulder, elusive as ever. ‘Enjoy your weekend.’
Once the boys had moved into the cottage, we invited them to join us for lunch at The Chestnuts every Sunday.
‘Help them learn proper manners. They’ll turn into savages in no time, living on their own,’ Father said. ‘We need to civilise them.’ Mother enjoyed sharing her pleasure in English cooking, and it was usually a roast with all the trimmings that they appeared to relish.
Though homesickness still showed in their faces, Kurt and Walter were like other teenage boys – gawky, clumsy, fascinated by football and motorbikes. They struggled with English table etiquette, muddling their cutlery, slurping their drinks, leaning elbows on the table. At first, Father was lenient but after a few weeks he’d bark stern reminders: ‘No talking with your mouth full.’ They were slow to learn, and more than once he had to threaten them, ‘If you don’t take those elbows off the table at once, there will be no more lunch for you.’ Walter giggled and Kurt – always the rebellious one – grimaced, but their hungry stomachs forced them into reluctant compliance.
Stefan needed no such prompting. His manners were already sophisticated and what he didn’t already know of English etiquette he quickly picked up by watching. Now that he had abandoned the old leather jacket and black trousers for the cords, jumpers and jacket John had bought him, he looked almost like an English boy, apart from the hairstyle he insisted on keeping unfashionably long. But he was unlike any other boy I knew.
What I had mistaken for shyness, I slowly began to realise, was actually a confident stillness. While the others always needed to be active, Stefan seemed content to observe the world around him quietly, with an expression of mild curiosity and, I sensed, amusement simmering just below the surface. Little escapes those eyes, I thought, with a slight shiver.
That Sunday, Stefan handed back my copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles with one of his rare smiles.
‘I enjoy very much, Miss Lily,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling. ‘I would like to be a perfect English gentleman like your Sherlock Holmes.’ He raised an imaginary bowler hat, pretended to twirl an umbrella and bowed deeply, making me laugh out loud. Stefan the clown was a side of his character he hadn’t revealed till now.
In just two months his English improved so much I’d abandoned my intention to speak German. I was astonished by how quickly he learned; he could already read in another language. This was the second Conan Doyle book I’d lent him, and every time he visited he devoured Father’s copy of The Times, urgently looking for news from Europe.
Over lunch, we encouraged them to talk about home. Of course, we got only the edited versions. Stefan told us about his parents, both schoolteachers in Hamburg, and his younger twin sisters. He hoped they would come to England once they’d saved or borrowed the money for permissions and transport. Kurt and Walter spoke longingly of the Bavarian hills and the family farm. The English countryside is so flat, they complained. As conversation flowed, I reflected with satisfaction that the boys were starting to feel more secure.
It was our usual custom to follow lunch with a walk on the water meadows, but that day it was pouring. ‘Not a good day for a walk,’ Father said, looking out of the drawing room window, ‘it’s raining cats and dogs.’
‘Cats and dogs?’ Walter said, frowning. ‘Why do you say cats and dogs?’ he asked, after we’d told him what it meant. We had no idea. Some English phrases were so hard to explain.
After coffee, Father suggested a game of cards. But I had a better idea.
‘What about a song, Mother?’ I said, pointing to the baby grand. It was rarely played these days, and generally served as a shelf for photographs and ornaments.
‘I couldn’t,’ she said, blushing and nervously smoothing her skirt, ‘haven’t played for years.’ She’d had a classical training and, though never a professional performer, she’d given piano lessons and played in local amateur concerts before marriage and children got in the way. When times at the mill had been hard and there was no extra cash for servants, her music had been sacrificed to housework and cooking.
‘Come on, you can do it,’ I said, going over to the piano stool and rifling through the piles of sheet music stored under its padded lid. I found what I was looking for; a score, now dog-eared and falling apart at the seams, Music Hall Favourites.
‘Here we are,’ I said. I moved the knick-knacks from the piano, propped it open, lifted out the music shelf, took her elbow and led her to the piano stool. ‘Now all you have to do is play.’
‘It’s been so long.’ She shook her head. ‘My fingers won’t know what to do.’
It was Stefan who finally persuaded her. He was sitting on the arm of the sofa, leaning forward, watching intently. ‘Please, Mrs Verner. Please play for us,’ he said. ‘We like very much to hear the piano.’
As she started, everyone began to listen. Watching her fingers move over the keys with growing confidence, I remembered how she used to sit me on her knee as she played. With a child’s selfishness it seemed then that her music was just for me. Now, hearing her again after so long, I realised what a sacrifice she had made, giving up her music to meet the demands of the family.
She stopped to look through the battered old score. ‘Here’s a good one. My Old Man Said Follow the Van.’ As she started into the familiar tune, John and I got up and stood beside her, reading the words over her shoulder. After a couple of verses the boys came to join us, starting to hum along and sing the chorus with us.
When
