‘Sounds just right,’ I said.
Leo went on, ‘Stefan’s friendly with a couple of brothers, Kurt and Walter. Also nice lads. Kurt’s seventeen but Walter’s only fifteen. Is that too young?’
‘Depends on the boy,’ John said doubtfully. ‘How mature he is.’
‘Hard to tell, to be honest with you,’ Leo said. ‘But we obviously can’t separate them and it’s been almost impossible to find a double placement. Walter’s just a little lad, but I reckon he’d soon shape up, especially with his brother Kurt looking after him. He’s a pretty mature, level-headed boy. Why don’t you meet them, see what you think?’
How could we refuse?
‘Good,’ said Leo, getting up. ‘I’ll get those three in here, explain what you’re offering and we can see if they like the idea.’ Halfway out of the door he turned back. ‘All the lads are keen to see the bright lights of London, so you may have persuade them Westbury’s a good option. Not too far to the city by train, is it?’
As they came into the chalet I recognised the three boys as part of the football gang, but they were much more subdued than before. Leo introduced them: ‘Stefan, Kurt, Walter, dies ist John Verner und seine schwester Lily.’ They shook hands politely, barely meeting our eyes. They seemed so different from English boys. Was it just the language barrier, or the way they looked – the pallor of their faces, the unfashionable haircuts, underfed frames and curious cut of their clothing? I found it impossible to fathom what was going on inside their heads.
As John started to talk they exchanged glances, their faces becoming more animated, even excited. When he finished, the boys started talking between themselves, words falling over each other, interrupting each other, all at once.
Stefan certainly seemed older than seventeen. He was skinny and taller than the others, dressed in a scruffy brown leather jacket and black trousers. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and a dark shadow grew thickly on his slim face. His voice was more baritone than tenor and deep-set eyes peered out warily through his floppy fringe of untidy hair.
Kurt and Walter were very alike; in their tweed trousers, hand-knitted jumpers and woollen waistcoats they reminded me of the farm boys who came into Westbury on market days. Wiry kinks of mousy hair sprouted from their heads but their boyish cheeks showed little hint of growth. Kurt was chatty and confident, and Walter tended to repeat what his big brother said. Both of them appeared to defer to Stefan as their leader, turning to him if John or Leo said something they didn’t understand.
Trying to gauge their personalities as they talked, I wondered how these boys would cope with the robust camaraderie among the men at the mill.
‘They’re all pretty keen,’ John said, eventually turning to me. ‘They’re especially excited by the idea of earning their own money, and sharing a house.’ He laughed. ‘Though goodness knows whether they can cook and clean for themselves. What do you think?’
‘We can worry about the housekeeping thing later. But can they learn quickly enough to be useful at the mill?’ I said, recalling Father’s strict instructions.
‘Heaven knows.’ John shrugged his shoulders. ‘Only time will tell, I suppose.’
‘If they’re all good friends, perhaps they will support each other?’
He nodded, but his expression was still doubtful.
‘One thing’s clear. We can’t leave them here,’ I said, suddenly flooded with certainty, more convinced that this was the right decision than at any other time in my life. I wanted these boys to feel safe and be loved. I could not contemplate leaving them here.
‘Let’s go for it,’ we both said at the same time, and then laughed at ourselves.
This time the handshakes were stronger and their smiles much more confident. There was formal paperwork to complete and signatures to be written and witnessed, then they collected their pitifully small suitcases before finally saying goodbye to Leo, promising to keep in touch and piling into the van. As we drove away they waved to their friends, then fell silent.
They must be glad to leave this grim place, I thought, but it is their last link with home. They’ve suffered terribly and now they have no option but to follow the Pied Piper – two strangers in a battered old van – into an unknown future.
Over the next few days the German boys stayed at The Chestnuts and we spent time getting to know them. The fear started to leave their faces, their frames seemed to fill out and they gained confidence, trying out English phrases as we struggled to get our tongues around their strange German words.
We traipsed around Westbury finding kitchen equipment, bedding, rugs and curtains to make their cottage more homely. On the day they moved in, Mother and I pinned labels to everything around the house and led the boys through each room, saying the words. She made cartoon sketches of every item on their shopping list, and they took turns to ask the grocer and greengrocer for their purchases, laughing at each other’s attempts, and gradually beginning to relax.
John took them to the tailors, buying each of them a couple of pairs of off-the-shelf trousers for smart and casual, a couple of shirts, fashionable Fair Isle jumpers and navy blazers for weekends. On Saturday they went with him to watch a local football match. Kurt and Walter were keen to play, and he promised to find a team for them.
But now it was time for them to earn their keep. John and Jim Williams took them on a tour of the mill, then talked to them individually about the jobs we had planned for them. Walter and Kurt – still inseparable – would start as packers. Stefan was keen to be a weaver and Gwen agreed to take him as her new apprentice. It was a compliment, she told me, though it was barely recognisable as such. ‘I reckon you can just about manage two looms on your own now, Lily,’ was all she said. ‘So I can concentrate on helping Stefan’.
I couldn’t help smiling, watching them together on that first day. They made a curious pair – Gwen, short and dumpy, doing her best to communicate through hand gestures over the 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