The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Do we?’ She shook her head.

  He shrugged. ‘Of course. That we’re both lying about how madly in love we are when we tell our parents about us getting married.’

  She gusted a breath of soft despair as one might at a child. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

  ‘Why not? Neither of us has anything to lose. Everything your heart desires you shall have – including the independence you crave to pursue your ambition. I pledge you, the world is yours and I make no demand upon you other than to share my name as man and wife.’

  Alex could only stare at him in a state of mild shock. ‘We’re here,’ she said, bending and craning her neck to admire the Rowntree’s complex.

  They alighted, Matthew offering her a hand to step down.

  ‘A final few words, if I may?’

  Alex nodded permission.

  ‘Unlike yourself, I’ve never been the adored child.’

  She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  He looked away but not before she caught a shadow flicker across his gaze that stole all amusement. ‘Oh, you know, wrong place in line, wrong height, useless at sport, can’t shoot straight, interested in travel and literature, and don’t for heaven’s sake ask if I ride – I’m abominable at it.’

  She suspected he was not touching the real truth of his pain but let it go, already saddened by his candour. ‘I’ll teach you.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Why not? One favour deserves another.’

  ‘Frankly, I’m good for nothing by comparison to my elder brothers; I’m not sure my subtle mind is recognised as a talent to be lauded.’

  ‘Tell me, did your parents specifically send you here to come back with a rich wife?’

  He sighed. ‘No. But my father agreed that if I could persuade the Frobisher girl to marry into our family, he’d look at me in a whole new light.’ Matthew shrugged. ‘Every son wants to impress his father. It’s not one thing, Alex, it’s everything; I couldn’t even volunteer to be killed. I couldn’t even get that right.’

  ‘Don’t make me weep for you, Matthew,’ she said.

  His generous lips flattened out to a grin. ‘You’re very easy to like and be with. Come on, maybe we were meant to be together and perhaps we could be great together. Why are you an only child, by the way? Why am I not fighting off a crowd of burly brothers?’

  She sighed. ‘So my parents didn’t share that? We should go,’ she said, moving away from the small bridge that overlooked the Selby Halt railway station. Workers flowed around them like a stream passing around rocks. She caught snatches of conversation and envied the girls once again their freedom to work. If only they knew, she was sure they’d swap places in a heartbeat.

  He looked baffled, tugged at her elbow. ‘Shared what?’

  ‘My brother. Peter.’

  Now he stopped their progress with a soft grip at her elbow and she didn’t resist as he pulled her back towards the wall. ‘Dead?’

  She nodded. ‘A long time ago. It was an accident. He drowned. He was six. I was nearing eight. It happened in Scotland . . . in Argyllshire. We have a place up there where my father used to go for summers. He would fish and hunt in the highlands. We would play by the seaside. I can only vaguely recall it from memories of childhood – fortunately the few recollections I have are vivid and until that terrible day I have only images that are stunningly happy. I can’t forget those days of easy joy but I have never been allowed to visit the area again. I know the region is every bit as beautiful as I remember from what I’ve heard. But Dad refuses to return.’

  ‘He holds himself accountable, do you mean?’

  ‘He holds himself, the house, every loch – he blames the sea, all of Scotland in fact, for existing. And so he has effectively shut it out of the world and he’s closed off that time as though it never occurred.’ She paused. ‘He used to call me Kitten and Peter couldn’t pronounce it properly so he called me Kitty, and it stuck. But after that day my dad never called me Kitten again. If you’re around him long enough, you’ll feel how broken he is.’

  ‘He hides it well.’

  ‘We all do. My mother is stronger than all of us. I can’t describe her grief fully to you – I think some sort of self-protective measure has buried that too deep for me to access. However, in spite of her losing her precious son, she is the one who rallies my father’s spirits when they get too low. She won’t tolerate maudlin and I know she grieves but she doesn’t show it. My father wears his grief openly . . . well, I suppose I can see it even if a newcomer can’t.’

  ‘So Minerva has turned all that pain and love onto you.’

  She nodded, pressed on, and once again Matthew fell into step. ‘I know I have no right to bleat but there are times when the burden of being an only child feels mighty. I have to be both of us for them. And now my mother in particular wants to see me married, starting a family of my own, somehow helping her to believe that through me Peter lives and the Frobisher blood runs on in new veins.’

  ‘You can’t blame her.’

  ‘I don’t. But she loves me so hard sometimes I feel smothered, cornered.’

  ‘I’d give anything to be loved that much,’ he murmured. She heard it but paid it little heed, believing it to be a predictable response. ‘Let’s walk,’ he continued. ‘Is it this way?’

  They arrived at the factory gates, where a column with a clock at its summit proclaimed the time as twenty-nine minutes past eight. She sensed the people scurrying past them were speeding up, not wishing to be late for their shift.

  ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m probably coming across as ungrateful.’

  ‘Not probably.’

  She gave a low growl. ‘I only wish to make my own decisions on matters that affect me.’

  Suddenly they were in near silence as all the workers seemed to have arrived and all those leaving had already departed. She could hear only the whistle of the train and the puff of its steam with a few chirrups from birds to punctuate those sounds. A trolley bus rattled by on the other side. And then it was quiet again.

  ‘If you married me, you could . . . you would make your own decisions.’

  ‘And how does that work?’

  ‘I give you my word this minute that I would sign any contract you want and I would put no constraints on you whatsoever, other than that we remain married.’

  It was hard not to appear incredulous even though she kept her silence.

  He lifted a shoulder. ‘Take my name, be my wife, but you get to make decisions about everything that matters to you – where we live, where you go, how you live, what work you do, the friends you have . . .’

  Her jaw visibly slackened. ‘Are you jesting with me?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not this time. Let’s just say I am trying to demonstrate how I would never corner you, be suspicious of you, make demands. It works both ways, of course. And it means we shall be the greatest of friends.’

  ‘This surely has to be the most astonishing marriage proposal any woman has received.’

  ‘Now, that is naïve. If you don’t think this sort of arrangement happens, then you are deeply sheltered. I admit it’s irregular being organised between the two intended but . . .’ He gave a sideways smile. ‘This is the twentieth century and, what’s more, both parents are going to be delighted, I suspect.’

  It was Alex’s turn to put her hands up in a protective way. ‘This is moving too fast.’ She shook her head. ‘It no longer feels amusing or even hypothetical. What’s more, you came here with intent so I know it’s not even playful any more.’

  ‘You barely know me, nor I you.’

  ‘Precisely!’

  ‘Wait,’ he urged. ‘The knowing is irrelevant. In fact, it helps. Although our fathers know each other quite well, actually, and I suspect would both approve as a result.’

  She frowned, embarrassed for him.

  ‘Hear me out. Us not knowing each other does help because it allows us to be objective and not cloud the iss
ue with any sense of obligation that knowing each other well might bring.’

  ‘Dare I ask what you get out of this arrangement?’

  She noted the hesitation and the fact that he thought he’d disguised it with a smile.

  ‘Apart from having a beautiful wife, it provides me the perfect reason to stay up north – a new life especially. It’s a chance to start again and not be third son of Chetwin Britten-Jones of Somerset but Matthew Britten-Jones of York.’

  ‘And we live like strangers?’

  ‘Not at all! We shall learn to love one another. I think you’re splendid and I’ve known you hours. I suspect over time we’ll enjoy one another exceptionally well. We can be the perfect companions and I will always, always look after you. I will not judge you and I will not let you down.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she muttered. ‘Matthew, I find myself back to my original question of what if I want to be in love? What if I want the whole glorious romantic circus of falling for a man and never wanting to be with anyone but him?’

  ‘No one’s stopping you.’ He grinned, opening up his arms slightly as if to invite her to make it him but somewhere in that gesture was awkwardness, although it was gone in a heartbeat and he was giving her his bright smile, which was genuine and open.

  ‘Look, don’t answer me this moment,’ he assured. ‘It’s a proposal for you to consider, although I realise the clock is ticking for you.’

  She nodded with an unhappy grimace. ‘I don’t like the vagueness of it either but it was the only bargain I could strike.’

  ‘Well, now you have another hat in the ring, if you’ll pardon the cliché, and I’m betting mine’s a safer option than any of the others on Minerva’s list. Come on, let’s go meet Arnold Rowntree. You can volunteer at the hospital afterwards.’ He offered his arm again and Alex had no choice but to take it, her thoughts darting madly like busy midges of a Scottish summer.

  4

  Arnold Rowntree, MP for York, was every bit as genial as Alex had heard. She knew only a little about him, particularly his Quaker background, learning his father’s trade as a grocer, and the fact that he’d lost his mother to a carriage accident while on holiday when he was still an infant. That snip of information alone had endeared him, as Alex knew about loss in one’s childhood.

  He took her hand gently and gave a little bow from his great height. ‘Enchanting to meet you, Miss Frobisher. Always happy to take new guests and show off our factory. I’m very glad Matthew has brought you.’

  ‘The pleasure’s mine, Mr Rowntree. Actually, we have passed each other many times on horseback on the Knavesmire.’

  ‘Good gracious, I do hope I haven’t ignored you?’

  ‘No, our paths haven’t properly crossed but I do admire your fine stallion.’

  ‘Ah yes, he needs to be a big boy,’ he said, tapping his prosperous girth. ‘I know your father very well, of course. How are your parents?’

  ‘They’re both in good spirits, sir, despite the times.’

  ‘Yes.’ He blinked and she felt immediately embarrassed for mentioning the war. ‘A tragedy for the world.’

  Quickly making amends as best she could, she leapt to where her interests lay. ‘Indeed, but I’ve heard the wonderful news through Mr Britten-Jones that the company is producing another chocolate tin . . . it’s such a lovely gesture from the firm.’

  He smiled in his kind way, pale eyes gleaming like shards of aquamarine and voice sounding as richly mellow as the chocolate he manufactured. Rowntree gestured for her and Matthew to accompany him and a guide he introduced as Helen down a corridor brightened by sunlight streaming through windows that ran along the top of the walls.

  ‘We want to do our utmost to contribute. We’ve called it the King’s Tin in order to remind our soldiers what they’re fighting for. It is going to be very special. We’re encouraging the people of Britain to save up tokens from packets of Elect Cocoa and then we ask them to post us those tokens with the name and address of the soldier they want to send a chocolate tin to, and the firm arranges for its delivery to that man.’

  She looked at him astonished. ‘How wonderful.’

  He grinned. ‘We think so. It’s not perhaps as generous as the original gift from the royals because the families of servicemen and women are essentially driving it, but there’s significant costs that we’re covering. Anyway, let me walk you through how we run our business.’

  ‘Splendid,’ she said. She glanced at Matthew and instinctively knew he understood how this thrilled her. It was like sharing a special secret, a glittering thread of pleasure that bound them . . . that only they knew was there. This notion made her feel suddenly closer to him and she was aware that her initial impression had perhaps been harsh. Increasingly there was much to like about Matthew, not least his collusion in her plans. Had she just been ridiculously suspicious of a man earlier who was laying bare the truth?

  ‘Miss Frobisher is interested in the new Quaker hospital as well, Arnold,’ Matthew joined in.

  ‘Excellent, excellent! Well, I’ll make sure that Helen takes you through that building across the road too. I think you’ll find the dining hall and social activities area most fascinating, mainly because of the number of people who pass through each day. There are times I scratch my head that we have so many employees.’

  Alex was sure her eyes were widening with each new department they moved through and every minute in Chocolate Jumbo’s company seemed to intensify her desire to be in business as successfully but also as generously as he was. The Quaker’s socialist ideals flew in the face of her family’s conservative way and yet Alex was inspired by the care and investment in staff through better conditions. As she learned about the Rowntree business, a tingling of awareness quickened that maybe in this part of England, with all of its knowledge about the product, chocolate could be her focus too. There was no sign of the British losing their joy in chocolate – if anything, it was increasing. Salons like Betty’s and even the grand hotels in London were offering afternoon teas with delicious pastries and treats. In her experience it was usually the chocolate-based fancies that won the greatest sighs of admiration and pleasure. And she’d noted that the wealthy were prepared to pay handsomely for a fine box of chocolates to gift to those they loved, or hoped might love them. Alex smiled. Chocolate is so suited for lovers, she decided, and perhaps that was where she might fit in. She could learn from the families of Rowntree and Terry and their close ties with the Cadbury family in the Midlands.

  Their tour had begun at the Card Box Mill but she had lingered near the main offices, running a gloved finger over the boxed tea service that was the firm’s gift to female workers who left after seven years’ service.

  ‘Why do they leave?’ she’d asked Helen, who despite the faint Scottish brogue had perfect diction.

  ‘Usually marriage, Miss Frobisher. The girls love the tea set – it’s part of the firm’s wedding gifts for most.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ She was unable to hide her surprise and Matthew slanted her a grin as though he could anticipate her dismay. ‘Marriage is not permitted?’

  ‘No, Miss. No married female workers in the factory.’

  ‘But that’s so unfair!’

  Helen shrugged. ‘It’s how it is, Miss Frobisher.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Many reasons.’ Arnold Rowntree must have overheard her query and returned to explain. ‘Most start a family immediately, so they’re away for a year, even eighteen months. When they return I can’t tell you how much slower they are at their tasks; they seem to lose the dexterity that we rely on. We also feel that a woman who is married should be at home to look after her husband, her family, and not be fatigued by factory work. It’s the cycle of life too, Miss Frobisher; the married make way for the new girls.’

  She hoped her consternation didn’t show in her expression although she sensed Matthew understood that she wasn’t convinced by Rowntree’s explanation. She allowed herself to be distracted or riske
d giving offence if she became more pointed in her queries. As they walked on, Matthew moved shoulder to shoulder with Arnold Rowntree and dropped back to talk quietly. Meanwhile she was asking all the right questions because Helen, who had struck her as dour, had warmed up considerably now that she’d established that Alex was not simply someone trawling alongside their male visitor but seemed genuinely interested in how the factory operated.

  ‘. . . the cocoa bean was brought to Spain from the West Indies by the Spanish adventurer Cortés in the Middle Ages,’ Helen continued as they walked. Alex realised the guide had lowered her voice and was talking now purely for her benefit; the men trailing behind were forgotten. ‘Cocoa travelled to Italy, found its way to France and reached London around 1660, and was then between ten and fifteen shillings per pound.’

  ‘I don’t believe I even know what a cocoa bean looks like,’ she admitted.

  Helen sketched a shape in the air before them. ‘The beans are held in large, colourful pods about this big, probably up to forty beans per pod. I can show you one later – a ripe one is a splendid array of colours; it looks like a sunset from golden through to ruby. You’d be shocked at the flesh inside, though, which is white and slimy,’ she said, with a look of distaste. ‘But it’s in the fermentation period and as they dry that the bean undergoes remarkable change.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ Alex grinned, unable to recall a time recently when she’d enjoyed herself more.

  They moved through various departments, finally arriving at a familiar smell.

  ‘You’re roasting,’ Alex noted.

  Helen nodded. ‘It’s almost around the clock now. It’s here that the beans come in for cleaning and sorting, roasting, winnowing, grinding.’

  ‘How long is the roast?’ Matthew enquired, as the men caught up.

  ‘Our preference is for thirty minutes,’ Arnold Rowntree answered. ‘It makes the beans brittle, which is what we’re after, but it also brings out the flavour perfectly. The quality, flavour and strength of our Cocoa Elect brand is unrivalled in Britain.’