The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

He gave a shrug to suggest it was awkward. ‘I just think it will be appropriate, given the, er . . . new development.’

  She caught Lambton’s gaze that flicked towards her and then away again with a wry smile. Did everyone know about this even before she’d made the decision? ‘Yes, of course. Any chance of a cocoa, Mrs Lambton? It’s freezing out there.’ She stamped her boots to prove it.

  ‘Of course, Miss Alex,’ she said with a smile that rearranged her features into what Alex always believed Cinderella’s fairy godmother must have looked like. ‘Go through into the drawing room. There’s a merry fire on.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your parents are home, Miss Alex,’ Lambton mentioned as she turned away and Alex didn’t pursue her, figuring she’d discover soon enough why, and besides, it was convenient for giving them the news.

  Alex walked past the door Matthew held open for her into the silver green of her mother’s favourite room. A couple of Minerva’s table lamps were on, lending light only to the armchairs and sofa closest to the fireplace. The dark timber panelling and floors helped to pull the rest of the large room into shadow, closing out much of the overwhelming effect of Minerva’s painted murals.

  ‘Oh, there you are, you gorgeous youngsters!’ Minerva said and Alex could sense her mother was filled with anticipation.

  ‘I thought you were overnighting with friends?’ she said, more as a way of gathering her thoughts. She pasted an innocent expression, awaiting their response.

  ‘Darling, forgive us for spoiling your private time with dear Matthew but I got one of my headaches so we decided we’d rearrange with the Thorntons. Your father didn’t mind. He was late back from the club anyway, and he’s had a tedious week.’

  She suspected her mother of being too excited for potential marriage news and was selling her a fib but forgave her. ‘Oh? What’s happened?’ she said, frowning with concern.

  Charles Frobisher sighed. ‘Just the usual rancour from shareholders. There’s always something to complain about it seems and now this conscientious objection business with Arnold Rowntree is making it harder to sell our plans for expansion. People just don’t want to hear about behaviour that is cowardly.’ He raised a weary hand. ‘I know, darling, I know. I’ve been chummy with Arnold for long enough to fully comprehend he’s not a coward, and he’s a damn decent person to boot with how he’s throwing the company behind the war effort, but people see and hear only what they want to.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, do stop with your misery. It’s happy news I want.’ Minerva stood in soft exasperation, crossing the low-toned but predominantly red Persian carpet as a way of hushing her husband, and sat beside him on the sofa. She looked to her daughter with an expectant expression.

  A piece of firewood exploded against the brass guard, causing a fleeting shower of luminous orange sparks in a timely moment, as though heralding the announcement.

  Alex prolonged her mother’s agony, shooting her a soft glare of enquiry. ‘Really? And what might that be, Mother?’

  Minerva slow-blinked, looking trapped. Matthew rescued her.

  ‘Blame me, Alex. I did the traditional thing and sought your father’s permission to ask for your hand in marriage. The truth is I wanted to ask you the moment I met you,’ he said, not at all embarrassed by having witnesses to this admission.

  Minerva sighed with pleasure in the background.

  ‘But I did ask you the first moment we were alone.’

  ‘That’s true, you did,’ Alex replied.

  ‘You weren’t taking me seriously in the morning but I felt by yesterday afternoon that if I asked again, you may consider it as a genuine proposal. By tonight I was determined you would say yes.’

  ‘And did you, darling? Oh, do end the tension, I beg you!’ Minerva bleated and Alex had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at her mother’s dramatics.

  She smiled, not meaning for it to be coy, but suddenly there was shyness because this felt momentous. ‘I did. I’m going to marry Matthew.’

  Minerva was on her feet and toppling towards her to hug and kiss her only child. Alex felt her father’s arms around them both in a bear hug and she managed to cast Matthew a slightly embarrassed grin from beneath the outpouring of affection. Matthew winked and she felt a surge of fondness towards him. It wasn’t love, she didn’t think. But then she had no experience of romantic love or what it should feel like, but there was a new sense of possession. She belonged to Matthew and he was now hers. And while that dizzying, hard-to-breathe feeling that she’d heard friends speak about was not present, Alex felt a glow of awakening. She couldn’t describe it any other way. It was as though in this agreement she had finally turned a corner on the dark past. She could leave the sorrow of Peter behind and remove the threat of being married off to someone she didn’t care enough for. Matthew gave her a sense of safety and a path forward to the life she envisioned for herself.

  Her father released them, turned to Matthew and pumped his hand firmly. ‘Good man! Marvellous news. Minerva, call Mrs Lambton, I do believe this announcement deserves a proper toast.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, do you think that’s wise . . . war and all that?’

  ‘True. I’ll go down to the cellar myself. Come on, Matthew . . . you’d better learn where we keep the good stuff, now you’re going to be family.’

  The men walked off laughing and Alex turned back to her mother. ‘It’s lovely to see you and Dad so happy.’

  ‘It feels like all the pain of years gone has been lifted somewhat. It will never leave a mother but, oh my, this news lifts my spirits.’

  Alex hugged her mother again. ‘I know. And while it’s sudden, I do think Matthew can make me very happy. I like him more in a couple of days than I ever could Duncan or the others.’

  Her mother stood back, still holding Alex’s hands and beaming proudly. ‘Does a spring wedding suit?’ she asked through happy tears.

  ‘No rush, Mother. I’m engaged now,’ she said gently but firmly, sweetening her words with a soft smile. Alex did not want to topple her chance to work at Rowntree’s before she’d even enjoyed a day there.

  6

  Alex felt inclined to pinch herself that she was finally here, standing on the light-coloured floorboards of what had been fondly nicknamed the Chocolate Tin Room. Around her workers began to arrive, all women, most of them very young, none married, of course. The timber roof sloped above them but a glass panel in the centre allowed daylight to flood in and bounce off the white painted walls. Heating was kept to a minimum and she presumed this was nothing to do with the Rowntree family skimping on staff comfort but because chocolate was present. The warmth from the winter sun helped but she was sure she was so heated with pleasure at finally being here that she couldn’t feel the cold, even if it were freezing today. Tables were laid out around the edge of the room, piled high with all the clutter of elements that would ultimately find their way into the tins, many of them in pigeonholes atop the benches. One table, at least four feet wide, dominated the central aisle and that’s where the cakes of chocolate were to be packed into corrugated paper.

  Gaslights with flared tin shades dangled from beams that crisscrossed over the room to hang low over all the work desks, and Alex felt impressed by the care that ensured everyone worked in such a light-filled and airy space.

  Flattish cardboard boxes, printed colourfully with the Rowntree’s branding, were piled high against one wall – she guessed each might take forty or so chocolate tins. A pleasing touch was vases of flowers placed at intervals on individual shelves above the workstations, which added a punctuation of colour. The scent of daphne, jasmine, wintersweet and lemon-scented honeysuckle shrubs was interspersed among iris and narcissus blooms and ultimately those blends of perfume drifted to collide with the warmed, fruity, intoxicating aroma of dark, shiny chocolate.

  The young woman standing next to her, introduced as Nel, looked unsure. ‘Have I explained that all properly for you, Miss Frobisher?’

  Alex blinked herse
lf out of her thoughts and smiled. They were around the same age and she’d anticipated some of the staff might feel odd about her presence. ‘Perfectly, in fact. And please call me Alex. I’m keen to be considered just another member of staff like all of you while I’m here.’

  She cast a glance around at the team of women; they were all wearing white aprons, only a few matched each other. She wanted to ask why the aprons weren’t uniform but the query died as she noticed her companion blush. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss, I don’t think you’re like the rest of us. You live on The Mount, for a start.’

  Alex instantly felt like an outcast.

  ‘Everyone’s most impressed you’re here,’ Nel gushed. ‘Must say, I couldn’t imagine it when the manager told us yesterday to expect you.’

  ‘It’s only for a day, before I move to filing, essentially,’ Alex said, playing down her role. ‘But I love being here alongside you. I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.’

  Her new friend looked as though she didn’t believe her.

  ‘I was compelled to do something meaningful for the war effort,’ she tried again. ‘I’ve been accepted to help out in the Friends Hospital for a few hours in the afternoons but what I really wanted was to be part of this special chocolate tin delivery going to the Front. I think it’s a wonderful gesture from Rowntree’s for the troops.’ She decided not to mention that she also looked forward to a career in chocolate. ‘And then I’m going to learn how to give guided tours of the factory.’

  Nel’s attractive sprinkling of freckles appeared to shift in a wider arc across her nose as she grinned. ‘I must admit I’ve been here six years, Miss, and doing this particular job makes me feel especially happy, because my sweetheart’s over there, so I know what you mean. I was involved with the last tin too, from the Princess. We were all so proud to work on that one.’

  ‘I can imagine. Is your beau across the Channel?’

  Nel looked at her, momentarily perplexed.

  ‘Um, your sweetheart, he’s in France, is he?’

  ‘Flanders. I think they call it Wipers,’ she pronounced and Alex corrected it silently in her mind to be Ypres in Belgium, West Flanders. ‘His name’s Stan, er, Stanley Bloom. We’re going to be married as soon as he gets home on leave.’ She fingered the narrow ring with the tiniest of ruby gems in its centre. ‘He bought me this the day before he left and promised he’d take me to Blackpool for our honeymoon.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Nel. Congratulations. I hope he’s home soon for you.’ Alex wanted to share her own engagement news but it still didn’t feel right, and bragging about her forthcoming nuptials felt downright foreign. She’d need to write and share the news with the men who believed themselves suitable husbands for her first, plus she had to choose a ring. She looked down; she hadn’t realised she’d been absently rubbing the third finger on her left hand. Matthew insisted he must take her to a jeweller in London to choose the piece she wanted to wear for the rest of her life. They were travelling south this coming weekend to visit Skinner & Co in Mayfair, jewellers to Queen Victoria in the previous century. Matthew said this was where his mother, thrilled at the news of their engagement, insisted he take his bride-to-be. It was another reason to be impressed by Matthew; most other men she was sure would either use a family heirloom or buy a ring ahead of the proposal. She loved that she would have the opportunity to choose something perfect that they both admired. It seemed so much more pragmatic; it made them equals. More than anything, the ring would be a visible sign to all who noticed that they no longer questioned her suitability for marriage, her eligibility for marriage or her availability for marriage. The ring would constantly announce and reinforce that she was spoken for and could get on with her life.

  ‘When do we begin?’ Alex wondered, snapping her attention back, and now followed Nel’s gaze towards the big clock that hung in this special packing room.

  ‘In less than two minutes,’ Nel said. ‘I’ll be right here alongside you but we have to do hand inspection first.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Nel giggled. ‘You’ll see. Here she comes.’

  A large woman, tall as a man, hoved into view and a bell was rung sounding that it was 8 a.m. and the packing room’s team fell silent.

  ‘Thank you, ladies. Hands out.’

  Alex followed suit in holding out her hands for inspection. She watched the woman touch their hands and murmur to each; every now and then one of the girls would swap places with another. By the time she reached the girl closest to Nel, Alex could finally hear what was being said.

  ‘Too warm today, Nancy. Find a swap,’ the strapping supervisor said.

  It was Nel’s turn. ‘Good, Nel. You’ll be fine here. Ah, good morning. You must be Miss Frobisher?’

  ‘Alex, please,’ she emphasised.

  ‘Mr Rowntree told me to expect you. Most of the women here will be working until five this evening but I gather you are to work a morning shift to midday, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what was agreed, thank you.’ She wished now that she’d pushed to work all day but she didn’t believe her parents would tolerate it.

  ‘That’s wonderful. However, while you are a special new member of our team I’m afraid when it comes to chocolate, it takes no prisoners where hot hands are concerned.’

  Alex gave a small gust of laughter. ‘I understand.’ She offered up her hands even higher and gladly for inspection.

  ‘Excellent, Miss Frobisher. Nice and cool. You can handle the chocolate bars if required.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ she replied, finding it hard to contain her delight and realising the woman was unlikely to call her Alex.

  ‘I’m Peggy, your overlooker, by the way. It’s simple but exacting work and requires speed. I presume Nel gave you instructions?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Good. Ask questions any time. You may feel all thumbs at the beginning but you’ll soon get the hang of it. What we want is a solid, steady rhythm and then you won’t hold up people down the line.’

  She nodded to show her eagerness. ‘Thank you, Peggy.’

  ‘Ladies, we need to have a good day of packing, please. It’s vital we get these tins to our boys in the trenches and in time for Christmas. You know what happened last year. Let’s not be late for them this time. Our men in Despatch are ready and waiting to load onto the train carriages that will take our tins south to Dover and onto ships for Calais. But they are essentially idling on us. So, everything depends on our speed and diligence today. You know I don’t mind you girls talking but I need focus – we have a lot to put in these tins and you don’t want any of those soldiers of ours missing out, do you?’

  ‘No, Peggy,’ everyone chimed, including Alex. ‘So, for anyone who has been away this last week, or for our newcomers like Miss Frobisher who has kindly volunteered her time to help us today, we shall have a quick briefing once again from Joan. Please be kind enough to go over and say hello to Miss Frobisher when you have a moment and make her feel welcome; you will see more of her this week in her new voluntary role as a linguist and geographical adviser to help us with getting the right tins to the right regiments. All right, ladies, thank you. Let’s just run through what each tin must contain. Thank you, Joan.’

  A middle-aged woman with a grey plaited bun arrived to stand next to the supervisor. Peggy dwarfed her so Alex had to crane her neck to see the diminutive deputy.

  ‘Good morning, everyone.’

  ‘Morning, Joan,’ they chorused and Alex smiled inwardly at the heartwarming camaraderie in the room.

  ‘Each tin must contain the following, so check your stocks and if you’re running low, ensure Peggy is aware of what you need. Sally and Emma, you’re going to have the important job of making sure all the elements are there in each tin. Every single one is to be inspected and sent back if it is without so much as a single postcard. Keep in mind how our boys are feeling. They’re far from home, missing their fa
mily and friends, the food they love, and indeed the life they’re fighting for to keep us safe. These tins are home, so let’s ensure they don’t have any reason to feel disappointed at missing out on one of the items.’ Alex watched two youngsters, clearly sisters, nod, wide-eyed and serious. ‘The elements are: one block of plain chocolate; four picture postcards – the factory, Stonegate, the new Elect block and York’s famous Merchant Hall.’ Alex blinked in wonder as the list of accompaniments lengthened. She heard ‘matches’ and ‘pencil’ mentioned among sundry small items until finally Peggy’s gaze and finger-pointing fell on her. ‘. . . of course there’s the company note to be slipped between the chocolate and the tin’s lid. Nel and Miss Frobisher, that’s your job today, thank you.’

  She nodded, cutting Nel a grin.

  ‘Sally, Emma, no need to open the lid of the chocolate and expose it to the elements again. You can feel from the weight that it’s in there and given that Nel and Miss Frobisher only have to slip the firm’s note in, I think we can feel safe that the contents for the main part of the tin is complete. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Peggy, we just check for all the other elements in the back of the tin,’ Sally confirmed.

  ‘Good.’ Peggy looked at the clock and as one they followed her gaze. ‘Let’s get to work, ladies.’

  A bell sounded and amidst a soft gaggle of voices Alex turned to seat herself on the simple wooden stool before her counter, smoothing her ill-fitting apron but glad that it hid her clothes. She’d deliberately chosen to wear an unadorned pale grey morning dress although she couldn’t disguise its fine wool or modern cut. She’d long ago cast off her tailored coat and was happy wearing unremarkable lace-up boots that felt as old as her but remained deliciously comfy and were gleaming from polish. She was glad her mother hadn’t seen her leave early this morning; she’d have been quietly horrified at how plain her daughter appeared with her hair viciously scraped back into a neat queue that now sat between her shoulderblades. She was devoid of make-up; not so much as a smudge of her fashionable lipstick to colour the sallowness of winter. Her apron was clean, starched, and it certainly helped to make her feel integrated. She looked across to Nel for guidance as her first working day began.