The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

‘That’s the cocoa beans roasting.’ She listed all the countries from which they were presently sourced. ‘Next comes winnowing, but I’ll show you all of it. You just say when you’ve had enough of my twittering.’

  Her gaze found his and nothing was said but unless he was reading her altogether wrongly, some sort of message travelled on that glance, something warm and welcoming that seemed to Harry as though the chill of the last five years was being chased away and right in this iced moment he could swear it was a sunny day in June and not the midst of a northern winter. Even so, there was a feeling of autumn about Alex Frobisher. She was neither overly warm nor frosty either; there was restraint, though, a sort of melancholy underpinning her humour that she couldn’t hide. As autumn bridged joyful summer and moody winter, so he viewed Alex – he sensed regret somewhere within that she was working to conceal . . . as though forever looking back at summer but knowing her future was winter.

  She finally showed she was human and shivered; it dragged him from his thoughts and he aided her once again into her coat before she pulled on fine leather gloves and a scarf. ‘They say it’s going to snow tomorrow. You’d better hurry back south,’ she said, as he strode alongside her, crossing the Haxby Road.

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ he admitted.

  12

  Alex excused herself. ‘Forgive me, I just have to get us some factory passes,’ she lied.

  ‘Go ahead, please,’ he offered. ‘Should I wait here?’

  ‘Please do. I’ll be two ticks.’ She pushed past the heavy door into an empty office, leaned against the wall and blew out an unsteady breath. Harry Blake was a novelty she had not seen coming and there was no denying she was guilty of flirting with him. However, she was not part of a pack of factory-floor single women where there was safety in numbers for coquettish, risqué behaviour. She was from one of York’s leading families and married into major money of another leading family – she heard this in her mind spoken in her mother’s scolding tone. If she were honest, she was enjoying herself in Harry Blake’s company. It wasn’t often that such a dashing figure of a man circled into one’s orbit, especially with the dearth of men of recent years; chance had brought him through the factory doors and he would be gone within a few hours. Their banter was harmless, she assured herself.

  Even so, she raised her ungloved hands from the chill of the tiles to cool her cheeks. She must behave demurely and give no cause for raised eyebrows or especially to give him the wrong impression; she’d already revealed far too much about herself to the handsome newcomer. She rinsed her hands beneath freezing water and emerged into the corridor flicking away the water for appearance’s sake. ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ she breezed, averting her gaze from the penetrating look of his unsettling grey-green stare.

  ‘Don’t be. I’m slightly undone by the smell. After where I’ve been, the thought of working in this environment is seductive and I can well imagine your reluctance to leave it.’

  ‘Do I seem reluctant?’ She grinned, realising she was at it again.

  ‘You’re proud. That shows. They’re fortunate to have such an invested tour guide.’

  ‘Thank you. Let me show you where all the fun takes place.’

  ‘Do I need a pass?’ he wondered.

  She tapped an empty pocket as though she had them safe. ‘No, only if they ask,’ she fibbed.

  They fell in step together and, once into the familiar territory of the factory floors she had grown to love, Alex lost herself in her guiding. She had long ago stopped worrying about the special handbook she’d been asked to memorise. Guiding was easy when you loved the subject you were showing off to people.

  ‘. . . the world’s finest quality and strong flavour of chocolate. And of course there’s a coupon in there,’ she said, handing him a tin of the famous Rowntree Elect Cocoa.

  ‘Excellent, so I only require forty-seven more to enjoy a free gift,’ he said.

  ‘You are paying attention,’ she praised, as they pushed through doors and began descending a flight of stairs.

  ‘It’s mesmerising,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, you’ll enjoy our conching machines, then. I can lose half an hour of my life just standing here and watching what began as hard dry nibs that are roasted and winnowed, suddenly becoming a precious, molten-like, glossy liquid. Onto the Melangeur, which we passed by to be mixed with freshly dehydrated milk, sugar, and here we are. Look,’ she said, easing him into a room where open, coffin-like machines containing a granite roller relentlessly pushed liquid chocolate back and forth to stir it. ‘This happens for anything up to twenty hours, never less than twelve. I should add, it doesn’t look like this when it first arrives – more like coarse sand. It’s the conching that turns it back to the liquid you recognise here as delicious chocolate.’

  He gave a low whistle of admiration.

  ‘This is where the magic takes place, to be honest. Without this process you wouldn’t get that silky finish in your mouth, the chocolate wouldn’t melt – it would feel gritty. The flavours are developed through this process and the cocoa butter blends with the sugar and vanilla.’

  ‘And then it becomes chocolate to buy?’

  ‘It’s then sent to what we call our Cake Department where the chocolate is effectively manufactured into huge blocks to be stored. It’s those blocks that are melted for use in the forming of the cake of chocolate.’

  ‘What are those tanks?’ He nodded towards huge vats.

  ‘They’re quite new. We’re all very proud of them. These can store nearly 1500 pounds or seventy-five tonnes of liquid chocolate.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  ‘I know, mind-boggling. And it’s constantly agitated.’

  ‘So it’s further refined?’

  She clapped her hands. ‘Well done, Harry. That’s exactly what’s occurring. The flavour is being mellowed and improved with every extra hour of stirring. A uniform temperature is maintained so we always have a ready supply of finished chocolate to send to any department for the final variety of products, from bars to individual selections.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re simplifying the process for your visitors.’

  ‘I am, but if I started to tell you about tempering chocolate and how to extract cocoa butter and what different chocolates mean, I think I’d run the severe risk of boring you.’

  ‘I don’t think you could ever bore me, Alex.’

  She felt skewered by his unblinking gaze and tried to conjure what the unusual, light colour of his eyes reminded her of. Artichoke, was all she could think of. ‘Time to taste, I think,’ she said. She held the door for him as they entered a single-storey building with a pitched roof of clear glazing. ‘This is one of the packing rooms but as you can see it’s not in use today.’ She pointed out all the benches and equipment, and how the product moved around the room. ‘And then off it goes into the storerooms awaiting transport via rail to our depots all over the country, from Glasgow to London. And from those depots, the goods are distributed by motor to our customers – the grocery stores and sweetshops of Britain.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ he breathed, awed at the scale of the Rowntree operation.

  ‘I worked in this room,’ she admitted, sounding nostalgic. ‘It was only for a few weeks but I remember it fondly as my first job for the firm.’

  ‘You were a packer?’ He sounded impressed rather than shocked, which made her smile.

  ‘Briefly.’ Alex strolled to where she remembered she spent her first hours as a packer, laughing with Nel, writing that silly secret note to a random soldier. She wondered who had received it . . . where it was now. Did he still scratch his head over Kitty? Or had her note been buried beneath the mud of France or Belgium? She ran her fingers over the familiar bench. ‘I was volunteering at the Friends Hospital and would spend a few hours working here against my parents’ wishes.’ Alex sighed. ‘I never did tell them about working so often for Rowntree’s until I got the job as the tour guide for the visitor centre.’ She s
hifted her gaze onto her companion. ‘And I have absolutely no idea why I shared that little secret. Can I count on your discretion, Mr Blake?’

  ‘On two conditions.’

  She eyed him wryly. ‘And what might those be?’

  ‘That you might help me unravel a poignant mystery that’s gnawing at my mind and another reason I find myself in the north.’

  Alex frowned. This was a surprise. ‘To do with chocolate?’

  She watched him run a hand back through hair so dark it was nearly black and saw sadness in eyes the colour of stormy clouds. It gave her a thrilling moment of feeling absurdly attracted to him. So far she’d ignored his looks and even his easy charm but it was this heartbeat of vulnerability that smashed through the castle-like wall she’d built around her heart.

  He blew out his cheeks softly. ‘To do with chocolate, yes, and to do with someone who may have been at this firm during the war years, in this very packing room perhaps.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be happy to try.’

  The gloom of the previous moment disappeared and his signature smile – the one she was sure could break hearts, if it hadn’t already – found its way back. ‘Excellent. Then my discretion is all yours.’

  ‘And the second condition?’

  He smiled wider at her. ‘That you’ll let me tell you about my mystery over a pot of tea . . . or cocoa.’

  She shouldn’t. But what could it hurt? Matthew was still away – not that he’d care, she was sure. And she had no further tours to host today. ‘Well, I have to sign out across the road in the vistors’ block, return our badges, close up here . . .’ She jangled some keys. ‘Aren’t you catching a train?’

  ‘There’s no rush. I can catch a later one.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I am leaving for home straight after this . . .’

  He lifted a shoulder innocently. ‘So let me buy you a friendly tea on the way.’

  They stared at each other. ‘It’s not usual for me to fraternise with Rowntree’s guests.’

  ‘Yes, but they say there’s a first time for everything and what’s more, you will not be a Rowntree employee beyond this week – what can they do?’

  ‘Actually, you’re my last official tour,’ she admitted. ‘Tomorrow I’m here simply to hand over.’

  ‘Then you have no recrimination to fear. We can be old friends for the sake of your bosses if that makes it easier?’

  Once again she risked an awkward pause to study him but he held her gaze openly. ‘All right. A pot of tea to celebrate my final tour with my last visitor.’

  __________

  They were seated in York’s railway station refreshment rooms.

  ‘I had hoped for somewhere a little more refined,’ he offered, looking puzzled but also bemused.

  ‘Are you uncomfortable in humble surrounds, Harry?’ She hadn’t meant to bait but she found his presence suddenly unnerving, particularly out of her official role and now sitting close enough for their knees to touch under the table. ‘I just thought it’s easier, as you’ll be leaving shortly from here.’

  ‘Or is it less likely we shall be seen by your acquaintances here?’

  Alex swallowed, wondering at the sudden lunacy of her decision to be alone in the company of a stranger. ‘There is that reason too.’

  She could see her honesty amused him.

  ‘I appreciate your candour and I would not wish to compromise your standing,’ he reassured and his gaze looked depthlessly dark within the shadows and she couldn’t fully pinpoint whether there was a dryness to his words that mocked slightly.

  ‘Normally I wouldn’t care —’ she began, and he predictably made a soft tutting noise to shoosh her, as though it really didn’t matter, and yet she sensed how deeply it did matter to him.

  ‘For all returning soldiers this is a palace,’ he said, gesturing around their draughty little table whose legs wobbled slightly on an uneven surface.

  ‘I’ve insulted you,’ she blurted.

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘That’s one of my husband’s favourite sayings,’ she said, unsure why she’d let that spill.

  The waitress arrived to set down their order.

  ‘Shall I?’ Alex offered.

  ‘Please do. We’ll pretend we’re drinking from bone china, shall we?’

  ‘Stop,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be. I’m teasing because I like the way you blush when you’re unsure and I suspect you’re not unsure often.’

  She smiled, dismayed at his easy assessment, and was glad to busy herself for a few moments pouring the tea. ‘Next time you visit we shall go to Betty’s Tea Rooms, which I hear are opening up in York soon.’

  ‘Next time?’

  She ignored the question. ‘There’s a Betty’s in Harrogate but my mother has it on good authority the owner is looking to create a large tea salon in York. It was started by a Swiss pastry chef and —’

  ‘Alex, are you making small talk with me?’

  She nearly let the teapot slip as she placed it back down on its knitted mat. ‘Er . . . I’m simply being polite.’

  ‘Don’t be. I prefer it when you’re candid. Let’s instead be friends and share a genuine discussion. Why are you unhappy?’

  Her mouth slackened with shock. ‘I’m n-not,’ she stammered and was vexed by how she could feel the warmth rising to her cheeks. ‘Do I look unhappy?’ Alex realised he was not toying with her.

  ‘There’s sorrow. I can see it because I know what grief looks and feels like and also how it can defiantly show itself when someone is desperately covering it.’

  She couldn’t help feeling offended by such surgical insight. ‘You don’t know me well enough to ask such a personal question or air your observations,’ she replied, irritated.

  ‘No, that’s true. I don’t know you well but sometimes talking to a stranger helps.’

  Her tea steamed untouched before her. As she imagined this scene in its awkward pause it was almost as though she were staring at a painting of a couple captured in the moment. She seemed to have time to take in all of its nuances – from the way the last of the day’s light glimmered through an opening in the station roof, bleeding onto the concourse of the platform and angling into the rooms where they sat to brighten one side of his face, as if he were two people in that heartbeat. There was lightness and darker shadings to this man, as though he was hiding something. His gaze was unswerving, though, and as she saw it now she had two choices: she could laugh off his enquiry or show him how insulted she felt by it. She made her decision by pulling on her gloves and standing.

  ‘I’d better go. Good afternoon, Harry. I do hope you’ve enjoyed your time in York and that you have a safe journey home to London.’ She thought about extending a hand but didn’t want him to touch her for fear he could convince her to stay, so she turned slowly on her heel and drew as little attention as possible, feigning a glance at her watch as she departed. She looked over her shoulder to see him hurriedly digging in his pocket for coins.

  Please, let there be a tram about to leave, she cast out.

  But the gods paid no heed. Harry caught up with her within moments and she could see a queue for the tram collectively stamping its feet and breathing white mist into the dark, fading afternoon.

  He caught her arm. ‘Alex.’ She shook him off and they both looked around, conscious of the potential scene. He stepped back. ‘May I speak with you?’

  ‘I prefer you didn’t.’

  He nodded. ‘I spoke entirely out of turn. War might have given me perspective but I suspect it has also blunted my manners, I’m afraid. I find myself far more direct than is considered polite.’

  ‘You have no right to ask what you did of me,’ she murmured. It sounded uncharacteristically snarly of her.

  ‘No, I didn’t. But you put me into a dangerous mood.’

  ‘I?’ she snapped and looked around to check no one was eavesdropping. ‘What on earth does that mean?’

&n
bsp; He pulled her gently back towards one of the doorways and she didn’t resist for fear of everyone noticing, even though clearly no one was paying them any heed. ‘I didn’t expect to make a new friend in York. I came on a single mission.’ He explained about Tom reminding him of his brother and as she watched him talk, her outrage melted away and her attitude found its flexibility again. Her voice had lost its brittle quality when she spoke.

  ‘That’s a very sad story,’ she admitted.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s as though I’ve convinced myself that if I could return his belongings directly into the hands of the mother who grieved for him, then I could somehow untangle myself fully from the war and its cunning ability to leave survivors in knots.’

  ‘Why only the mother?’ she asked, helplessly charmed by his admission. It was a glimpse into the compassionate soul of this man and she liked what she saw.

  ‘I’m not saying wives and sweethearts don’t feel the pain of grief but I’ve been around death enough to know that men often talk about their mums in the moments they slip away, and it’s the mothers of soldiers who send a lot of the parcels of welcome treats. Maybe I’m wrong but I believe it’s mainly the mothers who risk never getting past the loss. Wives, dare I suggest, have children to distract them, to love them or, if not, then they have the potential to find love again. But Rose Fletcher has lost both her sons to different wars, and I don’t regret bringing Tom back to her through his unfinished letter and his few private belongings. He did have a secret sweetheart, I think. Another reason I’ve lingered – I thought I might find her.’

  ‘No luck yet?’

  ‘I haven’t begun looking. She’s the girl who I think may have worked at Rowntree’s.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You did this for a stranger? I mean, a soldier who was a stranger, not even of your regiment?’

  He nodded.

  ‘How oddly romantic that is.’

  She watched a brief, self-conscious smile break before he sighed. ‘I need to end my war and return to my life.’

  ‘Why haven’t you?’ She glanced at her watch.