The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Brr.’ Her mother shivered. ‘It’s freezing out. Oh, good evening. I’m Minerva Frobisher, Alex’s mother,’ she said, eyeing Harry as he stood to his impressive height.

  ‘Mother, this is Captain Harry Blake; he’s up from London, as I explained.’

  ‘Good evening, Lady Frobisher.’ Harry took her mother’s hand and Alex watched him smile into Minerva’s gaze before he looked to her father. ‘Hello, sir.’

  ‘Evening, Captain Blake.’

  ‘Harry’s fine, sir . . . and preferred.’

  ‘Your people are no relation to the Blakes of Dorset, are they? Huge tracts of farming land?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Alex urged. ‘Get warm. Harry’s one of the VIPs I had to guide and he’s in a position to help me with the chocolate venture. He can get hold of vanilla for me at some very good rates. Isn’t that so, Harry?’

  He didn’t show his astonishment but a slight hesitation suggested he was impressed by her outrageous fib.

  ‘I’ll certainly help you source any products you need,’ he replied. ‘The tour was excellent. Have you taken it yet with your daughter, Lady Frobisher?’

  ‘I keep meaning to and I suppose I’d better hurry. She leaves this week, you know. Oh, tomorrow isn’t it, darling? They don’t encourage married women, you see.’

  ‘Harry heard all of this during the tour, Mother.’

  ‘Do you know Matthew?’ Alex watched her mother frown at Harry, feigning an innocence.

  ‘No, but I’d like very much to meet him. Alex has told me plenty about him.’

  ‘Such a delightful man. We’re so happy he came into our family and he makes a great husband for our beloved girl. Now all we wait for is the patter of tiny feet.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Harry replied.

  If Norma hadn’t interrupted proceedings to serve coffee, Alex was sure she might have said something she would have regretted to her mother. Instead she speared Harry a jagged look of horrified apology.

  ‘So what’s a dashing captain from London doing up here in the north?’ Charles asked, changing the subject as Norma left a plate of cake on a table within Minerva’s reach.

  Alex closed the door on Norma and returned to seat herself near her mother.

  ‘Lovely coffee, darling. Just what I needed. Pass me a tiny piece of that garden cake, would you? Don’t let your father eat too much,’ she added, and they noted him leaning down to take a slice.

  Alex smiled and waited for him to retrieve a wedge before she reached for the plate to offer to her mother.

  ‘So, Captain Blake, tell me, how is it that you came to be at Rowntree’s?’ Minerva pressed.

  ‘The guesthouse I’m staying at recommended a visit,’ he replied. ‘And I wanted to contact the factory anyway.’

  ‘And there I was thinking it was just to enjoy the VIP tour services,’ Alex quipped.

  Harry grinned for her. ‘I was hoping to ask around after a particular worker connected to Tom Fletcher; I just didn’t have the right opportunity.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’re with the right person,’ Charles chimed in, another small slice of cake halfway to his mouth. ‘Alex knows every inch of that factory and I am convinced she is on first-name basis with every member of staff.’

  She smiled. ‘I have a good memory,’ she confessed. ‘But then I was a tour guide and I made it my business to get to know every process.’

  ‘I have no doubt it was an inspired way to acquire the relevant skills too,’ Harry offered.

  ‘Quite so,’ she admitted. ‘I spent hours learning how to temper chocolate. For instance, a skilled chocolatier knows when the chocolate is tempered by touching a dab of the liquid to his or her lip. It’s all about consistency and temperature, you see. The lips are incredibly sensitive to touch and heat.’

  ‘Sounds very sensuous,’ he remarked, and stared at her in such a way that Alex was convinced he wanted to cross the floor, drag her up from her seat, into his arms and carry her away. She couldn’t help the small smile of delight at that mental image of tall, strong Harry sweeping her away in front of her parents. Now that would be romantic, and she’d spent years believing she’d never know or even understand what that meant. Here it was, standing in the room with her. It had taken a form. It had a name. It possessed hot blood and urgent lips.

  Harry Blake was the romance that had been missing in her life.

  This is what Nel had been talking about that day in the chocolate tin packing room when she’d described falling in love as though you’re walking in a different world to everyone else. How right she is, Alex mused. It was as though while she could see her parents, watch this familiar scene of being in her sitting room, hear their voices . . . it was as if they and everything around them had blurred slightly while the shape of Harry had been heightened in its clarity and colour. She was so intensely aware of him, she could swear she could smell soap on his chin from shaving this evening. She could recreate the taste of his lips on hers, of his mouth skimming the overtly sensitive area beneath the lobe of her ear. She could swear right now that while she could hear him speaking to her parents about Tom’s chocolate tin, that he was speaking separately to her about how she should have waited and that he was always going to come along, fall in love with her, marry her, make her life happy . . .

  We’re falling in love. Is that what’s happening here, Harry? Is that why you came to York?

  Alex blinked, noting the three others turn towards her. She swallowed. Had she uttered those words aloud? They all seemed to be hanging off a question. A distant alarm bell sounded. What had she said? What had she revealed?

  ‘Yes,’ Harry answered, and she wasn’t sure if she was blanching or blushing. ‘I’m trying to find her.’

  She frowned and with intense gratitude to the angels who watched over her, Alex realised she’d only spoken aloud the query, not the realisation she’d come to beforehand. Fate had ensured that query make sense to Harry’s discussion about some woman now, she realised.

  ‘Sorry, Harry. I was miles away. Forgive me.’

  ‘Reminiscing over your time as a guide? Was this fellow your last?’ her father asked, genially winking at Harry.

  She was tempted to say No, he’s the first I’ve ever loved, but instead she smiled. ‘Odd to think I won’t be touring people any more.’

  Her mother squeezed her hand. ‘Darling, my guess is you were actually lost in love a moment ago and thinking of beloved Matthew. He should be here. Charles, speak with Matthew, will you, dear? He’s spending far too much time away from Alex. I’m sorry, Harry. I hope it doesn’t sound rude but I agreed to this evening simply to save tongues wagging.’

  Lost in love was right, Alex privately admitted, but Minerva had the wrong man in mind. ‘Mother, stop!’

  ‘Well, darling, if I notice his absences, then others surely will and people need something to gossip about.’

  ‘I’m in my own home!’

  ‘Nevertheless, it could be considered unseemly. Captain Blake is very handsome, if you don’t mind my mentioning it.’

  ‘I do,’ Alex countered. ‘It’s embarrassing.’ She flicked a glance at Harry. He stood uncomfortably by the fireplace alongside her father, who was staring into his half-finished coffee.

  ‘Dad, do you agree with this Victorian twaddle?’

  ‘It’s not twaddle, darling,’ Minerva answered for him. ‘It’s reality. All it needs is a whiff to be smelled by the gossipmongers and suddenly an innocent supper is turned —’

  ‘What? Into a night of debauchery, under Norma’s watchful gaze?’

  ‘Darling, you’re being rather touchy,’ Minerva said, throwing a sympathetic smile towards Harry as if to drag him into this debate.

  ‘Your mother’s right. It was perhaps a little insensitive of me to accept your kind invitation, although in my defence I did imagine your husband may be home and that I’d get to meet him.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I refuse to be controlled about
whom I might invite into my home. Really, Mother, and do you think I’d also invite you both to join us if I really had intended some sort of salacious evening?’

  Harry looked to be stifling a sympathetic grin and that only irritated her more.

  ‘You mishear me, Alex. I don’t for one moment think you and Captain Blake are anything but new acquaintances. I know you and Matthew are mad for each other. I’m referring to what other judgemental minds like to entertain themselves with.’

  ‘Well, you and Dad are here so those tongues can remain still in their suspicious mouths.’

  ‘Indeed,’ her father said, finishing the conversation and turning to give an exaggerated glance out of the window. ‘Now, Minerva, I think we should get ourselves home before it snows – it’s threatening out there. Young Blake?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Can we take you back to your accommodations? I’ve brought the motor car so it’s no imposition.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Captain Blake,’ Minerva said, avoiding the glare of her daughter. ‘Let’s get you back into your cosy guesthouse safely and let Alex get her beauty sleep. Last day tomorrow, darling – I know it’s special for you.’

  ‘It is. Harry, what were you saying about finding a woman factory worker? Can I —?’

  He waved a hand. ‘Please, don’t think on it again.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps?’ he said, a soft caution in his tone.

  And suddenly they were all moving towards the door, Norma arriving with hats and coats.

  16

  Harry worked hard to keep the atmosphere far from awkward on the slow ride home.

  ‘Marvellous motor car, sir,’ he enthused. ‘Thank you for this lift.’

  ‘No trouble at all. I love driving the thing, though not when the roads are icy. We’re lucky the snow held off.’

  ‘And when do you head home, Harry?’ Minerva asked, her tone as sharp as the pointed question.

  ‘Er, not for a couple of days yet,’ he said, his shrug loose and carefree . . . not that she could see him from the front seat but he was sure she sensed both.

  ‘Oh, in that case you should come to the club for a drink! What’s your poison, young man?’

  ‘I like a single malt,’ he offered. He wasn’t lying but he was playing with them.

  ‘Excellent, excellent! Come over tomorrow night. I’ll make arrangements. I have a marvellous bottle of something precious behind the bar that you must taste.’

  Charles ignored the sideways glare from his wife while Harry grinned in the shadows. ‘I’d be delighted to, sir.’

  ‘Your name will be at the door. Any time. I’ll probably be staying over anyway.’

  ‘I thought we were going to the Thorntons’,’ Minerva bleated. ‘We’ve already cancelled once.’

  ‘It’s going to snow tomorrow, darling. I don’t plan on driving around in it, or even asking Potter to drive us at night. I have a tough board meeting too so perhaps it’s best I stay at the club.’

  That was the end of it. Banal chatter ensued about the railways before they were easing into the street of Harry’s guesthouse.

  ‘Well, this was most kind of you. Thank you again.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Blake,’ Charles said as Harry shook his hand through the window.

  Harry touched the rim of his hat and gave a small bow. ‘Good evening, Lady Frobisher. Thank you for this evening.’

  She warbled something about the efforts being all their daughter’s.

  ‘Yes, she’s most generous with her hospitality,’ he offered. ‘Drive safely.’

  And the huge Bentley moved off like a slow beast into the darkness, only visible in the unlit street because of its shiny red lights glowing like coals in the night and making him imagine that the eye of Minerva was closely upon him.

  __________

  The next morning Harry was up early and restless at breakfast. Charles Frobisher hadn’t lied. Snow had fallen silently through the small hours to paint a bright, crystalline world that made York outside his guesthouse look like a fairyland. Even the aroma of chocolate was negated by the chilled smell of freshly fallen snow and all was still. There was not so much as a bird call into the dawn as he had lifted the window to inhale the morning.

  Now he felt imprisoned. And Kitty was very much on his mind. He stepped out into the reception area, dithering as to what his best move was. He needed to burn off energy and dampen down thoughts of making love to Alex Britten-Jones.

  ‘You look like a caged lion at London Zoo, prowling around like that,’ the landlady, looking up from her register, commented with a chuckle.

  ‘What’s to do on a day like today?’ he wondered aloud and as he spoke more snow began to fall, heavier too, although he found its silence mesmerising.

  ‘Not much, to be honest. Better to be indoors.’

  ‘I need to work off some of your fine breakfasts,’ he added with a good-natured grin. ‘Can’t say I’m used to being idle.’

  ‘Well, now, let me think.’

  Her husband arrived into the conversation. ‘The Knavesmire’s good for a brisk walk.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Bernard. Look out there, will you,’ she said pointing, her tone exasperated.

  ‘Well, can you swim, Captain Blake?’ Bernard wondered.

  ‘Yes, of course, but a swim?’ he repeated, sounding incredulous, his gaze darting back to the wife.

  Bernard continued. ‘The Rowntree complex has public swimming baths. I go once a week to help my wheeze. Good for the lungs,’ he said, tapping his chest.

  His wife was more enthusiastic suddenly. ‘Oh, yes. That is a good idea and they’re heated, Captain Blake. Do a few lengths and you’ll be more than happy to snooze by the fire afterwards.’

  ‘Perfect,’ he murmured, recalling the baths from his tour with Alex.

  ‘There’s a gentleman’s outfitters in the high street. I’m sure they’ll have swimming garments, or Bernard can probably lend you his bathing suit,’ she offered.

  ‘Thank you. If you could write down the shop’s name, I’ll make a visit.’

  Within an hour Harry had entered the red-brick building he recalled from the previous day’s tour and paid his penny to move through the turnstile, clutching the towel his entrance fee allowed for and the package from the outfitters. He’d never worn a ‘speed suit’ but the outfitter assured him this was the very latest in swimming attire.

  ‘One hundred per cent wool, sir. Meets all the 1917 regulations for bathing modesty and proven not to lose its shape.’ The man sounded so enthusiastic, Harry had to take his word for it. ‘I’m told in the next year or so, sir, that we may even have rubber woven into swimming suits.’

  Harry smiled to himself at the man nearly salivating with joy over this thought.

  ‘Gentlemen’s changing rooms just over there, sir,’ an attendant said, interrupting his thoughts. Harry walked around the perimeter, glad of the dense, humid atmosphere of the baths after the frigid cold he’d come in from. This was what he needed: challenging, repetitive exercise to lose himself in but especially to turn his mind vacant and escape the memory of kissing Alex.

  He’d not slept, spending the majority of the night with the quilted eiderdown around his shoulders as he huddled in a chair by the window to stare out onto an ever-whitening York. He soon became mesmerised by the snowfall illuminated gently by the glow from a single light in the distance. The lamp was not in the street but set on the pathway opposite, behind the iron gates of St Olave’s to give the scene a secretive feel that matched his dilemma of illicit love and indeed duplicity. It was the very silence of the fluffy snowflakes drifting down with stealth to settle on every surface that seemed to amplify his conflicted feelings for Alex. His ardour for her was wrong on every level. He hated himself for taking advantage of her vulnerability with the sad state of her marriage. Love! It had arrived without any warning, without even
a preamble. There was no reason for the two of them to have met and yet they had, with a series of events flowing in one direction and carrying them both to each other.

  Harry hung up his clothes and changed into his new, slightly revealing one-piece. It fitted precisely as the man promised it would. He stepped out of the cubicle and noted in the long mirror that the knitted fabric was fine and clingy and he hadn’t realised just how hard and brawny years of trench life had made him. He had muscles now where previously he’d been soft and there was barely a hint of unnecessary flesh covering his skeleton. That said, when he’d arrived home he’d appeared unhealthily gaunt. Now that hollow appearance had filled and he suspected by the coming summer with some sunshine glow on his skin that his appearance would no longer tell a story of the ravages of war.

  He remembered his towel and stepped unhappily across wet tiles. Years of working hard to keep his toes dry gave him a sense of discomfort at the feeling of cold moisture on his feet from puddles left behind by strangers. Keen to be in the water and less exposed, he tossed his towel onto a nearby bench and eased into the shallow end, where the tepid water only reached his waist. Already his mind was wandering back to Alex . . . and her last day.

  He accepted wholly now that he and Alex were meant to meet. They were meant to feel an unexpected and shocking attraction. Clearly it amused the gods to mix up their lives and tamper with their emotions. Yes, indeed, he was meant to learn about the wreck that her marriage was. He was meant to act, bring Alex hope for love in her life. By the time daybreak had arrived and he’d stirred from his chilled and hunched position, Harry had become convinced that he was destined from the moment he found Sergeant Tom Fletcher to rescue Alex Britten-Jones from misery.

  But should he? That was the painful question he was hoping he might answer over the hour and many laps of this pool. There was only one other swimmer this morning, which was the ‘Gentlemen’s Thursday’ for swimming. As he splashed water on his shoulders he noted his fellow swimmer was an older man, pepper-grey hair the only part of his head visible to Harry as he glided up the pool. Chlorine vapours were strong, riding on the steamy warmth indoors, and Harry anticipated red eyes by this afternoon. Nevertheless, he needed this time to think without disruption. He ducked down to immerse himself and take the shock of the cool before he decided on fifty laps as a minimum. Harry decided he would not go at his usual speed but would try to mimic the glide of the old timer two lanes across. At that rate he might even achieve one hundred laps. Harry struck out, pushing off the tiles and reaching for long, deliberate strokes. He marvelled privately at how good it felt to stretch out like this as he searched for his rhythm, helped by his eagerness to lose himself. All sounds above the water became disembodied and hollow, a distant noise on the rim of his mind. He kept his eyes squeezed shut against the sting of chlorine as he turned to breathe, and forgot about how he might look in his new woollen speed suit, not that the swimming attendant batted an eyelid when he stepped out feeling faintly ridiculous. He’d passed up on the bright blue and yellow ‘sporty’ – plain black was as racy as Harry planned to get when he was near naked around strangers.