The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  Alex’s spirits were lifting the closer she came to seeing the chocolate as the final food. Could she be a chocolatier, as Matthew had suggested? She could feel trills of excitement pulsing through her like a current of electricity, animating her in a way she’d almost forgotten she was capable of. It was childish merriment again, of the type she recalled in Scotland, when the summer days were long and endlessly carefree. Finally she felt engaged; she was sure her delight showed not only in her expression but also in her tread that felt buoyant, as though stepping on small pillows of glee.

  She could hear Arnold talking about coupons in cocoa tins. ‘Once you save up forty-eight of them, there’s a free gift, you see,’ he was explaining to Matthew.

  Alex arrived alongside them as Helen locked a door behind. ‘How does the product turn from a bitter, brittle stack of broken-up beans to the smooth, silky sweet taste experience I know?’ she queried.

  ‘Oh, I think it’s time we proceeded to the Melangeur Floor now, Helen,’ he chuckled. ‘Our visitor is tiring of dry fact. I think Miss Frobisher senses where the fun lies,’ he added.

  Alex soon discovered what her host meant when she saw sacks of sugar and tins of cocoa butter being added to the cocoa mass before more grinding.

  ‘And these,’ Helen said, gesturing, ‘are what we call conche machines.’

  Alex was struck silent to see the modern version of the tall machines with their pendulum action stirring liquid chocolate in a constant back-and-forth motion. The thick substance flowed around the paddle and was so glossy she could see her reflection in it.

  Arnold sidled up to her. ‘Can you guess how long we conche for?’

  ‘I can’t,’ she breathed, inhaling the scent of the sweetened chocolate. It was warm and fruity, yet somehow spicy, and she could already taste it, her mouth watering at the sight of the rich, mud-like liquid oozing relentlessly forwards and backwards, presumably becoming silkier by the minute.

  Rowntree’s permanently kind expression widened into a conspiratorial grin. ‘Anything up to twenty hours of this.’

  She stared at the machines, transfixed. ‘That’s incredible.’

  He nodded. ‘To achieve a velvet-like texture in our customers’ mouths with a slow melt, this is what must happen first.’

  Alex was reminded of her belief that chocolate and romance were linked. Melting on the tongue had sexual overtones. It could work. She could be the chocolate maker for the romantics of York . . . everything from declarations of affection to apologies for a misdemeanour, plus engagements, weddings, anniversaries . . . Each new client could become a long-term one if she got it right, kept a diary of their special dates, reminded them, made them feel valued . . .

  ‘Shall we move on?’ Helen offered, breaking into Alex’s excited thoughts. Helen had clearly walked this route and seen these scenes so many times that her fascination had long waned and she sounded the opposite of how Alex was feeling in this moment.

  ‘I think Miss Frobisher is reluctant,’ Matthew cautioned, sensing her thrill.

  Fresh affection flooded her for his acute antennae where she was concerned.

  ‘You do seem rather taken with it all, Miss Frobisher,’ Rowntree admitted and there was a hint of query in his tone.

  Was this the moment to reveal her desire to achieve something in business in her own right? Matthew’s quip that she should make chocolates stopped being a suggestion and suddenly it became a possibility and its echo had become insistent, louder. Fate, destiny, guardian angels – she didn’t know what – were opening doors and leading her down this path, and now she stood at the final door, it seemed. All she had to do was knock on it. She glanced at Matthew and he gave her a single encouraging nod; it was as though he could now listen in on her thoughts. Say it! his expression urged.

  ‘I am, sir,’ she said, not allowing herself to hesitate a heartbeat longer. ‘In truth, Mr Rowntree, I believe I would like to learn how to make and fashion chocolate.’

  She anticipated surprise, perhaps even reluctance to hear more, but only delight crinkled the plump skin at the tops of his cheeks. ‘Well, well, Miss Frobisher, how extremely pleasing.’

  ‘Really?’ She swallowed in relief, mostly shock that she’d spilled such a revelation. It seemed Arnold Rowntree wasn’t at all unnerved by the notion of women in business. ‘I thought you might find my presence suddenly awkward.’

  ‘Heavens, no! We’re not selfish about chocolate, Miss Frobisher, we want the whole world to enjoy it. The more the merrier, I say. The Terry and Cadbury families are our friends. And I think we all have something different to bring to this delicious treat of ours. One more chocolate-maker is a boon, not a gloom.’

  Helen gave a courteous chuckle at his quip.

  ‘You’re all competitors, though,’ Alex qualified, frowning gently.

  ‘Competitors, yes, indeed, but not enemies,’ he replied. ‘And where there’s competition, there’s innovation. Keeps us on our toes, you might say. I’m all for it.’

  ‘I can tell,’ she breathed, her admiration effervescing.

  ‘Carry on, Helen,’ he said and gestured for their party to keep moving. ‘I like to think of us all as healthy rivals and it means the industry keeps developing and thus improving standards for staff, for quality of chocolate, new ranges of products, new ideas for mechanisation . . . So now, how can we help you to follow this dream of yours, Miss Frobisher?’

  ‘You’ll help?’ she gusted.

  ‘On my word! Presumably you want to be a specialist maker of small chocolates?’

  She nodded helplessly, in awe of where this conversation was leading.

  ‘Then as you are hardly a manufacturer at our level, it’s my duty to help you to be one of the new breed of small chocolatiers who add to the range of treats that customers can be delighted by. Without healthy competition, Miss Frobisher, any industry would become stagnant. I really do believe there is a place for all of us and we can make Northern England the hub of fine chocolate for all of Europe. I am firmly of the opinion that chocolate is a food for the masses; I can see a day not-so-far away when everyone can afford to eat a little chocolate daily. We’ll take care of the large market, Miss Frobisher, and you worry about making exquisite, handmade chocolates for very special treats.’ He chuckled indulgently at her. ‘I’m presuming your parents approve of this path? As, I must say, it seems unusual for a family of your standing to permit their only daughter to —’

  ‘My father approves of my ambition,’ she said brightly, convincing herself as much as the listeners that she was not actually lying.

  ‘Well, no doubt you’d be managing your business, overseeing chocolate production and guiding staff. I’m sure your father would invest and have plenty of involvement.’ He blinked and she smiled at his couched way of reminding her that women of her social standing did not work for a living. She lifted and dropped her shoulders as if delighted by his interest. It felt as though Arnold Rowntree had lit a fire beneath her with those words. ‘I have so much to learn, though. I want to work for you,’ she spilled, as Matthew conveniently and no doubt deliberately distracted Helen so the guide couldn’t eavesdrop on this conversation. ‘But my parents wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sorry. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But they just will not permit me to work on a factory floor.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, be assured I do understand. And your father is a colleague of mine so I would not wish to transgress in any way. No, I couldn’t have you on our factory floor staff either. It wouldn’t be appropriate, but we’ll find ways that you can learn. I shall have to think on this because you’ll need to invest a couple of years at least to acquire the skills for chocolate-making, especially if you are to teach others.’

  ‘In the meantime I could volunteer to help with getting the King’s Tin out to the troops!’ she leapt in, unable to hide her excitement. ‘No one, not even my parents, could find fault with that.’

  He looked unsure. ‘We are pushing hard to get those tins to the Front as fa
st as we can. In truth it’s clean, uncomplicated work and simply requires dexterity and speed. It also teaches you about how to handle the chocolate.’ Arnold bit his lip and then dashed her hopes by shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, though, my dear. It is just not the done thing to have a gentlewoman on our floor. Besides, there are a queue of excellent young working women who would want to tar and feather me should I employ you.’

  ‘Don’t employ me,’ she replied. ‘I want to volunteer. Please let me assist. I feel so helpless where the war is concerned. I’m going to volunteer my services at the Friends Hospital later today, Mr Rowntree, and it would be so heartening to be able to give some time directly to the boys in the trenches.’

  His softening expression told her he understood her dilemma. ‘There may be another way. Do you speak any languages?’

  ‘French, and I read Latin. Of course, I have some good conversational German.’ She blushed at the last.

  ‘And how’s your geography?’

  She looked at him, perplexed. ‘Excellent . . . I think. Er, I know all the major continents . . . certainly all the countries within Europe.’

  ‘Perfect.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Then maybe we could step around offending our working girls on the floor and call you our geographical adviser.’

  She gave a small gust of a laugh. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, given that families are busily saving coupons from their Cocoa Elect in order to send their loved one a King’s Tin, we have to make sure the correctly ordered tins are reaching the right trenches. So your fine reading and language skills will be a boon to ensure we pack all the appropriate regiment tins together to go off to various parts of the frontline.’

  ‘I see,’ she breathed. ‘Well, of course I’d be delighted to help. But at risk of asking too much of you, sir, would you permit one day of handling the chocolate?’

  ‘Consider it done. We can say you need to understand the process.’ He raised a finger of warning. ‘But only for a single day and providing your parents have no problem with it.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. I’ll speak with them this evening and will you allow me to start tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. We need as many hands as possible. I’ll let our overseer know to expect you, as I imagine you will be most persuasive tonight with your good parents.’

  Her gushing thanks stopped just short of hugging him.

  ‘I understand, Miss Frobisher. The women in our families have always been permitted to get involved in the business if they chose.’ He noted her surprise to hear this. ‘I’m genuinely happy to help. Come, we should catch up with the others. You’ve yet to see the despatch department, my favourite because it involves the railway that your fine Matthew is helping us with.’

  By the time they’d reached the Rowntree fire station, Alex had already begun to construct in her mind how she should present the topic of her working at Rowntree’s as a volunteer. She would need Matthew’s assistance to sell it to her parents, especially to her mother.

  Helen spoke on. ‘. . . eighteen on the full-time staff, twenty-four on the auxiliary staff who are paid a retaining fee . . . fifty-five horse power with a capacity of 450 gallons,’ she continued and Alex thought that Helen’s narrative had become rote and that more excitement, more heart, was needed. She couldn’t blame the woman; Alex had already discovered that Helen’s wage helped to keep a large family of siblings fed, as well as her parents and grandparents who shared the same accommodations. She lived out near Strensall Village, where a military barracks had been installed. Helen was responsible for helping to feed nearly a dozen other mouths and presumably her work was a means to an end; Alex had begun to feel herself envying Helen her role, imagining how much better she might be at it.

  The idea caught fire in her mind. Being a guide would surely give her access to all areas of the Rowntree complex . . . She could enter any department, speak with any of the staff, and ultimately linger around the actual chocolate-making areas so she could learn the skills. She could easily spend a couple of years learning from that vantage.

  ‘. . . our factory has the largest fire alarm system in the world,’ Helen went on, with no excitement in her tone.

  ‘Mr Rowntree?’ Alex murmured, touching Chocolate Jumbo’s elbow to slow his pace to hers.

  ‘Yes, my dear? Have we bored you senseless with our fire department?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, sir, but if you’ll indulge me for a moment I do believe I’ve thought of a role that I would sincerely love the opportunity to take on and I doubt it would present any obstacles for my parents. I also think it might be a cunning way for me to learn.’

  ‘Oh, really? Go ahead.’

  ‘What are my chances of becoming a tour guide for Rowntree’s? And before you jump to a negative, please hear me out.’

  He grinned.

  ‘You see, I think my enthusiasm for chocolate would show through. It means I wouldn’t have to be formally employed on the factory floor and I think I could convince my parents that it’s a role most suitable for someone of their daughter’s standing. Finally, it would expose me to all the areas of the factory, and with that sort of freedom I suspect I can absorb a lot of important learning on the run, so to speak. I could take a few hours each evening to train. And from the vantage of being a guide I can pinpoint the areas where I need to spend the most time enriching myself, no doubt from the actual chocolate makers themselves.’

  ‘Tempering chocolate alone takes skill and practice. I’m happy to let you seek out those you can learn from. Use my name, they’ll help. And my word, with your cut-glass voice, who could resist this offer? I think it’s a wonderful idea . . . so long as your father agrees.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Is that a formal yes?’

  Rowntree nodded. ‘The Yorkshire accent is generally charming, Miss Frobisher, and we’re proud of our guides. However, I am keen to keep a small group of guides who speak with Received Pronunciation to escort foreign visitors who struggle with the Yorkshire lilt. How good is your French?’

  ‘I’m fluent.’

  ‘Well, there we are; we have French and Belgians passing through who have little or no English. We do employ our touring staff from educated applicants. Helen over there is a former governess, but fallen on tough times. We have another couple of women who are daughters of vicars from poor parishes so the role is ideal as they are educated and speak well . . . but they need the income. It would be a boon to have a French-speaking gentlewoman as part of our team. And I take your point, you could certainly roam freely among the departments.’

  She grinned. ‘Is that too cynical of me, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. The Quaker way is to share, Miss Frobisher. Our creed is to look after each other, and to look after the wider community too as best we can. Rich or poor matters not.’

  ‘Of course I would not require payment.’

  ‘I couldn’t hire you without it.’

  ‘Then I shall donate my wage to a cause.’ She didn’t mean to sound so defiant.

  He nodded. ‘We’ll make a Quaker of you yet, Miss Frobisher.’

  __________

  Matthew reached towards the sugar bowl that was rattling against the tiny milk jug and separated them. He blinked at her. ‘Arnold had a lovely way of strategising how to engage you as a guide without offending his Yorkshire girls.’

  ‘Yes, most diplomatic,’ she agreed.

  ‘Is that you jiggling your leg against the table?’ he asked, bemused.

  She gave a guilty grin. ‘Horrible habit when I’m nervous. Makes me useless at cards.’

  He laughed. ‘Ah now, I have an excellent deadpan expression for all games of cunning.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘You’ll need to develop one if you don’t want everyone reading you like today’s newspaper.’

  Alex sighed. ‘She’s going to see right through me.’

  ‘Well, here’s a thought – how about telling the truth?’

  She blinked in
irritation. ‘You’ve met my mother, Matthew.’

  ‘Yes, but all lies have a crafty way of coming back to find you, biting you, haunting you. If you can avoid the lie, I’d recommend it.’

  ‘Speaking from experience?’

  He gave her one of his wide grins where she felt he was laughing at her rather than with her, except with Matthew she never felt any malice. It was as though she amused him like a younger sister.

  ‘Of course, speaking from experience!’ he gusted. ‘However, lying should be the fallback position, not the frontline, if you’ll pardon the war theme.’

  She smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘You seemed to know what I should do before I did.’

  ‘That’s the practical man in me; also the entrepreneur who lives alongside! Despite this my father doesn’t recognise that I have a Machiavellian talent for spotting opportunities.’

  ‘Well, I’m in awe of your astute nature and grateful for your support. For something I’ve never thought about as a career for myself, I’m shaking with glee at the prospect,’ she admitted as their pots of tea were refreshed.

  They were seated in the fashionable Harker’s Hotel tearoom in St Helen’s Square, awaiting the arrival of Minerva Frobisher, whom they’d telephoned and invited to join them for afternoon tea.

  ‘Here she comes . . .’ Alex murmured, spotting the familiar black ostrich feather of her mother’s hat bobbing above the queue of people milling around the chamber’s entrance, as she approached.

  Matthew reached for her hand and Alex was surprised at how comforting the gesture felt. ‘I’m here; I won’t let her attack, I promise,’ he said. ‘Don’t just blurt it out and tell her your plan. Instead, dear Alex, sell her the idea. Use all your powers of persuasion to get what you want.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing with me?’

  He didn’t reply and she regretted her accusation. ‘Anyway, Mother wouldn’t dare attack with you present; she’s already entirely in love with you, Matthew.’