The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Because of you.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve offended you and now I must make amends. I want us to be friends before I leave. It seems as important to me now as returning Tom’s possessions to his mother felt months ago.’

  ‘Your train is nearly here,’ she said, astonished by his claim and unable to think of anything more relevant to say.

  ‘And your tram has arrived.’ He nodded over her shoulder towards the shuffling queue.

  Alex looked around, further taken aback that she hadn’t heard its noisy arrival, or been aware of what was happening around her. Something about Harry Blake consumed her, wrapped its addictive arms around her and reeled her in. Here she was, watching the last few people clamber onto the tram and making no attempt to move away from him.

  ‘There’ll be another one soon enough,’ she said casually, giving herself over to instinct. ‘It’s worth missing the tram to hear your apology.’

  ‘Then I shall miss my train to make that apology properly,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you and your husband would care to have dinner with me tonight?’

  ‘Overnight in York again?’ she said, mostly playing for time as her thoughts scattered to every plausible reason for not accepting his invitation.

  ‘Well, it’s true now that I have unfinished business here and you might be able to help me with it, actually.’

  ‘Mr Blake —’

  ‘Harry,’ he corrected.

  ‘Harry, my husband Matthew is not in York at present and it could – no, would – be considered unseemly for me to be dining with a gentleman who is not a member of our immediate circle.’

  ‘It could be just as unseemly if I were, surely? But what are you afraid of?’

  ‘I am not afraid, but people like my mother have eyes and ears open only for this very sort of situation to gossip about. All sorts of fantastical stories somehow find legs to run vigorously around a city such as this.’

  ‘Then let’s invite your mother – both your parents, if you wish? I can book a table for a dozen or more and we can invite all their closest friends too.’

  She laughed and her amusement broke the tension. She watched the taut expression in Harry’s face relax, his dark eyebrows loosening either side of the bunched furrow in his forehead.

  ‘You have the most infectious laughter,’ he admitted.

  Alex sighed. ‘I can’t, Harry. This is a small city, believe it or not, with a tendency to be small-minded.’ She was surprised at how wretched her denial made her feel because the truth was she did want to fill another lonely evening in the company of this handsome man with his direct manner and easy conversation. And yet despite his confident way she sensed something fragmented within him that tugged at her heart.

  ‘Nevertheless, while I cannot meet you for dinner, I can certainly extend an invitation for you to join me for supper at the house, if you wish? I would be glad to . . . break bread with you this evening and let’s see if I can’t make this trip of yours feel happier still – I would like to help you with your unfinished business.’

  ‘Your husband would not find that odd? I mean, me coming to your house?’

  ‘Far less odd, I suspect, than people telling him I was seen dining out and about with a handsome stranger.’ That description was a mistake; she heard it as it left her lips.

  Her companion had the grace not to mention it but the amusement in his eyes that glimmered beneath the spilling lamplight of the shop’s doorway left her in no doubt at all that he’d heard the slip. ‘Well, that would be absolutely delightful.’

  She swallowed her embarrassment and straightened. ‘Very good. Shall we say eight? No need for a dinner suit. I shall be asking Norma to put together something simple as she was only expecting me home tonight and I was seriously considering a sandwich and cup of cocoa around the fire.’

  ‘Sounds cosy,’ he said and the way he looked at her felt immediately dangerous.

  ‘I think we can do better than a sandwich and cocoa, but it won’t be fussy.’

  ‘Eight it is. I have no idea where I am supposed to come, of course.’

  ‘Forgive me. I can probably find a card in here.’ She began digging, embarrassed, into her handbag. ‘Ah, here we are.’

  He glanced at the small card and she knew it was meaningless to him.

  ‘It’s on the corner, opposite the green – you can’t miss the yew in our garden. Matthew wanted to chop it down because it’s poisonous but I assured him it’s only toxic if you eat the leaves or berries. And it’s old and glorious and —’ Alex realised she was blathering and stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’ll find you.’ He grinned. ‘Thank you. Would you like me to wait until —’

  ‘No, please, do go.’ She blinked at how rude that sounded. ‘What I mean is, there’s another tram in a couple of minutes. I shall see you this evening. You’d better go and change your rail ticket if you have a return. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At a guesthouse not far from the Minster.’

  She pointed. ‘Just follow your nose from the station. It’s an easy walk into the city – maybe ten to twelve minutes.’

  She knew he could tell she wanted him gone. He took the cue, lifted his hat. ‘Until this evening, Mrs Britten-Jones.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Blake.’

  Alex watched him depart in long, effortless strides and recalculated that it would barely take him seven or eight minutes at that sort of lope. She had lied; the next tram would be ten minutes away. It would be easier to walk up Blossom Street to The Mount and drop in on her parents. She could ring home from there and ensure her housekeeper knew they’d have company tonight. Her father might even get the motor car out and run her home.

  13

  Alex’s cook, a middle-aged woman with huge, slightly gnarled hands that could make the lightest of sponges or pastries, glanced at her sideways. The silence spoke droves. Alex shrugged, more in an effort to convince herself of the innocence of her evening event. ‘It’s just supper.’

  Norma, her housekeeper, flapped a dishcloth she was folding. ‘Is that too late, madam, to be having a gentleman visitor, perhaps?’

  Alex knew not to take offence with either woman but especially Norma, who was one of those Yorkshire women who spoke her mind but had a heart of pure sunshine and deep loyalty to her family. ‘Now, you sound just like my mother.’

  ‘I’m old enough to be her, madam,’ Norma replied, cutting her another disapproving glance. ‘Doesn’t look good.’

  Alex refused to bite. ‘Only to people who want to read bad into everything. I’ve explained how we met and I’ve agreed to help Mr Blake with his enquiries. He’s a returned soldier, Norma, Joyce; I feel we owe all of our soldiers every courtesy.’

  Joyce’s mouth flattened at the soft admonishment.

  Norma didn’t back down. ‘Mr Britten-Jones is arriving home tomorrow. Should we prepare something special for dinner?’

  Alex wanted to laugh at the timely reminder that she was indeed married. Norma clearly wanted to ensure her mistress had not overlooked this fact.

  Instead she kept a bright tone. ‘Yes, let’s do a roast for him, shall we? It’s his favourite. All right with you, Joyce?’

  ‘Very good. Are you sure fish quenelles are appropriate for a guest, madam?’

  ‘They were perfectly good enough for my supper, so I don’t see why Mr Blake won’t enjoy them. Head home early, Joyce. No need to wait on us as Norma’s here if I need any help . . . which I won’t. We’ll eat at the side table in my salon.’

  Norma’s eyes widened. ‘Saves firewood, I suppose.’

  Alex laughed. ‘You couldn’t sound more disapproving if you tried, Norma. Can you see how little fuss I’m going to?’ she said, gesturing to her simple outfit of a silk floral blouse and long, belted skirt. ‘Would it ease your heart to know that I’ve invited my parents over later to meet Mr Blake? They’re planning to drop in for an evening coffee.’

  Norma’s troubled expression eased. ‘Lady Frobisher will enjoy the garden cake
that Joyce baked today. I’ll serve that, as you have no pudding planned; perhaps your guest will enjoy it too.’

  ‘As you choose. My mother will certainly not say no to a slice of our lauded garden cake, I’m sure . . . and neither will my father.’ She grinned and squeezed the shoulders of both women with genuine affection. ‘Thank you. Mr Blake is arriving at eight, so half an hour later will be fine for our supper.’

  She retreated to the salon, where a merry fire had banished the chill of February, and pretended to read for a while. Her belly growled into the silence and she realised how famished she was, having only had two bites of a toasted crumpet for breakfast and then skipped lunch to rush and meet the dignitaries who never turned up and then the long tour; plus she didn’t so much as sip her tea at the railway station. When she looked up the hand on the mantelpiece clock had barely shifted, which meant her guest was still more than half an hour away from arriving. She considered a piece of buttered bread but the phone rang to distract her and she was out of her chair in a blink to answer it at the sideboard.

  ‘Evening, Alex, darling.’

  ‘Matthew! I’ve been wondering why I haven’t heard. Are you still in Bristol?’

  ‘No . . . no, I, er . . . find myself in London,’ he said, blowing a soft gust of a laugh that sounded vaguely guilty to her ear.

  ‘London?’ She cleared her throat, dialling down the magnitude of her disappointment. ‘Good grief, Matthew,’ she tried again in a feigned tone of reason. ‘That wasn’t in the plan, was it? Why do you need to be in the capital?’

  He sighed and she knew it was for her benefit, could conjure his familiar frowning expression as he did so, full of apology. And she hated herself for imagining the wheels of his mind turning towards an easy excuse. ‘My father needed me to see to some things. It was easier just to head south, darling, and get it all fixed at once instead of lumbering around from long distance or making several trips. You aren’t cross, are you?’

  ‘Matthew, it’s been nearly a fortnight. Are you still home tomorrow?’

  ‘No, my love. Probably Thursday now.’

  Her silence conveyed her dismay loudly enough.

  ‘Hmm, you are upset, Alex. This is work. I can’t help it,’ he lamented. ‘But I hate that disappointed tone. Reminds me of my mother.’

  She glanced at the clock. The tall hand had moved. Time flies when you’re having fun, a small voice in her mind mocked her. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, breathing out as she said it. ‘It’s just, well, I don’t seem to see much of you these days. Your work seems to have tripled since we married.’

  ‘Darling, I did try to warn —’

  ‘Do you know,’ she began, her voice even now, ‘I counted up last week on a calendar how many days we’ve had together in the last six months and in total it is less than one month . . . just over three weeks – twenty-three days, if you’d like me to be precise.’ She could take him back a whole year but that might be classed as being petty.

  ‘Really?’ He didn’t sound guilty, more bored, if she was interpreting his tone correctly. ‘That’s dreadful, I agree. I shall fix it darling, really I shall. I’m going to speak with my father tonight, in fact, and explain how damnably demanding all this work for the firm is. Big house, lovely life and all that but, really, is it worth it, darling?’

  Her lips pursed into a line of defeat that he would use this passive type of blackmail.

  ‘I think we need a lovely holiday somewhere, don’t we? Somewhere warm, although nowhere is easy to get into, my love, so soon after war, or I’d whisk you off to Nice or the Isle of Capri. Anyway, we’ll talk soon and sort something out.’

  She couldn’t pursue this line of conversation now with him. He was already retreating from it. ‘Matthew, I have company tonight, a Mr Harry Blake from London.’ She explained what she knew of him as she had done earlier to her parents, adding again that she felt she should offer to help him out of duty to a returned soldier. She’d even begun to believe that rationale and was able to entirely push aside that heart-pounding feeling of helpless attraction to him.

  ‘I hope he’s terribly old and ugly,’ Matthew replied.

  ‘He’s not, actually. Quite the contrary.’ She was surprised how powerful it felt in that tick of the clock to respond so candidly.

  ‘Should I be jealous, darling?’

  It was transparently obvious that her husband was a long way from jealousy. ‘I’ve never given you cause, have I?’ She knew it didn’t answer the question but this was precisely how Matthew would have answered such an enquiry.

  ‘I should think not! I adore you,’ he replied, ‘and I may have found something rather lovely for you today in London.’

  She forced a smile but as charmed as she so badly wanted to feel, his absence was beginning to make her feel hollow and, more worryingly, cheated. ‘I’d rather just have you home.’

  ‘I know, darling, but needs must, eh? Oh, look, I have to go. Coming, Hugh, coming.’

  ‘Are you at the club?’

  ‘Yes, just setting up for a game of chess with one of the old blokes, says he knows your father – so I feel a bit obliged, you know.’

  She didn’t want to hear the lie that she finally allowed herself to believe was there, except she didn’t know what she was privately accusing him of. He was working, surely? And yet there was subterfuge; her instincts were convinced of it. ‘Oh, well, off you go. I hope the work goes smoothly.’

  ‘Righto. Chin up, darling. I’ll see you Thursday.’

  She heard the line go dead with an empty click and then a dull ringing sound that seemed to summarise her marriage at present. Replacing the receiver, she sighed and paced in a blur of lonely thoughts. Jealous, indeed! Perhaps she should give him something to feel jealous over. The doorbell sounded and she’d never welcomed interruption so happily, hurrying out of the room, barely time to check her hair that was always trying to escape its pins.

  ‘It’s fine, Norma. I can get it,’ she reassured and waved the servant to the back rooms of the house.

  She could see Harry’s welcome outline through the glass panels at the side of the grand entrance, took a deep breath and opened the door with a bright smile. ‘Mr Blake,’ she gushed, being formal more for the housekeeper if she eavesdropped, but genuinely pleased to see him again and frightened by how the sight of him banished her bleak mood. ‘Welcome to the Grange.’

  __________

  Harry watched Alex’s fizzing laughter as he stamped off the light fall of snow on his shoulders and hat sleeves. ‘It began just as I left,’ he said, slightly breathless from the chill, and grinned at her pleasure.

  ‘You look like you’ve been dusted with sugar crystals,’ she admitted.

  He saw a stern-faced woman approaching and quickly worked out why his hostess was speaking so formally. ‘Mr Blake, this is Mrs Claybourn, our housekeeper.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir.’

  He frowned. ‘Er, thank you, Mrs Claybourn. Why am I being congratulated?’ he enquired, taking off his hat and gloves.

  ‘I’m saying that to every returning soldier I meet, sir. Not only have they kept us safe but they’ve kept themselves safe . . . no easy task, I’m sure,’ she said with one raised eyebrow. He had no idea what that look meant. ‘Here. Let me take your coat, sir. You both go into the warm sitting room. I’ll be serving supper in —’ she glanced at her wristwatch, ‘twenty-eight minutes.’

  ‘Military precision, that’s what I like,’ Harry remarked.

  ‘Well, I thank you for being prompt, Mr Blake,’ she replied, turning on her heel and moving towards what he presumed was a cloakroom. He cast Alex a look of dismay behind the woman’s back and his host gave him a mock glare in return.

  ‘Come on inside, Mr Blake,’ Alex said, ushering him into a surprisingly smaller room than he’d imagined, given the house they were in. It was nonetheless elegant despite its size. ‘Can I fetch you a warming nip of something?’ She closed the door behind them and now she did let ou
t the chuckle. ‘Excuse her, please. She’s like that to everyone, including me. But I do love Norma. Her heart’s bigger than this house and she cares for us so well.’

  ‘No, really, I love that dismissive attitude; reminds me of childhood.’ He grinned.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought you into what I now call my salon? It warms up quicker and I find it cosier than the formal rooms. Plus, as you can see, I am deliberately not dressed for anything but a casual supper.’ He could tell that she genuinely cared he was comfortable.

  He made a point of sliding his gaze around the room. ‘I prefer lack of formality, to tell the truth, especially after years in the military. This is a delightful space and I feel privileged to be in what strikes me as one of your private chambers.’

  He watched her shoulders relax. ‘I spend a lot of time in here these days.’

  Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that remark, so he busied himself looking at two paintings on the wall.

  ‘Drink?’ she offered again and he turned to watch her glide towards a liquor cabinet. She had a way of walking as though the ground barely felt her touch. He fancifully wondered if she’d leave footprints in the snow but kept this thought to himself as he moved deeper into the room, closer to the fireplace. ‘What’s your fancy tonight?’ she added, gazing at him over her shoulder.

  ‘Now there’s an intriguing question,’ he replied in a wry tone. She cut him a soft look of exasperation. ‘Er, I’ll have a whisky, please, but only if we drop the formalities and you call me by my name.’

  ‘Agreed,’ she promised. ‘Whisky, eh? A man after my father’s heart.’ She poured from a heavily carved crystal decanter into a matching squat crystal glass. Rich, bronze liquid gurgled into the glass and he watched her inhale as though enjoying the aroma of the liquor. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured with pleasure, confirming his suspicion. ‘If it didn’t give me a headache, I’d love to share a nip of this with you. Matthew never touches the stuff, but this is my father’s poison; it’s as though he’s in the room the moment I take off the stopper and smell its honeyed sweetness. I have to keep it for when he visits – you’ll meet him tonight, actually.’ She handed him the glass with its syrupy liquid and returned to the drinks cabinet. ‘I’ve invited my parents over, if that’s all right?’