Chapter One
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Monday, 1st December, 1919
Nicholas recognised the woman in the tea shop immediately, despite having never met her before. He had no doubt it was her. He had gazed at her face more times than he cared to admit to and knew every feature as well as his own. She was the first thing on his mind upon waking and the last when he closed his eyes at night. She even visited him in his dreams — an intangible presence that would not stop haunting him after all this time. What would she think if she knew he carried her photograph in his pocket and had done so for more than a year? Yet she probably didn’t even know he existed. He knew a lot about her, though, and why she carried so much sadness in her eyes.
Nicholas withdrew her photograph from his breast pocket and carefully unfolded it. She had sent it to his friend. The filth and mud of the trenches were no place for such a precious keepsake, yet photographs like hers, which had travelled so far and been sent with such love, kept battle-weary men from falling apart. It was a link to home and a reminder that theyhad something to live for. Photographs, like this one, boosted a man’s courage like no army drill could.
The photograph, once pristine, was now battle-weary too, despite the great care taken to keep it safe. The crease of the fold had cracked and frayed and now threatened to tear her apart at the waist, reminding Nicholas of the battlefields he had left behind which had been littered with similar injuries. Its disintegration had given him the final impetus to come here today and set in motion what he had promised to do.
So here he was, a man who felt far older than his twenty-two years and who had finally found the courage to return to Blighty despite the war ending more than a year ago. It seemed very fitting to be standing in front of a shop which served the quintessential British beverage — tea — although he felt like an interloper in this small Cornish town and not very British at all. When peace was declared, many soldiers were desperate to return home, but not Nicholas. He knew, from experience, that the war had left its mark in more ways than one and the wounds needed time to heal. He had wanted to help. He re-enlisted in February 1919, declined the two months paid home leave he was entitled to and was immediately sent to Germany. He hoped that by taking part in the post-war occupation he would aid the stabilisation of a country as torn apart as those countries it had damaged. He had spent the majority of his adult life on foreign soil, so it was only natural, Nicholas told himself as he carefully placed her photograph in his pocket, to feel out of place standing in a small rural town in England. He braced his shoulders, mentally preparing himself to enter the tea shop, while trying to shake off the nagging voice in his head that it should be another man standing here and not him.
He could walk away now and no one would be any the wiser as no one knew he was in Cornwall. He had not told his parents he was coming home as he knew they would want to greet himat the station. He loved them dearly, but their hugs could wait. Although he was in uniform, no one had given him a second glance as he stepped down from the train and made his way along the platform with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. The welcoming parties set up for returning troops had long been abandoned as most had returned and were now looking for work. People had, understandably, grown tired of the war and no longer wanted reminders of it. A lone soldier on leave was only a reminder.
Nicholas understood why the euphoria at the arrival of peace had not lasted. Another, more deadly, foe had arrived and had succeeded where Germany had failed by coming ashore. Spanish flu had arrived during the previous winter and revisited earlier this year, ravaging communities and killing more than even the Great War. Nicholas had seen the pandemic himself last winter, as it had reached Cologne where he was stationed. By fluke or fate, he had dodged that particular bullet and survived the outbreak.
Nicholas inhaled deeply. He had been lucky, unlike many others, and every day he thanked whoever it was responsible that he had survived the two biggest killers the world had ever seen. Now it was time to pay his luck forward and carry out what he had come here to do.
Until now he wasn’t even sure if she still worked at the tea shop. Sam had described the brick building well, from its location — squeezed between Harper’s Hardware store and The Cornish Bank — to its Dickensian bay windows and warm golden light glowing from within. Nicholas could almost hear Sam’s voice now. At the time he was eager to hear about this warm comforting world, while his feet ached with cold and his only company were mud-splattered men, terrified horses and an abundance of rats and fleas. He also remembered the moment Sam had first shown him her photograph and the shame he hadfelt at the time. He had no sweetheart waiting for his return and seeing his friend’s girl ignited an ache in his stomach for what he was missing. Jealousy was not an emotion he was familiar with but, thankfully, it had been fleeting and was soon replaced with genuine happiness for his friend. He was a good friend, with a quick wit and a lopsided smile which provided some much needed light in a world that was dark and bleak.
The bell trilled as he opened the door. The tea shop was almost empty, but for an elderly couple sipping steaming tea near the counter. Nicholas looked about him. Which table should he choose? The simple task seemed loaded with possibilities. Too near to the counter and he would appear too obvious, too secluded and she might not see him at all. Her first impression was important to him. He fingered his collar and chose a small round table in the corner.
The cloth was snow-white, a stark contrast to the vibrant red berries and shiny holly protruding from the miniature vase at its centre. It was the only festive decoration in the shop and the only sign that Nicholas had seen so far that Christmas was on the horizon. The homemade decoration brought a lump to his throat and for the first time Nicholas felt he was finally on British soil. He noticed a pair of wary eyes staring at him between the two cake stands on the counter.
‘Rose is incredibly shy. When I first met her, she reminded me of a startled mouse about to flee at any moment.’
Nicholas gave her a warm smile as he took off his cap. The woman emerged from her hiding place and walked towards him, carrying a small book and pencil in one hand whilst self-consciously straightening her white laced cap with the other. She stood by his table, poised to write, staring intently at her book with the concentration of a sniper about to fell a Hun.
Her black uniform did not suit her. It drained the colour from her already pale face and hung limply over her slim frame.Her mousy brown hair was neatly pinned into a bun and, as she waited, two rose-tinted patches slowly blossomed on the apples of her cheeks. So this is Rose, he thought.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Rose. She glanced up briefly. If he had not been staring at her he would have missed her shy attempt at eye contact. ‘What can I get you, sir?’
Her voice was sweet and gentle. Nicholas realised, with a jolt, that she was the first young woman to speak to him since arriving home. She wasn’t French or Italian, the countries where he had spent most of the war, or German, where he had been stationed to oversee the peace. She was British and would understand what he said. He suddenly felt very out of practice in speaking to the opposite sex. He cleared his throat and fiddled with the vase in the centre of the table. The holly toppled and fell before he could catch it, marking the crisp white linen with green-tinged water.
‘I am sorry. I am a clot.’ He searched his pockets in vain for a handkerchief to mop it up, acutely aware of his fingers briefly touching her photograph as he did so. He glanced up and realised the woman was already mopping up the mess with a cloth she had produced from her pinafore. He rushed to help her by righting the vase and attempted to stab the holly back into it. He succeeded, minus two of its berries, which began to roll off the table. He caught them both with a swoop of his hand and gave them to her. ‘I’m a bit out of practice with table decorations,’ he said, smiling. ‘Not much call for them where I’ve been.’
He expected her to ask where he’d been or if he’d arrived today, but instead she returned to waiting for his order, a pencil firmly held in one hand and her notebook tightly clenched in the other. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.
‘May I have a cup of tea?’ Rose scribbled furiously as if he had given her a complicated order. He resisted the urge to smileand tried to concentrate on the cake stand. Only a few slices were left. ‘What is the cake?’
‘Boiled fruit cake.’ She glanced up from her notepad, but only high enough to take in his uniform. ‘Butter is still rationed. I have less choice at the end of the day.’
‘Do you recommend it?’
‘It can be a little dry.’
Her candour caught him by surprise and this time he failed to hide his smile. Her gaze fluttered back to her notepad as the rose tint of her cheeks turned to bright crimson spots.
‘I think I’ll just have a cup of tea this time.’
She hurried away and soon returned with a cup, saucer and a small china pot and a jug of milk.
‘Ahhh, another thing I’m out of practice with.’
‘Would you like me to pour?’
