His mother took the painting from him and smiled at the figure of the gardener. ‘You were not thinking of my artistic talents when you were looking at the clock.’ She glanced up athim with smiling eyes. ‘I think you would rather be with her than here.’
‘I am doing this for Sam, Mother.’
His mother raised an eyebrow, before returning her gaze to the painting in her hands. She held it further away from her to study it better.
‘Your father is about to leave.’
‘Where is he going?’
‘To Kent. He will be back at Christmas. His latest commission is almost complete and although he has made many visits to the property, this will be the final one.’ She placed the painting on the table. ‘He has decided to only accept commissions in Cornwall from now on. He wants to spend more time at home. He says life is too precious to be parted for weeks at a time.’ She threaded her arm through her son’s. ‘He is right. Life is too precious to be parted from the one you love. You know how difficult it was for your father and I, don’t you? If your grandfather had his way, we would never have married. When you find the right woman I am not going to stand in your way as he tried to do with us. I don’t care what class she is from, if she makes you happy that is all that matters to me.’ She smiled. ‘Rose sounds like a nice girl. Do you like her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then stop wasting your leave looking at paintings your mother did when she was a child. Life is too short to waste a moment of it. Go and see her.’
* * *
I must be mad, thought Nicholas as he carefully placed the last box in his car. He knew nothing about preparing Christmas fare. He had spent years living off cold Maconchie's stew and bully beef and although the Armistice had brought about an improvement in the army food, it had all been cooked and servedup to him. He had never cooked anything in his life and his knowledge regardinghowto cook was non-existent. He fumbled in his pocket to check the small list of ingredients he did have.
Bring me the fragrance of cinnamon and orange,
The fruit of plum puddings, laced with brandy and spice.
The earthy warm smoke of the candle and fire,
The nutmeg and cloves which makes mulled wine so nice.
The poem had not reassured him. He shut the door, skirted the car and climbed aboard, praying silently to himself that Rose would take the lead this time.
To his relief, despite knowing nothing of his intentions beforehand, Rose did take charge and marshalled him into the back kitchen of the tea shop. He carried one of the boxes filled with ingredients and looked about him, wondering where to put it. The kitchen was smaller than he expected, but had everything they would need, or at least that was what Rose told him. He placed the box on the table and Rose immediately began to rifle through it with surprising efficiency. She instantly spotted some key ingredients missing.
‘No matter,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘I can make substitutions.’
He removed his cap and leaned against the sink to watch her work, casually crossing his legs at the ankle. He had not seen this side of her before — in control, confident and motivated. This was an area she felt comfortable in, baking in her little kitchen hidden from the world.
‘I knew you were up to something.’ She pulled out a small bag and looked inside.
Nicholas stiffened. ‘Up to something? What do you mean?’ He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.
Rose didn’t seem to notice her casual remark had affected him so. ‘Not much sugar, I shall add a carrot to give extra sweetness.’ She glanced up, her eyes glinting with excitement. ‘Because you asked me last night if I had made a cake for Christmas.’
‘I did?’ He feigned surprise, although in reality he remembered it well. He was walking her home from the motor bus stop and they had briefly paused in the light of the bridge’s only gas lamp. He had looked down upon her face and had felt the sudden urge to kiss her. His desire shocked him, the lust he felt for her even more so. She had cast some kind of spell over him and he had to break it. He blurted out the first thing he could think of . . . something about cake. It had worked, but only because Rose resumed the walk and gave a lengthy reply to his question. He was relieved, although troubled, that the moment was over. He walked with her, his mind whirring once again about the implications of his growing feelings for her. And as for her reply? Right now he could not recall a single word of it. The cigarette packet in his hand seemed out of place in a kitchen. He hadn’t smoked since his arrival in Blighty, but didn’t realise that until now. He shoved it back into his pocket.
‘I think I can make a plum pudding, a batch of mince pies and a small Christmas cake. Where did you get this butter? And so much fruit! It is expensive.’
‘I saved my butter ration for just such an occasion. My parents have also donated theirs.’
Rose slowly lowered the bag in her hand. ‘They did?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘That is too kind. You must take some home to them.’
Nicholas fetched a chair from the front of the shop, swung it into the corner and sat down to watch. He was fascinated by herefficiency, her organisation, the way she blew a stray lock of hair from her brow with a thrust of her bottom lip. She hadn’t greeted him in her sombre uniform today, but a simple plain dress which caressed her hips. Why hadn’t he noticed how shapely she was? He gave himself a little shake. He was just craving some kind of normal, domestic life, he told himself. He wasn’t craving her.
A rich fruity aroma of dried fruit, spice and brandy began to fill his senses. As he sat in the small kitchen, watching Rose prepare a festive treat, he realised he finally felt at home. More at home than he had felt anywhere else before, which proved to him that it was not the location, but the company that made it feel that way. He noticed Rose had paused in her stirring. She had a far-off look on her face and he immediately grew concerned.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, straightening in his chair.
She shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the last time I baked with someone. It was my mother, but that was years ago. We used to do a lot of baking together.’ She smiled brightly at him. She had a smudge of flour on one cheek and he resisted the urge to brush it away. ‘It’s time to make a wish. You go first.’
He eased himself to standing. ‘What do I need to do?’
