‘No . . . no . . . I can manage.’ He picked up the pot and was about to introduce himself when he realised she’d already disappeared. He poured the brown liquid into the teacup and wondered if he should have put the milk in first. He silently cursed himself for not accepting her offer. At least she would have stayed a little longer.
He silently drank his tea as he waited for her to return and another chance to speak to her. Once, he caught her large, soft eyes peering at him from the back kitchen doorway, and he got the impression that she was eager for him to leave. His hope of building a rapport with her was shrinking by the minute as it would make things so much easier if they were on speaking terms.
Nicholas picked up the delicate teacup and took another gulp. The clock ticked on and he realised she would not be coming back. At times like these, when he was alone with his thoughts, his mind would wander back to the boredom of the trenches. He remembered Sam’s joy when he received one of herletters, as they provided a precious respite from the stalemate of war. Christmas, 1917, was particularly memorable. It was two years ago, but Nicholas remembered it as clearly as if it was yesterday.
‘Rose is upset I won’t be home for Christmas. She’s written me a p-p-poem about Christmas. One day, Nicky Boy, I will give her the Christmas she deserves.’
He could see Sam now, carefully folding her poem and placing it in his pocket.
‘Will you tell her the truth when you write?’ he had asked him.
‘No,’ Sam had said. ‘I will be as chipper as usual. No p-p-point in worrying her about the realities of what it’s like here.’
It wasn’t until several weeks later, on Christmas Eve, that Sam had finally shared the poem with him. They’d sat huddled together beneath a threadbare blanket under a clear winter sky. A single lamp illuminated the feminine writing reaching out to them. It was a very special moment and warmed both their war-weary hearts which were at risk of becoming numb from all they had witnessed in recent months.
Sam never read it to him again after that day. Nicholas understood the reason why, although he would have been happy to listen to it many times. The poem was for Sam and Sam alone, and he felt duty-bound to guard it for the precious gift it was.
Nicholas smiled as he cradled his cup. He knew the poem by heart now because he had read it as often as he had looked at the photograph that came with it. They came as a package, you see, one wrapped around the other, two items never to be parted. Just like Sam and Rose should never have been parted.
The minutes ticked by and Nicholas finally had to admit to himself that he could not make his drink last forever. He checked the clock on the wall. It was too late to ask for anotherand she was probably desperate to go home. It was time to leave, but he would be back tomorrow.
Chapter Two
Thursday, 4th December, 1919
The soldier had returned. Rose watched him as he chose the same seat in the corner. How many times was it now? Three or was it four? He arrived the same time, half an hour before she closed the shop at four, except for yesterday when he had arrived earlier as it was a Wednesday and half day closing. Rose didn’t know why he bothered her so. He was just another soldier who had been fortunate to get through the war unscathed — no one special, just lucky.
So many soldiers had passed by her shop since the end of the war, disembarking from the nearby train station and walking en masse through the town, slowly growing fewer in number as they broke away to make their own way home. Some dared to spare the time and drop in for a “proper cup of tea” before finally seeing their loved ones. Many were jovial, most bore haunted shadows under their eyes, a few were unusually quiet, but all had purpose in their stride as they were finally on their way home.
The numbers of demobilised troops had lessened over the year and it had been a while since one had entered her tea shop in uniform. His sudden appearance had caught her by surprise. At first she thought it was Sam, as he was handsome and tall with a mop of brown hair just like he used to have. Of course it wasn’t. Sam was dead, something she both could not forget, yet constantly had to remind herself of. It made no sense, but death never does. She had discovered his fate when his mother arrived at her home holding the form in her hands. She had handed it to Rose, crying and unable to speak. The impersonal form carried the news that they had dreaded — killed in action on the 13thApril, 1918. Sam had survived so long, and it seemed so unfair that he had been killed so close to the end.
As she took down the soldier’s first order, she quickly realised he was different to Sam. His eyes were dark brown, like the conkers from her neighbour’s horse chestnut tree, whereas Sam’s had been a mischievous blue. The man was clean shaven, whereas Sam liked to wear a moustache which hid his lopsided grin. He had a nice smile, though. It was broad, welcoming and symmetrical — although perhaps a little too familiar. After all, it wasn’t as if she knew him.
Since his first visit, she found herself wondering if he would come again, and without fail he always did. He appeared in no hurry and always greeted her with a smile as he took off his hat and sat down to wait for her. Rose lifted out the cake she had baked earlier in the day and placed it on the counter. She hastily turned the plate to the right, then the left, to show it off to its best advantage. She had kept it aside so there would be some left for his arrival. Boiled fruit cake did not tempt him, but perhaps this one would. She realised he was watching her, so she grabbed her notepad and went over to him.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ she asked reaching for a pencil from her pocket. She expected the same answer and was mentally preparing herself to offer him a slice of her new cake.
‘I’d like a pot of your splendid tea.’ He craned his neck so he could see the counter behind her. ‘Is that a new cake?’
‘Yes sir. Would you like a slice?’
‘Yes please.’ Rose scribbled his order down. ‘Make that two slices.’
Had she heard him wrong? She lifted her gaze to find him looking at her. ‘Two, sir?’
‘I thought you might like to join me.’
A rush of heat engulfed her face. ‘Oh, no. I don’t think so.’ His smile faded a little. She’d offended him. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I work here. What would people think if they saw me eating at a table?’
The soldier looked about him. ‘I don’t think anyone would mind.’
Vacant chairs and clear tables surrounded them, with not a single customer in sight. No one would know if she took a seat and ate with him.
Rose shoved the notebook into her pinafore pocket. ‘Thank you, but I can’t.’
The soldier’s dark eyes reminded her of a sad puppy. She’d hurt his feelings and felt a sudden urge to explain. It was nothing personal. She was simply too busy to sit down with him. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but the silence of the tearoom, absent of all customers except for the soldier, deafened her and she closed it again. She had no valid reason for refusing him and they both knew it. His steady, amused gaze sent her scurrying away to prepare his tray behind the counter.
She efficiently fulfilled his order, whilst resisting the temptation to look in his direction throughout. During the war she had been restricted to serving slices no heavier than one and a half ounces to help with the war effort. Food was precious and cakes served in tea shops were an easy option to restrict. If you did not follow the rules, you were viewed as unpatriotic. She glanced at the soldier in the far corner. The war was over and the soldier, above all her other customers, deserved a generous portion. She picked up a knife and cut him a very large slice.
