Nicholas frowned and tried to laugh in disbelief, but nothing escaped him. He shook his head, ‘I don’t understand, Rose.’
She turned to go.
‘Rose!’ He barred her with his arm, ‘Talk to me. I thought—’
‘You thought wrong. Stop calling at the tea shop. Stop coming to my door. I don’t want to see you again. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.’ She pushed his arm away and disappeared inside leaving her father to shut the door in his face.
Nicholas remained outside for several minutes, unsure what to do next. He called out her name several times in the hope she would open her bedroom window and talk to him. His attempts only resulted in passers-by affording him strange looks and crossing to the other side of the road. What a lovesick, spurned fool he must look, lingering outside a woman’s home who wanted nothing more to do with him. He lifted his collar against the chill of the night, which he had thought was mild only a few moments ago.
‘Rose! Talk to me!’ he shouted again, hating the desperation in his voice. The bedroom curtain remained drawn. He was getting nowhere tonight. Angry with her father for blocking his way, but most of all angry with himself for feeling so helpless, he spun on his heels and headed back to his car.
Chapter Nine
Rose spent Sunday baking for the shop, but even this simple task, one she had done a hundred times before, seemed to demand too much of her. By the end of the morning she had burnt one cake and a tray of biscuits. The bitter aroma drew her mother into the room. Rose felt her watching with a disapproving eye as she attempted to scrape the charcoal burnt edges away. Her attempts were not the high standard required for the shop, but they would still eat them at home as it would be shameful to waste them.
Rose set about making another batch, whilst her mother muttered unhelpful comments under her breath.
‘You cooked it for too long. You should have kept an eye on it like I taught you.’
Rose was used to her mother grumbling, but this time she felt too raw to ignore her sharp-edged tongue completely. She swallowed down the salty tears that threatened to spill over, as she measured out the ingredients with an experienced, albeit shaky, hand. How she longed for Monday morning so she could escape.
Monday, 15th December, 1919
Monday arrived by way of a blustering gale. Rose got up early and made her parents’ breakfast. Normally she would attempt to cheer them by remarking on the weather or singing a tune. Today, she didn’t bother. Their sombre mood had finally engulfed her and she had succumbed. She served her parents and sat down at the table. They ate in silence, her parents heartily and oblivious to their daughter’s lack of appetite. The meal was soon over. Her father fetched his cloth coat and jacket, as she cleared away the breakfast plates. She knew he had gone when she heard the door shut. He did not wish his familygoodbye before he set off for his shift at the quay. He said that unloading cargo was heavy work and he preferred not to waste his strength on greetings, goodbyes or kind words in-between.
Her mother went to the outhouse in the backyard, leaving Rose alone in their crowded little home, with its untidy piles of clothing, paper and boxes. Rose closed her eyes to shut out the mess she was not allowed to clear. The house, and her parents’ oppressive company, were becoming too much to bear. At times she felt she was suffocating and today, in that moment, she blamed Nicholas for it, as he had reminded her how joyful life could be.
Her mother returned, her gravelly voice moaning about the melted snow on the ground outside. Rose quickly packed her new batch of cakes, wished her a good day and left, hurrying to the tea shop whilst carrying the box in her arms. The hour was still early, but she was not alone as the owners of the neighbouring shops arrived one by one to unlock their doors and set up their display stands outside. A man, with a wheelbarrow, offered holly and mistletoe to decorate their shop fronts to help entice customers to buy. He offered some to her, his breathy vapour rising in the freezing air as he spoke. Rose shook her head and slipped inside her shop.
Nicholas’s festive tree greeted her when she arrived, its baubles and vibrant ribbons shining in the light. She headed straight to the kitchen beyond trying not to look at it as every decoration now mocked her gullibility rather than lifted her spirits. Rose would have torn it down if she could, but its festive cheer had already improved her business, as there had been a marked rise in customers since it was erected the week before. The day started slow, which gave Rose too much time to think, but gradually it grew busier as shoppers, rushing for last-minute gifts, dropped in for a respite and a warming pot of tea. Yet, even when the tea shop was filled with the sound of animatedconversations and the chink chink of china, Rose still found her gaze wandering to the window for a glimpse of a solitary soldier home on leave. The street seemed to be full of young couples with smiling faces, navigating the crystallised, melting patches of snow on the road. She envied them their bond. How happy they all looked as they walked arm in arm, their bodies barely touching, yet their steps evenly matched against the world.
At the end of the day, Rose tidied the shop in preparation for closing. She put on her hat and coat and turned off the remaining light, pausing at the door to look around her tea shop. Deep in her pocket, her hand closed over Nicholas’s unopened gift to her — a gift which resembled the messenger of love and peace. How ironic, she thought, that she had chosen it for someone else yet it seemed tailor-made to be given from him to her. Only it was her message to Sam he was carrying, not his own.
Rose rested her head against the door frame as she continued to look around in the semi-darkness. She could still make out the outlines of the empty tables as the faint memory of the sounds of the day still lingered in her mind. This was the time when Nicholas would call upon her, she thought, feeling the box in her hand. However, today, since the departure of the last customer, the bell hanging over the door remained silent. She released the gift, withdrew her hand and slowly turned the handle, bracing herself for the familiar ring of the bell as it knocked against the wood. It rang slowly in the silence, as if to taunt her. He’s not coming back, it trilled. The sound, which up until now had signalled Nicholas’s arrival, was still painful to hear, despite Rose being convinced that she did not want to see him again.
At home, the remaining hours of the evening seemed to drag by. Eventually, Rose climbed the stairs to her bedroom feigning a headache and a desire for an early night. Her parents did notprevent her or show any concern as she slipped from the room. She climbed onto her bed and closed her eyes in the hope that sleep would eventually claim her. Exhausted, it almost did, until the rattle of stones showering her window startled her from her dozing. Rose leapt to her feet, drew back the curtains and saw Nicholas’s silhouette standing beneath her window looking up at her. She could not breathe, she could not move and she dared not blink for fear his image would disappear before her.
He called out to her. His voice, both pained and comfortingly familiar, told her he was real. She allowed herself to blink.
‘Rose! It’s Nicholas. We need to talk.’
Just seeing him again — tall, handsome and so near — immediately cured her feeling of exhaustion. His presence set every nerve on edge and heightened every sense. She withdrew into the shadows behind the folds of her curtain and shut her eyes. She didn’t want to see him, she told herself.
‘It mustn’t end like this. I need to talk to you.’
She placed her palms over her ears to shut him out.
‘Rose!’ Another shower of small stones hit her window, clinking and rattling as they ricocheted off the glass.
Concerned the window would break, Rose drew back the curtains and flung it open. A blast of chilled air hit her face.
‘There is nothing to end. Go away.’
‘There is and you know it. Look at me.’ He opened his arms and looked down at himself. ‘I’m standing here like a fool. Please, Rose. I don’t understand why you won’t come down and speak to me.’
‘You have been making a fool of me.’
‘I have never tried to make a fool of you.’
