Rose manoeuvred past her. ‘I am moving into the room over the shop.’
‘You can’t do that. You’re needed here.’
‘I’m also needed there. I can bake more cakes if I am living onsite. I will arrange for my bed to be moved over in the next few days.’
Her mother followed her to the door. ‘I won’t let you. Wait until your father hears about this.’
‘I’m old enough to live on my own. I don’t need your permission.’
‘Yes you do. It was your brother’s shop and he left it in our care. We don’t want you living there. This is your home.’
Rose was determined not to change her mind. She opened the door.
‘It’s up to the landlord whether I can stay at the shop and, as Arthur used to live there, I see no reason I cannot. I pay the rent. If he refuses, I will find another place to live . . . and a new job if needs be.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘The tea shop was Arthur’s dream, not mine.’ She realised her mother had not moved and was still staring at the bag in her hand. Was this militant stance as a result of anger or deep hurt? Rose felt her own attitude softening. ‘Don’t worry. I will visit you every day. And on Christmas Day I will come over early and cook us the biggest, fattest turkey I can buy. With all the trimmings. And I’ll season it with rosemary and thyme and stuff it full of your favourite chestnut stuffing.’ As she spoke, Rose wondered if she was trying to reassure her mother or herself that Christmas Day would be alright in the end. ‘We could sing Christmas carols around the fire as we drink our mulled wine. Father will probably fall asleep,just like he used to do, but we could . . .’ Her mother’s jaw tightened. ‘. . . if you prefer, we could just drink warmed milk,’ added Rose lamely. ‘I know you no longer have a liking for rich food. Would you like that, Mother? To celebrate Christmas just like we used to do before the war started?’ Her mother blinked hard and looked away. Rose realised her mother was not ready for change yet. However,shewas. Inwardly she cried out for it. Rose opened the door, feeling braver by the minute. ‘I will be back to collect the rest of my things. I’ll keep you up to date with the running of the tea shop. I might be moving out, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want us to be on good terms. I just need to be alone. I need my independence.’
Her mother followed her out of the door but remained on the steps as Rose walked briskly away.
‘Your mind is addled!’ she eventually called after her. ‘That soldier has put fancy thoughts in your head!’
‘My leaving has nothing to do with him!’ replied Rose over her shoulder, as she marched away. ‘This is about me . . . Rose Gribble . . . whose face can curdle milk!’
* * *
Rose spent the rest of the evening settling into the two rooms above the shop. Although both were very small, they would suffice. One had been Arthur’s bedroom and the other he had used as his office, however after some reorganising and a lot of cleaning, they were both turned into a small living space that would suit her needs for now. She would have to sleep on the floor until she arranged for her bed to be brought over, but she would rather do that than return home now that she had made the decision to leave. Her small bed would fit nicely in the corner and she would make use of Arthur’s old table and a cupboard which was already in the rooms. She placed a vase of holly onone of the cupboards. It was her only Christmas decoration. Next year she would ensure she had more.
* * *
Thursday, 18th December, 1919
Rose got up early and set about her first full day living on her own. She opened the shop, feeling unusually energised, and welcomed her customers with a bright smile and festive sprig of fir in her hair as they took a respite from carrying bags laden with gifts. She didn’t need anyone in her life, she told herself, as she served up mince pies and iced ginger biscuits laced with cinnamon and nutmeg. She had her customers to occupy her time. The day was busy, with a steady stream of people, thanks to a mild spell and Christmas just around the corner.
At the end of the day she pulled the wilting sprig of fir from her hair and silently congratulated herself that she had not searched for Nicholas’s figure in the street at all. She hoped this was a sign that she didn’t miss him and not simply due to the fact that he’d told her he wouldn’t visit her again until the Friday. She was also pleased that she’d not thought of Nicholas as much as she thought she might have. If it wasn’t for the Christmas tree by the window, reminding her of his smile, she would not have thought of him at all.
Rose dropped the sprig in the bin and slid the sign to Closed as she watched the butcher, Mr Hicks, pack up the stalls outside his shop. He had done it every day since she was a child and the familiar routine was comforting to watch. He was getting old, yet his arms were as muscled as a man far younger than his sixty years. His son, Ivor, rarely helped with the heavy work and the townsfolk used to believe he was a lazy son. When war broke out and he showed no intention of volunteering to fight, their thoughts about him turned darker. Not only was he lazy, they whispered, but he was unpatriotic and cowardly too. However,when conscription came in and Ivor failed to pass the medical examination it became known that Ivor had a weak heart and wouldn’t live to an old age. The exposure of the family’s secret explained everything and finally silenced his tormentors. No one called him lazy or a coward again. Ivor emerged from his shop and waved to her. Rose waved in return before turning away.
Rose climbed the stairs to her little room, her eyes immediately falling on Nicholas’s gift on top of the cupboard where she had placed it. She had not unwrapped the present, preferring to keep it for Christmas Day. Seeing it awakened all the memories of his visits she had tried to forget during the day. However, the memory of his kiss could not evoke the vibrant sensations it had aroused in that moment and the thought of never feeling that way again made her ache. It had made her feel special and wanted, in an exciting and intoxicating way. Sam’s kisses had never made her feel that way. The thought gave her a start. While she had spent the day trying, and failing, not to think of Nicholas, she had not thought of Sam at all until that very moment. She had already put Sam in the past, whereas Nicholas was not willing to leave so easily.
* * *
Friday, 19th December, 1919
Rose woke early and looked out of the window onto the empty streets below. The low temperatures outside had seeped into her bedroom overnight to form delicate lace patterns of ice on the inside of her window panes. Outside, snow had fallen silently and left a thick white blanket of glistening crystals in the moonlight. It would be another two hours before the sun rose and she had lots to do before it was time to open. She wanted to bake a new batch of cakes before opening the shop, yet despite the busy day ahead she could not forget that it was Friday. Nicholas was leaving today and he had promised to drop in andsay goodbye. Not that she cared if he visited her or not, she reminded herself as she left the window to start her day. So why did she feel so at odds? Her stomach was knotted like a tightly coiled snake and she had no appetite for breakfast.
Rose quickly washed and dressed. She was used to cold mornings like this, when everything was done at twice the speed until one was fully clothed and booted. Within minutes she was downstairs and feeding the range to raise the temperature. As the heat began to grow, Rose finally felt her body drain of the tension she had been carrying. She smiled in relief. She had only felt tense because of the cold, not because it was Friday.
It wasn’t long before Rose was surrounded by bowls, spoons and all the ingredients she required to make the cakes. She soon immersed herself in the recipes and found beating the mixture particularly cathartic. Her mind wandered to the day ahead. She suspected Nicholas would arrive in the morning as he had a train to catch. It would be very inconvenient as the shop would be busy and she would not have the time to see him . . . not that she wanted to. That would be typical of him, she thought, coming in with his charming smile and setting all her plans in turmoil. She poured the mixture into a tin and placed it in the range, tidied everything away and checked her reflection in the mirror. She noticed a dab of flour on her cheek and brushed it away. She was doing it for the customers, she told herself, not for him.
She left her cakes baking and went out into the tearoom. The sky was beginning to brighten as the sun rose. Morning had finally arrived. She glanced around at the neat tables. Everything was in order to open the shop, yet there was still an hour before opening time. She straightened her apron and patted her hair, her stomach turning itself into knots again. If he left on the earliest train he could arrive at any minute. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, as she wondered how on earth she was going to survive the day not knowing when he would arrive, or if hewould. She couldn’t blame him if he didn’t come as she hadn’t been particularly nice to him. It shouldn’t really matter whatever he decided to do, she told herself, as she went to the door to search the street for him.
Ivor, the butcher’s son, arrived at the shop opposite and went inside. Rose stepped closer to the glass, her interest immediately piqued as Ivor never arrived alone. He had always accompanied his father and had done so ever since he had left school at twelve. Ivor emerged from the shop and began to set up the stall outside. His thin shoulders strained as he tried to manoeuvre the hook stand that would hold the display of geese and turkeys. Rose immediately went out to help him.
‘Hello Ivor,’ she called as she crossed the road. Ivor looked up and gave her a wave.
‘Where is your father? Is he unwell?’ she asked as she took the other end of the hook stand and helped Ivor position it in front of the shop.
‘He was took bad yesterday evening,’ replied Ivor as he gave it a final nudge into position. ‘I’m opening up today.’
Rose followed him into the shop, filled with concern. ‘I have never known your father to be ill. Is it serious?’
