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‘Good. Ask questions any time. You may feel all thumbs at the beginning but you’ll soon get the hang of it. What we want is a solid, steady rhythm and then you won’t hold up people down the line.’

She nodded to show her eagerness. ‘Thank you, Peggy.’

‘Ladies, we need to have a good day of packing, please. It’s vital we get these tins to our boys in the trenches and in time for Christmas. You know what happened last year. Let’s not be late for them this time. Our men in Despatch are ready and waiting to load onto the train carriages that will take our tins south to Dover and onto ships for Calais. But they are essentially idling on us. So, everything depends on our speed and diligence today. You know I don’t mind you girls talking but I need focus – we have a lot to put in these tins and you don’t want any of those soldiers of ours missing out, do you?’

‘No, Peggy,’ everyone chimed, including Alex. ‘So, for anyone who has been away this last week, or for our newcomers like Miss Frobisher who has kindly volunteered her time to help us today, we shall have a quick briefing once again from Joan. Please be kind enough to go over and say hello to Miss Frobisher when you have a moment and make her feel welcome; you will see more of her this week in her new voluntary role as a linguist and geographical adviser to help us with getting the right tins to the right regiments. All right, ladies, thank you. Let’s just run through what each tin must contain. Thank you, Joan.’

A middle-aged woman with a grey plaited bun arrived to stand next to the supervisor. Peggy dwarfed her so Alex had to crane her neck to see the diminutive deputy.

‘Good morning, everyone.’

‘Morning, Joan,’ they chorused and Alex smiled inwardly at the heartwarming camaraderie in the room.

‘Each tin must contain the following, so check your stocks and if you’re running low, ensure Peggy is aware of what you need. Sally and Emma, you’re going to have the important job of making sure all the elements are there in each tin. Every single one is to be inspected and sent back if it is without so much as a single postcard. Keep in mind how our boys are feeling. They’re far from home, missing their family and friends, the food they love, and indeed the life they’re fighting for to keep us safe. These tins are home, so let’s ensure they don’t have any reason to feel disappointed at missing out on one of the items.’ Alex watched two youngsters, clearly sisters, nod, wide-eyed and serious. ‘The elements are: one block of plain chocolate; four picture postcards – the factory, Stonegate, the new Elect block and York’s famous Merchant Hall.’ Alex blinked in wonder as the list of accompaniments lengthened. She heard ‘matches’ and ‘pencil’ mentioned among sundry small items until finally Peggy’s gaze and finger-pointing fell on her. ‘. . . of course there’s the company note to be slipped between the chocolate and the tin’s lid. Nel and Miss Frobisher, that’s your job today, thank you.’

She nodded, cutting Nel a grin.

‘Sally, Emma, no need to open the lid of the chocolate and expose it to the elements again. You can feel from the weight that it’s in there and given that Nel and Miss Frobisher only have to slip the firm’s note in, I think we can feel safe that the contents for the main part of the tin is complete. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Peggy, we just check for all the other elements in the back of the tin,’ Sally confirmed.

‘Good.’ Peggy looked at the clock and as one they followed her gaze. ‘Let’s get to work, ladies.’

A bell sounded and amidst a soft gaggle of voices Alex turned to seat herself on the simple wooden stool before her counter, smoothing her ill-fitting apron but glad that it hid her clothes. She’d deliberately chosen to wear an unadorned pale grey morning dress although she couldn’t disguise its fine wool or modern cut. She’d long ago cast off her tailored coat and was happy wearing unremarkable lace-up boots that felt as old as her but remained deliciously comfy and were gleaming from polish. She was glad her mother hadn’t seen her leave early this morning; she’d have been quietly horrified at how plain her daughter appeared with her hair viciously scraped back into a neat queue that now sat between her shoulderblades. She was devoid of make-up; not so much as a smudge of her fashionable lipstick to colour the sallowness of winter. Her apron was clean, starched, and it certainly helped to make her feel integrated. She looked across to Nel for guidance as her first working day began.

‘We’ve got some tins to fill before the new load comes down the line,’ Nel said, pointing to the low stacks of gleaming tins.

Alex glanced down the line and could already see hands busy at work and tins in motion. ‘Let’s get a move on, then!’

She followed Nel’s every move, clipping open the lid, instantly inhaling the rich scent of the block of chocolate that sat so neatly within the brassy shine of the tin. She peeked below the thick, protective corrugated paper and under that a thin waxy sheet. Beneath this final layer sat the delicious food: a shiny block of chocolate divided into pieces as thick and nearly as long as a finger that could be snapped or bitten off. Each finger of chocolate was alternately engraved with Rowntree or York, and the lush aroma, almost like a fermented berry, was so rich it was as intoxicating as any liquor. Alex smiled as she inhaled, knowing this was the perfume that would scent her future.

The lid’s underside carried the Royal warrant to Rowntree and she mimicked Nel in deftly and carefully wetting a finger so she could slide off one of the firm’s notes that were to be inserted. The thick paper was waxed, translucent but printed clearly, and it slid crisply into her hand. Alex eased it over the chocolate’s wrapping and snapped the lid closed and put it into a waiting basket.

And so it went. She began to gain confidence, no longer so aware of Nel or the people surrounding her. Alex’s hands moved increasingly faster through the air as she went about her task. Even sounds faded until she was in her thoughts and only the smell of chocolate pervaded the invisible bubble that had seemed to coalesce around her. Alex was aware she was smiling as she worked; at last she was doing something for the soldiers and if it could bring them just a few minutes of release from the ugliness of their war, this made her feel useful, necessary even. Was it wrong to love this work? There were moments when she wished she could please her mother entirely by looking forward to a life of leisure: essentially being a supportive, loving wife, an affectionate and capable mother, a friend who could keep up with the latest gossip and trends. But already, after just an hour at her counter in the Rowntree’s factory, Alex could sense the shift coming over her. She could never look forward to that life of what she believed was just a step away from indolence. Perhaps that wasn’t fair. Her mother was not lazy, not even vaguely idle, but to Alex her mother’s pursuits felt hollow, bordering sometimes on pointless.

And that scared her. She did not wish to look back over the years from the perspective of older age and have regrets that she didn’t live her days on her terms. That said, Minerva Frobisher was a woman at ease in her daily duties; Alex was well aware that her mother was genuinely happy now that enough years had passed since the death of her son, and her daughter was soon to be married.

Alex sighed to herself. She must be growing up to accept that she and her mother were cast from different moulds, and could acknowledge that life was less predictable and surely a lot more interesting because of the variety of moulds. This was a notion Matthew had tossed her way only the previous evening when she’d made him understand that she couldn’t be a wife to him as her mother was a wife to her father. It was an odd remark but Matthew, as usual, seemed to follow her thoughts clearly.

‘You’ll be the wife to me that you can be and I shall be the best husband that I can be for you. At least we’re going into this arrangement – which any marriage surely is – with integrity.’

Again it was his oddly cryptic style but she’d nonetheless mentally hugged him for his response and there were moments when she wondered if he were some sort of angel in her midst to be so magnanimous and understanding.

‘What’s it like to be in love, Nel?’ she murmured.

Nel gave a soft guffaw. ‘I dunno. That’s an odd question, Miss.’

‘Alex,’ she reminded her workmate. ‘Is it? Why?’

‘It’s like . . .’ Nel frowned, looking up to the whitewashed walls for inspiration, her hands still busy. ‘Well, Miss, it’s like everyone else is going about their everyday business and unaware that you’ve stepped outside from the world they’re in. And this new world is just me and Stan, you know? Nothing else matters. I mean, I love my mum and our family but all I can think of is Stan. I even spend time thinking about what his hands look like. Even his fingernails and how neat he keeps them in spite of his oily work on the railways.’

Alex nodded.

‘Are you in love, Miss?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking someone who knows what it feels like.’

Nel chuckled. ‘Well, when you see him, do you feel like your heartbeat goes a bit wonky?’