Page 48
Seated alone in the waiting room for guests, Harry had read all the printed material displayed around the room several times, feeling hungry despite his big breakfast, and no doubt because of all the images of chocolate. The colourful printed advertising material for chocolate beans and Rowntree’s pastilles and clear gums – the latter a favourite of his in his teens – held his attention. There was also a poster of the King’s Tin, depicting the delivery of the Christmas treat to the trenches, and it felt as though Tom’s spirit had not yet finished with him.
Harry glanced at his watch, irked that he was still waiting. Granted, he’d been eight minutes early so Rowntree’s was only two minutes over time but a man could die in two minutes, he amused himself grimly, as he stood and moved over to a grainy photograph. It showed dozens of women dressed in white and seated on the lawns of this factory site. A small sign explained that this was a summer picnic lunch outdoors in 1900 for the hardworking factory girls.
‘You must be Mr Blake?’ a smoky voice said behind him. He turned, expecting a bespectacled, round spinster with a clipboard, and instead was met by a tallish woman with a welcoming smile who likely wasn’t yet thirty. ‘Forgive me for being a fraction late; there were supposed to be four of you on this tour but the other three haven’t shown up at Selby Halt.’ She was shrugging off a navy coat with a purple silk lining that gave the impression of royalty; she certainly appeared regal with her straight bearing and polished manner of speaking. Harry felt his breath catch slightly as she turned fully to face him and let the warmth of that smile envelop him. The woman’s features were a match for her slender elegance; an oval symmetry of pleasing angles, from the arch of her brows to the delicate sweep of her nose. He could see the cold of being outside still pinching her cheeks and she dabbed her nose with an embroidered hanky she pulled from her sleeve. ‘And yet more apology.’ She sniffed, speaking in a tone that was all the more seductive for its soft rasp. ‘I suddenly have a ticklish throat.’ She put her coat over the back of a chair.
He grinned at the dark lock of hair that had escaped and fell past her shoulder to give her a wanton appearance. She noticed it too and he enjoyed watching her politely wrestle the hair back beneath its inadequate pins.
‘Gosh, I must look a wreck,’ she admitted, laughing at herself. Yes, her mouth was generous when she smiled and fired delight in eyes the colour of the cocoa samples beneath the cabinets in the visitor centre. He suspected in sunlight they’d blaze warm and liquid.
Helplessly captivated, he spoke the first response that came to mind. ‘That’s not the word I’d choose to describe you.’ The woman gave him a glance of amused surprise at his forwardness. Harry cleared his throat softly. ‘You know my name but I don’t know yours.’
She held out a hand. ‘Indeed, how rude of me,’ she said, still letting the warmth of her smile linger on him. ‘I’m Alexandra Britten-Jones. I shall be your guide for this afternoon.’
‘I’m staring, aren’t I?’ Harry felt his insides knot with embarrassment.
‘Well, I wasn’t going to mention it.’ She chuckled. Her manner by comparison was effortlessly easy.
‘Forgive me, you remind me of someone,’ he lied, feeling idiotic at greedily swallowing the sight of her and intensely glad he’d stayed on a few hours longer.
‘Was she windswept too?’ she jested, clicking her tongue at yet another wayward wisp of hair escaping from the other side.
Harry was surprised at the depth of his disappointment to see a wedding band on that hand.
‘Anyway, it’s just us for the VIP tour. I hope you don’t mind?’ she enquired.
‘What’s to mind? Surely the question is whether you can be troubled taking one person rather than four around?’
‘It’s my job, Mr Blake, and I enjoy it very much, whether it’s one or one dozen people. Shall we?’ she gestured, reaching for the coat. ‘You’ve left your personal belongings in one of the lockers, I presume?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Well, let’s begin here,’ she said, ushering him into a corridor to glance at cabinets of products. As she spoke of Quaker ideals and how those ideals influenced the lives of the factory’s workforce, he became increasingly mesmerised by his companion. They walked on down other hallways and through doors and it didn’t matter to Harry whether she read him the back of a cocoa tin or explained the working conditions in the factory, he was soothed by her voice and her laughing manner.
‘. . . light and spacious rooms with countryside views in what we call our multipurpose dining block. This was only built in 1913 and it can seat two thousand girls and five hundred men in their separate dining halls at one time.’
‘I can’t imagine that number of people eating at once,’ he admitted.
She grinned. ‘It’s quiet at the present time but give it an hour and you’ll be amazed at the speed at which meals are served. The Rowntree firm ensures its staff always have access to freshly cooked, quality food, and lots of fresh air at their break times too.’
‘I’m impressed,’ he mused, strolling alongside her, noting she was barely inches shorter than him, gliding on low heels.
‘The firm also provides school rooms so the younger girls can gain an education in everything from arithmetic to cookery. There’s a gymnasium, lecture halls, hothouses, swimming baths, even an orchard . . . all part of this complex.’
He gave a low whistle. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘As a guide?’
He nodded and noted the flicker of sadness in her otherwise steady gaze.
‘This is my fourth year, although you’re accompanying me on my final week, Mr Blake.’
‘You’re leaving?’
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. This is the area that was a makeshift billet for soldiers and we had wards over there. I volunteered at the Friends Hospital and that’s how I came to be working here.’
‘You’re leaving?’ he repeated.
She nodded, dark lashes hitting the tops of her cheeks before she raised her gaze to him. ‘Married women are not allowed to work here, unfortunately.’ She shrugged. ‘Company policy. They can come back on a casual basis but only alongside other married women; it’s against the rules to be with the single girls.’
