Just A Cup Of Coffee…

Who was this gaunt but beguiling blue-eyed man who had unknowingly taken Bea’s desk?

Janet sprang to her feet. “Let me introduce you to Andrew Frost. He’s come to help us out for a few hours.”

Andrew Frost was a man of medium height, though he exuded an air of capability that made him stand out – especially with his silver-grey hair that perfectly matched his name, she thought, although he didn’t look much older than herself at fifty-three. She gave him a perfunctory smile, extending her hand.

“Beatrice Mortimer.”

His handshake was warm and firm. He glanced around. “I haven’t by any chance taken your desk, have I?” There was a sadness behind the vivid blue eyes as he looked back at her.

“You have, actually,” Bea said. “But luckily I’ve a load of filing to do so you’re fine there for an hour or so.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Allow me.” Andrew Frost went over to the window and pushed up the sash. He turned to Bea. “Can I help you with the drinks?”

“You can set the mugs out and see if there are any biscuits left since yesterday, if you like.” The words came out more brusquely than she’d intended.

He followed her into what the women fondly called the kitchen but was really a large cupboard under the stairs of the old building where an enamel sink had been installed. But with a gas ring, a couple of overhead cupboards and a wooden draining board, it worked.

There was just enough room to stand side by side, but Bea was conscious of him with her every movement. She hadn’t been this near to an attractive man in a long time. Well, not since her dearest Raymond died.

She turned her face from Andrew Frost, not wanting him to be aware that she was close to tears.

“I don’t suppose you have any coffee, do you?” he asked, hope in his eyes. “Only Camp,” she said.

“That’s fine. It’s reminiscent of coffee in a strange way. It’s been so long since I had real, I’ve almost forgotten the taste.”

“My son had an American friend who used to bring me a bag of coffee beans now and again,” Bea said, her mouth watering at the memory of the aroma that permeated the house on those occasions. “But we haven’t seen him since the war ended. I expect he’s gone back to America.”

Busying herself with the kettle, she was conscious of his shoulder almost brushing hers. She didn’t jerk away as once she might. Instead, she calmly retrieved the milk bottle one of the women had already set in a basin of cold water. She pushed her finger through the perforated cardboard disc and poured some out into the jug.

“Where would I find the biscuits?” Andrew Frost looked at her, his eyes so blue they caught her off-guard.

“Um, in a tin up in that cupboard.”

She pointed.

He opened the lid. “They’re a bit low.”