Only Time Will Tell

11

When Arthur and me got married, the occasion couldn’t have been described as pushing the boat out, but then, neither the Tancocks nor the Cliftons ever did have two brass farthings to rub together. The biggest expense turned out to be the choir, half a crown, and worth every penny. I’d always wanted to be a member of Miss Monday’s choir, and although she told me my voice was good enough, I wasn’t considered on account of the fact I couldn’t read or write.

The reception, if you could call it that, was held at Arthur’s parents’ terraced house in Still House Lane: a barrel of beer, some peanut butter sandwiches and a dozen pork pies. My brother Stan even brought his own fish and chips. And to top it all, we had to leave early to catch the last bus to Weston-super-Mare for our honeymoon. Arthur booked us into a seafront guest house on the Friday evening, and as it rained for most of the weekend, we rarely left the bedroom.

It felt strange that the second time I had sex was also in Weston-super-Mare. I was shocked when I saw Arthur naked for the first time. A deep red, roughly stitched scar stretched tight across his stomach. Damn the Germans. He never said he’d been wounded during the war.

I wasn’t surprised that Arthur became aroused the moment I pulled off my slip, but I must admit I’d expected him to take his boots off before we made love.

We checked out of the guest house on Sunday afternoon and caught the last bus back to Bristol, as Arthur had to report to the dockyard by six o’clock on Monday morning.

After the wedding, Arthur moved into our house – just until we could afford a place of our own, he told my father, which usually meant until one of our parents passed away. In any case, both our families had lived on Still House Lane for as long as anyone could remember.

Arthur was delighted when I told him I was in the family way, because he wanted at least six babies. My worry was whether the first would be his, but, as only my mum and I knew the truth, there was no reason for Arthur to be suspicious.

Eight months later I gave birth to a boy, and thank God there was nothing to suggest that he wasn’t Arthur’s. We christened him Harold, which pleased my father, because it meant his name would survive for another generation.

From then on, I took it for granted that, like Mum and Gran, I would be stuck at home having a baby every other year. After all, Arthur came from a family of eight, and I was the fourth of five. But Harry turned out to be my only child.

Arthur usually came straight home after work of an evening so he could spend some time with the baby before I put him to bed. When he didn’t turn up that Friday night, I assumed he’d gone off to the pub with my brother. But when Stan staggered in just after midnight, blind drunk and flashing a wad of fivers, Arthur was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Stan gave me one of the fivers, which made me wonder if he’d robbed a bank. But when I asked him where Arthur was, he clammed up.

I didn’t go to bed that night, just sat on the bottom step of the stairs waiting for my husband to come home. Arthur had never stayed out all night from the day we was married.

Although Stan had sobered up by the time he came down to the kitchen the following morning, he didn’t say a word during breakfast. When I asked him again where Arthur was, he claimed he hadn’t seen him since they’d clocked off work the previous evening. It’s not difficult to tell when Stan’s lying, because he won’t look you in the eye. I was about to press him further when I heard a loud banging on the front door. My first thought was that it must be Arthur, so I rushed to answer it.

When I opened the door, two policemen burst into the house, ran into the kitchen, grabbed Stan, handcuffed him and told him he was being arrested for burglary. Now I knew where the wad of fivers had come from.

‘I didn’t steal anything,’ protested Stan. ‘Mr Barrington gave me the money.’

‘A likely story, Tancock,’ said the first copper.

‘But it’s the God’s honest truth, officer,’ he was saying as they dragged him off to the nick. This time I knew Stan wasn’t lying.

I left Harry with my mum and ran all the way to the dockyard, hoping to find that Arthur had reported for the morning shift and would be able to tell me why Stan had been arrested. I tried not to think about the possibility that Arthur might also be locked up.

The man on the gate told me he hadn’t seen Arthur all morning. But after he checked the rota, he looked puzzled, because Arthur hadn’t clocked off the night before. All he had to say was, ‘Don’t blame me. I wasn’t on the gate last night.’

It was only later that I wondered why he’d used the word ‘blame’.

I went into the dockyard and asked some of Arthur’s mates, but they all parroted the same line. ‘Haven’t seen him since he clocked off last night.’ Then they quickly walked away. I was about to go off to the nick to see if Arthur had been arrested as well, when I saw an old man going past, head bowed.

I chased after him, quite expecting him to tell me to bugger off or claim he didn’t know what I was talking about. But when I approached, he stopped, took off his cap and said, ‘Good morning.’ I was surprised by his good manners, which gave me the confidence to ask him if he’d seen Arthur that morning.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I last saw him yesterday afternoon when he was on the late shift with your brother. Perhaps you should ask him.’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘He’s been arrested and taken off to the nick.’

‘What have they charged him with?’ asked Old Jack, looking puzzled.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

Old Jack shook his head. ‘I can’t help you, Mrs Clifton,’ he said. ‘But there are at least two people who know the whole story.’ He nodded towards the large red-brick building that Arthur always called ‘management’.

I shivered when I saw a policeman coming out of the front door of the building, and when I looked back, Old Jack had disappeared.

I thought about going into ‘management’, or Barrington House, to give it its proper name, but decided against it. After all, what would I say if I came face to face with Arthur’s boss? In the end I began to walk aimlessly back home, trying to make sense of things.

I watched Hugo Barrington when he gave his evidence. The same self-confidence, the same arrogance, the same half-truths spouted convincingly to the jury, just as he’d whispered them to me in the privacy of the bedroom. When he stepped down from the witness box, I knew Stan didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting off.

In the judge’s summing-up, he described my brother as a common thief, who had taken advantage of his position to rob his employer. He ended by saying he had no choice but to send him down for three years.

I had sat through every day of the trial, hoping to pick up some snippet of information that might give me a clue as to what had happened to Arthur that day. But by the time the judge finally declared, ‘Court adjourned,’ I was none the wiser, although I was in no doubt that my brother wasn’t telling the whole story. It would be some time before I found out why.

The only other person who attended the court every day was Old Jack Tar, but we didn’t speak. In fact, I might never have seen him again if it hadn’t been for Harry.

It was some time before I was able to accept that Arthur would never be coming home.

Stan had only been away for a few days before I discovered the true meaning of the words ‘eke out’. With one of the two breadwinners in the family banged up, and the other God knows where, we soon found ourselves quite literally on the bread-line. Luckily there was an unwritten code that operated in Still House Lane: if someone was ‘away on holiday’, the neighbours did whatever they could to help support his family.

The Reverend Watts dropped in regularly, and even returned some of the coins we’d put in his collection plate over the years. Miss Monday appeared irregularly and dispensed far more than good advice, always leaving with an empty basket. But nothing could compensate me for the loss of a husband, an innocent brother locked up in jail, and a son who no longer had a father.

Harry had recently taken his first step, but I was already fearful of hearing his first word. Would he even remember who used to sit at the head of the table, and ask why he was no longer there? It was Grandpa who came up with a solution as to what we should say if Harry started to ask questions. We all made a pact to stick to the same story; after all, Harry was hardly likely to come across Old Jack.

But at that time the Tancock family’s most pressing problem was how to keep the wolf from our door, or, more important, the rent collector and the bailiff. Once I’d spent Stan’s five pounds, pawned my mum’s silver-plated tea strainer, my engagement ring and finally my wedding ring, I feared it couldn’t be long before we were evicted.

But that was delayed for a few weeks by another knock on the door. This time it wasn’t the police, but a man called Mr Sparks, who told me he was Arthur’s trade union representative, and that he’d come to see if I’d had any compensation from the company.

Once I’d settled Mr Sparks down in the kitchen and poured him a cup of tea, I told him, ‘Not a brass farthing. They say he left without giving notice, so they aren’t responsible for his actions. And I still don’t know what really happened that day.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘They’ve all clammed up, not just the management, but the workers as well. I can’t get a word out of them. “More than my life’s worth,” one of them told me. But your husband’s subs were fully paid up,’ he added, ‘so you’re entitled to union compensation.’

I just stood there, with no idea what he was going on about.

Mr Sparks took a document out of his briefcase, placed it on the kitchen table and turned to the back page.

‘Sign here,’ he said placing a forefinger on the dotted line.

After I had put an X where he was pointing, he took an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I’m sorry it’s so little,’ he said as he handed it to me.

I didn’t open the envelope until he had finished his cup of tea and left.

Seven pounds, nine shillings and sixpence turned out to be the value they’d put on Arthur’s life. I sat alone at the kitchen table, and I think that was the moment I knew I’d never see my husband again.

That afternoon I went back to the pawn shop and redeemed my wedding ring from Mr Cohen; it was the least I could do in memory of Arthur. The following morning I cleared the rent arrears, as well as the slate at the butcher, the baker and yes, the candlestick maker. There was just enough left over to buy some second-hand clothes from the church jumble sale, mostly for Harry.

But it was less than a month before the chalk was once again scratching across the slate at the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, and it wasn’t long after that I had to return to the pawn shop and hand my wedding ring back to Mr Cohen.

When the rent collector came knocking on the door of number 27 and never received a reply, I suppose none of the family should have been surprised that the next caller would be the bailiff. That was when I decided the time had come for me to look for a job.

12

MAISIE’S ATTEMPTS to find a job didn’t turn out to be easy, not least because the government had recently issued a directive to all employers advising them to take on men who had served in the armed forces before considering any other candidates. This was in keeping with Lloyd George’s promise that Britain’s soldiers would return home to a land fit for heroes.

Although women over thirty had been given the vote at the last election after their sterling service in munitions factories during the war, they were pushed to the back of the queue when it came to peacetime jobs. Maisie decided that her best chance of finding employment was to apply for jobs men wouldn’t consider, either because they felt they were too demeaning, or the pay was derisory. With that in mind, Maisie stood in line outside W.D. & H.O. Wills, the city’s largest employer. When she reached the front of the queue, she asked the supervisor, ‘Is it true you’re looking for packers in the cigarette factory?’

‘Yes, but you’re too young, luv,’ he told her.

‘I’m twenty-two.’

‘You’re too young,’ he repeated. ‘Come back in two or three years’ time.’

Maisie was back at Still House Lane in time to share a bowl of chicken broth and a slice of last week’s bread with Harry and her mum.

The next day, she joined an even longer queue outside Harvey’s, the wine merchants. When she reached the front, three hours later, she was told by a man wearing a starched white collar and a thin black tie that they were only taking on applicants with experience.

‘So how do I get experience?’ Maisie asked, trying not to sound desperate.

‘By joining our apprentice scheme.’

‘Then I’ll join,’ she told the starched collar.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘You’re too old.’

Maisie repeated every word of the sixty-second interview to her mother over a thinner bowl of broth from the same pot along with a crust of bread from the same loaf.

‘You could always try the docks,’ her mother suggested.

‘What do you have in mind, Mum? Should I sign up to be a stevedore?’

Maisie’s mum didn’t laugh, but then Maisie couldn’t remember the last time she had. ‘They’ve always got work for cleaners,’ she said. ‘And God knows that lot owe you.’

Maisie was up and dressed long before the sun had risen the following morning and, as there wasn’t enough breakfast to go round, she set out hungry on the long walk to the docks.

When she arrived, Maisie told the man on the gate she was looking for a cleaning job.

‘Report to Mrs Nettles,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the large red-brick building she’d so nearly entered once before. ‘She’s in charge of hirin’ and firin’ cleaners.’ He clearly didn’t remember her from her previous visit.

Maisie walked uneasily towards the building, but came to a halt a few paces before she reached the front door. She stood and watched as a succession of smartly dressed men wearing hats and coats and carrying umbrellas made their way through the double doors.

Maisie remained rooted to the spot, shivering in the cold morning air as she tried to find enough courage to follow them inside. She was just about to turn away when she spotted an older woman in overalls entering another door, at the side of the building. Maisie chased after her.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman suspiciously once Maisie had caught up with her.

‘I’m lookin’ for a job.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘We could do with some young ’uns. Report to Mrs Nettles,’ she added, pointing towards a narrow door that might have been mistaken for a broom cupboard. Maisie walked boldly up to it and knocked.

‘Come on in,’ said a tired voice.

Maisie opened the door to find a woman of about her mother’s age sitting on the only chair, surrounded by buckets, mops and several large bars of soap.

‘I was told to report to you if I was lookin’ for a job.’

‘You was told right. That’s if you’re willing to work all the hours God gives, for damn all pay.’

‘What are the hours, and what’s the pay?’ asked Maisie.

‘You start at three in the morning, and you have to be off the premises by seven, before their nibs turns up, when they expect to find their offices spick and span. Or you can start at seven of an evening and work through till midnight, whichever suits you. Pay’s the same whatever you decide, sixpence an hour.’

‘I’ll do both shifts,’ said Maisie.

‘Good,’ the woman said, selecting a bucket and mop. ‘I’ll see you back here at seven this evenin’, when I’ll show you the ropes. My name’s Vera Nettles. What’s yours?’

‘Maisie Clifton.’

Mrs Nettles dropped the bucket on the floor and propped the mop back up against the wall. She walked across to the door and opened it. ‘There’s no work for you here, Mrs Clifton,’ she said.

Over the next month, Maisie tried to get a job in a shoe shop, but the manager didn’t feel he could employ someone with holes in her shoes; a milliner’s, where the interview was terminated the moment they discovered she couldn’t add up; and a flower shop, which wouldn’t consider taking on anyone who didn’t have their own garden. Grandpa’s allotment didn’t count. In desperation, she applied for a job as a barmaid in a local pub, but the landlord said, ‘Sorry, luv, but your tits aren’t big enough.’

The following Sunday at Holy Nativity, Maisie knelt and asked God to give her a helping hand.

That hand turned out to be Miss Monday’s, who told Maisie she had a friend who owned a tea shop on Broad Street and was looking for a waitress.

‘But I don’t have any experience,’ said Maisie.

‘That may well prove to be an advantage,’ said Miss Monday. ‘Miss Tilly is most particular, and prefers to train her staff in her own way.’

‘Perhaps she’ll think I’m too old, or too young.’

‘You are neither too old nor too young,’ said Miss Monday. ‘And be assured, I wouldn’t recommend you if I didn’t think you were up to it. But I must warn you, Maisie, that Miss Tilly is a stickler for time-keeping. Be at the tea shop before eight o’clock tomorrow. If you’re late, that will not only be the first impression you make, but also the last.’

Maisie was standing outside Tilly’s Tea Shop at six o’clock the following morning, and didn’t budge for the next two hours. At five minutes to eight a plump, middle-aged, smartly dressed woman, with her hair arranged in a neat bun and a pair of half-moon spectacles propped on the end of her nose, turned the ‘closed’ sign on the door to ‘open’, to allow a frozen Maisie to step inside.

‘You’ve got the job, Mrs Clifton,’ were her new boss’s first words.

Harry was left in the care of his grandmother whenever Maisie went to work. Although she was only paid nine pence an hour, she was allowed to keep half her tips, so that at the end of a good week she could take home as much as three pounds. There was also an unexpected bonus. Once the ‘open’ sign had been turned back to ‘closed’ at six o’clock in the evening, Miss Tilly would allow Maisie to take home any food that was left over. The word ‘stale’ was never allowed to cross a customer’s lips.

After six months, Miss Tilly was so pleased with Maisie’s progress that she put her in charge of her own station of eight tables, and after another six months, several regulars would insist that Maisie served them. Miss Tilly solved the problem by increasing Maisie’s allocation of tables to twelve, and raising her pay to a shilling an hour. With two pay packets coming in each week, Maisie was once again able to wear both her engagement ring and her wedding ring, and the silver-plated tea strainer was back in its place.

If Maisie was honest about it, Stan being released from prison for good behaviour after only eighteen months turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing.

Harry, now aged three and a half, had to move back into his mother’s room, and Maisie tried not to think about just how peaceful it had been while Stan was away.

Maisie was surprised when Stan got his old job back at the docks as if nothing had happened. This only convinced her that he knew far more about Arthur’s disappearance than he let on, however much she pressed him. On one occasion when she became a little too persistent, he belted her one. Although, the following morning, Miss Tilly pretended not to notice the black eye, one or two of the customers did, so Maisie never raised the subject with her brother again. But whenever Harry asked him about his father, Stan stuck to the family line and said, ‘Your old man was killed in the war. I was standin’ by his side when the bullet hit him.’

Maisie spent as much of her spare time with Harry as she could. She assumed that once he was old enough to attend Merrywood Elementary School, her life would become a lot easier. But taking Harry to school in the morning meant the added expense of a tram ride to make sure she was not late for work. She would then take a break in the afternoon so she could pick him up from school. Once Maisie had given him his tea, she would leave him in the care of his grandma and return to work.

Harry had only been at school for a few days when Maisie noticed some cane marks on his backside while she was giving him his weekly bath.

‘Who did that?’ she demanded.

‘The headmaster.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t tell you, Mum.’

When Maisie saw six new red stripes even before the previous ones had faded, she questioned Harry again, but still he didn’t let on. The third time the marks appeared, she put on her coat and set off for Merrywood Elementary with the intention of giving his teacher a piece of her mind.

Mr Holcombe wasn’t at all what Maisie had expected. To start with, he couldn’t have been much older than she was, and he stood up when she entered the room – not at all like the teachers she remembered from her days at Merrywood.

‘Why is my son being caned by the headmaster?’ she demanded, even before Mr Holcombe had a chance to offer her a seat.

‘Because he keeps playing truant, Mrs Clifton. He disappears soon after morning assembly, and gets back in time for football in the afternoon.’

‘So where is he spending the day?’

‘At the docks would be my guess,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell me why.’

‘Because his uncle works there, and he’s always telling Harry that school is a waste of time because sooner or later he’ll end up joining him at Barrington’s.’

‘I hope not,’ said Mr Holcombe.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Maisie. ‘It was good enough for his father.’

‘That may well be, but it won’t be good enough for Harry.’

‘What do you mean?’ Maisie asked indignantly.

‘Harry is bright, Mrs Clifton. Very bright. If only I could persuade him to attend class more regularly, there’s no saying what he might achieve.’

Maisie suddenly wondered if she would ever find out which of the two men was Harry’s father.

‘Some clever children don’t discover how bright they are until after they’ve left school,’ continued Mr Holcombe, ‘and then spend the rest of their lives regretting the wasted years. I want to make sure Harry does not fall into that category.’

‘What would you like me to do?’ asked Maisie, finally sitting down.

‘Encourage him to stay at school, and not slope off to the docks every day. Tell him how proud you’d be if he did well in class, and not only on the football field – which, just in case you didn’t realize, Mrs Clifton, isn’t his forte.’

‘His forte?’

‘I do apologize. But even Harry must have worked out by now that he’s never going to make the school XI, let alone play for Bristol City.’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help,’ promised Maisie.

‘Thank you, Mrs Clifton,’ said Mr Holcombe as Maisie rose to leave. ‘If you felt able to encourage him, I’ve no doubt it will be far more effective in the long term than the headmaster’s cane.’

From that day, Maisie began to take a far greater interest in what Harry got up to at school. She enjoyed listening to his stories about Mr Holcombe and what he’d taught him that day, and as the stripes didn’t reappear, she assumed he must have stopped playing truant. And then one night just before going to bed, she checked on the sleeping child and found that the stripes were back, redder and deeper than before. She didn’t need to go and see Mr Holcombe, because he called in at the tea shop the following day.

‘He managed to come to my class for a whole month,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘and then he disappeared again.’

‘But I don’t know what more I can do,’ said Maisie helplessly. ‘I’ve already stopped his pocket money, and told him not to expect another penny from me unless he stays at school. The truth is, his uncle Stan has far more influence over him than I do.’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘But I may have found a solution to our problem, Mrs Clifton. However, it has no chance of succeeding without your full cooperation.’

Maisie assumed that although she was only twenty-six, she would never marry again. After all, widows with a child in tow were not much of a catch when there were so many single women available. The fact that she always wore her engagement and wedding rings probably cut down the number of propositions she received at the tea shop, although one or two still tried it on. She didn’t include dear old Mr Craddick, who just liked to hold her hand.

Mr Atkins was one of Miss Tilly’s regulars, and he liked to sit at one of the tables where Maisie was serving. He dropped in most mornings, always ordering a black coffee and a piece of fruit cake. To Maisie’s surprise, after he’d paid his bill one morning, he invited her to the cinema.

‘Greta Garbo in Flesh and the Devil,’ he said, trying to make it sound more tempting.

This wasn’t the first time one of the customers had asked Maisie out, but it was the first time someone young and good-looking had shown any interest.

In the past, her stock response had succeeded in putting off the most persistent of suitors. ‘How kind of you, Mr Atkins, but I like to spend any spare time I have with my son.’

‘Surely you could make an exception for just one evening?’ he said, not giving up quite as easily as the others.

Maisie glanced quickly at his left hand: no sign of a wedding ring, or, even more damning, a pale circle revealing that one had been removed.

She heard herself saying, ‘How kind of you, Mr Atkins,’ and agreed to meet him on Thursday evening, after she’d put Harry to bed.

‘Call me Eddie,’ he said, leaving a sixpenny tip.

Maisie was impressed when Eddie turned up in a Flatnose Morris to drive her to the cinema. And to her surprise, all he got up to while they sat together in the back row was to watch the film. She wouldn’t have complained if he had put an arm around her shoulder. In fact, she was considering how far she would let him go on their first date.

After the curtain came down, the organ lit up and they all rose to sing the National Anthem.

‘Care for a drink?’ asked Eddie as they made their way out of the cinema.

‘I ought to be getting home before the trams pack up for the night.’

‘You don’t have to worry about the last tram, Maisie, when you’re with Eddie Atkins.’

‘All right then, just a quick one,’ she said as he guided her across the road to the Red Bull.

‘So what do you do, Eddie?’ Maisie asked as he placed a half pint of orange squash on the table in front of her.

‘I’m in the entertainment business,’ he said, without going into any detail. Instead, he switched the subject back to Maisie. ‘I don’t have to ask what you do.’

After a second orange juice, he looked at his watch and said, ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so I’d better get you home.’

On the way back to Still House Lane, Maisie chatted about Harry, and how she was hoping he would join the choir at Holy Nativity. Eddie seemed genuinely interested, and when he brought the car to a halt outside No. 27, she waited for him to kiss her. But he just jumped out, opened the car door for her and accompanied Maisie to her front door.

Maisie sat at the kitchen table and told her mother everything that had happened, or not happened, that night. All Grandma had to say was, ‘What’s his game?’

13

WHEN MAISIE SAW Mr Holcombe walk into Holy Nativity accompanied by a smartly dressed man, she assumed that Harry must be in trouble again. She was surprised, because there hadn’t been any red marks for over a year.

She braced herself as Mr Holcombe headed towards her, but the moment he saw Maisie he simply gave her a shy smile before he and his companion slipped into the third pew on the other side of the aisle.

From time to time, Maisie glanced across to look at them, but she didn’t recognize the other man, who was considerably older than Mr Holcombe. She wondered if he might be the headmaster of Merrywood Elementary.

When the choir rose to sing the first anthem, Miss Monday glanced in the direction of the two men, before nodding to the organist to show that she was ready.

Maisie felt that Harry excelled himself that morning, but she was surprised when a few minutes later he rose to sing a second solo, and even more surprised when he performed a third. Everyone knew that Miss Monday never did anything unless there was a reason, but it still wasn’t clear to Maisie what that reason might be.

After the Reverend Watts had blessed his flock at the end of the service, Maisie remained in her place and waited for Harry to appear, hoping he’d be able to tell her why he’d been asked to sing three solos. As she chatted anxiously to her mother, her eyes never left Mr Holcombe, who was introducing the older man to Miss Monday and the Reverend Watts.

A moment later, the Reverend Watts led the two men into the vestry. Miss Monday marched down the aisle towards Maisie, a resolute look on her face, which every parishioner knew meant she was on a mission. ‘Can I have a private word with you, Mrs Clifton?’ she asked.

She didn’t give Maisie a chance to reply, but simply turned and walked back down the aisle towards the vestry.

Eddie Atkins hadn’t shown his face in Tilly’s for over a month, but then one morning he reappeared and took his usual seat at one of Maisie’s tables. When she came over to serve him, he gave her a huge smile, as if he’d never been away.

‘Good morning, Mr Atkins,’ Maisie said as she opened her notepad. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘My usual,’ said Eddie.

‘It’s been so long, Mr Atkins,’ said Maisie. ‘You’ll have to remind me.’

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, Maisie,’ said Eddie, ‘but I had to go to America at rather short notice, and I only got back last night.’

She wanted to believe him. Maisie had already admitted to her mother that she was a little disappointed she hadn’t heard from Eddie after he’d taken her to the cinema. She’d enjoyed his company and felt the evening had gone rather well.

Another man had started visiting the tea shop regularly, and like Eddie he would only sit at one of Maisie’s tables. Although she couldn’t help noticing that he was showing considerable interest in her, she didn’t give him any encouragement, because not only was he middle-aged but he was also wearing a wedding ring. He had a detached air about him, like a solicitor who is studying a client, and whenever he spoke to her he sounded a little pompous. Maisie could hear her mother asking, ‘What’s his game?’ But perhaps she’d misunderstood his intentions, because he never once tried to strike up a conversation with her.

Even Maisie couldn’t resist a grin when, a week later, both of her suitors dropped in for a coffee on the same morning, and both asked if they could meet up with her later.

Eddie was first, and he got straight to the point. ‘Why don’t I pick you up after work this evening, Maisie? There’s something I’m rather keen to show you.’

Maisie wanted to tell him she already had a date, just to make him realize she wasn’t available whenever it suited him, but when she returned to his table a few minutes later with his bill, she found herself saying, ‘I’ll see you after work then, Eddie.’

She still had a smile on her face when the other customer said, ‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Mrs Clifton?’

Maisie wondered how he knew her name.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to speak to the manageress, Mr…?’

‘Frampton,’ he replied. ‘No, thank you, it’s you I was hoping to speak to. Might I suggest we meet at the Royal Hotel during your afternoon break? It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes of your time.’

‘Talk about buses never turning up when you need one,’ Maisie said to Miss Tilly, ‘and then two arrive at once.’ Miss Tilly told Maisie she thought she recognized Mr Frampton, but couldn’t place him.

When Maisie presented Mr Frampton with his bill, she emphasized that she could only spare fifteen minutes because she had to be on time to pick up her son from school at four o’clock. He nodded as if that was something else he was aware of.

Was it really in Harry’s best interests to apply for a scholarship to St Bede’s?

Maisie wasn’t sure who to discuss the problem with. Stan was bound to be against the idea, and wasn’t likely to consider the other side of the argument. Miss Tilly was too close a friend of Miss Monday’s to give a dispassionate view, and the Reverend Watts had already advised her to seek the Lord’s guidance, which hadn’t proved particularly reliable in the past. Mr Frobisher had seemed such a nice man, but he’d made it clear that only she could make the final decision. Mr Holcombe hadn’t left her in any doubt how he felt.

Maisie didn’t give Mr Frampton another thought until she’d finished serving her last customer. She then exchanged a pinafore for her old coat.

Miss Tilly watched through the window as Maisie set off in the direction of the Royal Hotel. She felt a little anxious, but wasn’t sure why.

Although Maisie had never been in the Royal before, she knew it had the reputation of being one of the best-run hotels in the West Country, and the chance to see it from the inside was one of the reasons she’d agreed to see Mr Frampton.

She stood on the opposite pavement and watched as customers pushed their way through the revolving doors. She’d never seen anything quite like them, and only when she felt confident she’d got the hang of how they worked did she cross the road and step inside. She pushed a little too hard and found herself propelled into the foyer more quickly than she’d anticipated.

Maisie looked around and spotted Mr Frampton sitting alone in a quiet alcove in the corner of the foyer. She walked across to join him. He immediately rose from his place, shook hands with her, and waited until she had taken the seat opposite him.

‘Can I order you a coffee, Mrs Clifton?’ he asked, and before she could reply he added, ‘I should warn you, it’s not in the same class as Tilly’s.’

‘No, thank you, Mr Frampton,’ said Maisie, whose only interest was to find out why he wanted to see her.

Mr Frampton took his time lighting a cigarette, then inhaled deeply. ‘Mrs Clifton,’ he began as he placed the cigarette on the ashtray, ‘you cannot have failed to notice that I have recently become a regular customer at Tilly’s.’ Maisie nodded. ‘I have to confess that my only reason for visiting the café was you.’ Maisie had her well-prepared ‘amorous suitor’ line ready for just as soon as he stopped talking. ‘In all the years I’ve been in the hotel trade,’ he continued, ‘I’ve never seen anyone do their job more efficiently than you. I only wish that every waitress in this hotel was of your calibre.’

‘I’ve been well trained,’ said Maisie.

‘So have the other four waitresses in that tea shop, but none of them has your flair.’

‘I’m flattered, Mr Frampton. But why are you telling-’

‘I am the general manager of this hotel,’ he said, ‘and I’d like you to take charge of our coffee room, which is known as the Palm Court. As you can see – ’ he waved a hand expansively – ‘we have about a hundred covers, but less than a third of the places are regularly occupied. That’s not exactly a worthwhile return on the company’s investment. No doubt that would change if you were to take over. I believe I can make it worth your while.’

Maisie didn’t interrupt him.

‘I can’t see why your hours should differ greatly from those of your current employment. I’d be willing to pay you five pounds a week, and all the tips earned by the waitresses in the Palm Court would be split fifty-fifty with you. If you were able to build up the clientele, that could prove very remunerative. And then I-’

‘But I couldn’t think of leaving Miss Tilly,’ interrupted Maisie. ‘She’s been so good to me over the past six years.’

‘I fully appreciate your feelings, Mrs Clifton. Indeed, I would have been disappointed if that had not been your immediate response. Loyalty is a trait I greatly admire. However, you must not only consider your own future, but also your son’s, should he take up the offer of a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.’

Maisie was speechless.

When Maisie finished work that evening, she found Eddie sitting in his car outside the tea shop waiting for her. She noticed that he didn’t jump out to open the passenger door this time.

‘So, where are you taking me?’ she asked as she climbed in beside him.

‘It’s a surprise,’ said Eddie as he pressed the starter, ‘but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’

He pushed the gear lever into first, and headed towards a part of the city that Maisie hadn’t visited before. A few minutes later, he drove into a side alley and came to a halt outside a large oak door below a neon sign that announced in glowing red letters, EDDIE’S NIGHTCLUB.

‘This is yours?’ asked Maisie.

‘Every square inch,’ said Eddie proudly. ‘Come inside and see for yourself.’ He leapt out of the car, opened the front door and led Maisie inside. ‘This used to be a granary,’ he explained as he took her down a narrow wooden staircase. ‘But now that ships can no longer sail this far up the river, the company’s had to move, so I was able to pick up their lease for a very reasonable price.’

Maisie entered a large, dimly lit room. It was some time before her eyes had adjusted well enough to take it all in. There were half a dozen men sitting on high leather stools drinking at the bar, and almost as many waitresses fluttering around them. The wall behind the bar consisted of a vast mirror, giving the impression the room was far larger than it actually was. At the centre was a dance floor, surrounded by plush velvet banquettes that would just about seat two people. At the far end was a small stage with a piano, double bass, a set of drums and several music stands.

Eddie took a seat at the bar. Looking around the room he said, ‘This is why I’ve been spending so much time in America. Speakeasies like this are springing up all over New York and Chicago, and they’re making a fortune.’ He lit a cigar. ‘And I promise you, there won’t be anything else like this in Bristol, that’s for sure.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Maisie repeated as she joined him at the bar, but didn’t attempt to climb up on to one of the high stools.

‘What’s your poison, doll?’ said Eddie, in what he imagined to be an American accent.

‘I don’t drink,’ Maisie reminded him.

‘That’s one of the reasons I chose you.’

‘Chose me?’

‘Sure. You’d be the ideal person to take charge of the cocktail waitresses. Not only would I pay you six pounds a week, but if the place takes off, the tips alone would be more than you could ever hope to earn at Tilly’s.’

‘And would I be expected to dress like that?’ asked Maisie, pointing to one of the waitresses who was wearing an off-the-shoulder red blouse and a tight-fitting black skirt that barely covered her knees. It amused Maisie that they were the same colours as the St Bede’s uniform.

‘Why not? You’re a great-lookin’ broad, and the punters will pay good money to be served by someone like you. You’ll get the odd proposition, of course, but I feel sure you can handle that.’

‘What’s the point of a dance floor if it’s a men-only club?’

‘Another idea I picked up from the States,’ said Eddie. ‘If you want to dance with one of the cocktail waitresses, it’ll cost you.’

‘And what else does that cost include?’

‘That’s up to them,’ said Eddie with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘So long as it doesn’t take place on the premises, nothing to do with me,’ he added, laughing a little too loudly. Maisie didn’t laugh. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked.

‘I think I’d better be getting home,’ said Maisie. ‘I didn’t have time to let Harry know I’d be late.’

‘Whatever you say, honey,’ said Eddie. He draped an arm around her shoulder and led her out of the bar and back up the stairs.

As he drove her to Still House Lane, he told Maisie about his plans for the future. ‘I’ve already got my eye on a second site,’ he said excitedly, ‘so the sky’s the limit.’

‘The sky’s the limit,’ Maisie repeated, as they drew up outside No. 27.

Maisie jumped out of the car and walked quickly to the front door.

‘So will you need a few days to think it over?’ said Eddie, chasing after her.

‘No, thank you, Eddie,’ said Maisie without hesitation. ‘I’ve already made up my mind,’ she added, taking a key out of her handbag.

Eddie grinned and put an arm around her. ‘I didn’t think it would be a difficult decision for you to make.’

Maisie removed the arm, smiled sweetly and said, ‘It’s kind of you to consider me, honey, but I think I’ll stick to serving coffee.’ She opened her front door before adding, ‘But thanks for asking.’

‘Anything you say, doll, but if you change your mind, my door is always open.’

Maisie closed the door behind her.

14

MAISIE FINALLY SETTLED ON the one person she felt she could seek advice from. She decided to turn up at the docks unannounced and hope he’d be around when she knocked on his door.

She didn’t tell either Stan or Harry who she was visiting. One of them would try to stop her, while the other would feel she’d betrayed a confidence.

Maisie waited until her day off, and once she had dropped Harry at school, she took a tram to the dockyard. She had chosen her time carefully: late morning, when he was still likely to be in his office, while Stan would be fully occupied loading or unloading cargo at the other end of the dock.

Maisie told the man on the gate that she’d come to apply for a job as a cleaner. He pointed indifferently towards the redbrick building and still didn’t remember her.

As she walked towards Barrington House, Maisie looked up at the windows on the fifth floor and wondered which office was his. She recalled her encounter with Mrs Nettles, and the way she had been shown the door the moment she mentioned her name. Now Maisie not only had a job she enjoyed and where she was respected, but she’d had two other offers in the past few days. She didn’t give Mrs Nettles another thought as she walked straight past the building and continued along the quayside.

Maisie didn’t slacken her pace until she could see his home. She found it hard to believe that anyone could possibly live in a railway carriage, and began to wonder if she’d made a dreadful mistake. Had Harry’s stories of a dining room, a bedroom and even a library, been exaggerated? ‘You can’t stop now you’ve come this far, Maisie Clifton,’ she told herself, and knocked boldly on the carriage door.

‘Come in, Mrs Clifton,’ said a gentle voice.

Maisie opened the door to find an old man sitting in a comfortable seat, with books and other possessions scattered around him. She was surprised how clean the carriage was, and realized that, despite Stan’s claims, it was she, and not Old Jack, who lived in third class. Stan had perpetuated a myth that had been ignored when viewed through the eyes of an unprejudiced child.

Old Jack immediately rose from his place and beckoned her towards the seat opposite. ‘You’ll have come to see me about young Harry, no doubt.’

‘Yes, Mr Tar,’ she replied.

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You can’t make up your mind whether he should go to St Bede’s, or remain at Merrywood Elementary.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’ asked Maisie.

‘Because I’ve been considering the same problem for the past month,’ said Old Jack.

‘So what do you think he should do?’

‘I think that despite the many difficulties he will undoubtedly face at St Bede’s, if he doesn’t take this opportunity, he could well spend the rest of his life regretting it.’

‘Perhaps he won’t win a scholarship and the decision will be taken out of our hands.’

‘The decision was taken out of our hands,’ said Old Jack, ‘the moment Mr Frobisher heard young Harry sing. But I have a feeling that wasn’t the only reason you came to see me.’

Maisie was beginning to understand why Harry admired this man so much. ‘You’re quite right, Mr Tar, I need your advice on another matter.’

‘Your son calls me Jack, except when he’s cross with me, then he calls me Old Jack.’

Maisie smiled. ‘I’ve been worried that even if he did win a scholarship, I wasn’t earning enough for Harry to have all the little extras that the other boys at a school like St Bede’s take for granted. But fortunately I’ve just been offered another job, which would mean more money.’

‘And you’re worried about how Miss Tilly will react when you tell her you’re thinking of leaving?’

‘You know Miss Tilly?’

‘No, but Harry has spoken of her many times. She’s clearly from the same mould as Miss Monday, and let me assure you, that’s a limited edition. There’s no need for you to concern yourself.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Maisie.

‘Allow me to explain,’ said Old Jack. ‘Miss Monday has already invested a great deal of her time and expertise in making sure that Harry not only wins a scholarship to St Bede’s but, far more important, goes on to prove himself worthy of it. My bet is that she will have discussed every possible eventuality with her closest friend, who just happens to be Miss Tilly. So when you tell her about the new job, you may well find it doesn’t come as a complete surprise.’

‘Thank you, Jack,’ said Maisie. ‘How lucky Harry is to have you as a friend. The father he never knew,’ she said softly.

‘That is the nicest compliment I’ve received for a good many years,’ said Old Jack. ‘I’m only sorry that he lost his father in such tragic circumstances.’

‘Do you know how my husband died?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied Old Jack. Aware that he should never had raised the subject, he quickly added, ‘But only because Harry told me.’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Maisie anxiously.

‘That his father was killed in the war.’

‘But you know that’s not true,’ said Maisie.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Old Jack. ‘And I suspect Harry also knows his father couldn’t have died in the war.’

‘Then why doesn’t he say so?’

‘He probably thinks there’s something you don’t want to tell him.’

‘But I don’t know the truth myself,’ admitted Maisie.

Old Jack didn’t comment.

Maisie walked slowly home; one question answered, another still unresolved. Even so, she wasn’t in any doubt that Old Jack could be added to the list of people who knew the truth about what had happened to her husband.

Old Jack turned out to be right about Miss Tilly, because when Maisie told her about Mr Frampton’s offer, she couldn’t have been more supportive and understanding.

‘We’ll all miss you,’ she said, ‘and frankly the Royal is lucky to have you.’

‘How can I begin to thank you for all you’ve done for me over the years?’ said Maisie.

‘It’s Harry who should be thanking you,’ said Miss Tilly, ‘and I suspect it will only be a matter of time before he realizes that.’

Maisie started her new job a month later, and it didn’t take her long to discover why the Palm Court was never more than a third full.

The waitresses regarded their work simply as a job, unlike Miss Tilly, who considered it to be a vocation. They never bothered to remember the customers’ names, or their favourite tables. Worse, the coffee was often cold by the time it was served, and the cakes were left to go stale until someone bought them. Maisie wasn’t surprised they didn’t get any tips; they didn’t deserve them.

After another month, she began to realize just how much Miss Tilly had taught her.

After three months, Maisie had replaced five of the seven waitresses, without having to recruit anyone from Tilly’s. She had also ordered smart new uniforms for all her staff, along with new plates, cups and saucers and, even more important, changed her coffee supplier and her cake-maker. That was something she was willing to steal from Miss Tilly.

‘You’re costing me a lot of money, Maisie,’ said Mr Frampton when another stack of bills landed on his desk. Try not to forget what I said about return on investment.’

‘Give me another six months, Mr Frampton, and you’ll see the results.’

Although Maisie worked night and day, she always found time to drop Harry off at school in the morning and pick him up in the afternoon. But she warned Mr Frampton that there would be one day when she wouldn’t be on time for work.

When she told him why, he gave her the whole day off.

Just before they left the house, Maisie checked herself in the mirror. She was dressed in her Sunday best but not going to church. She smiled down at her son, who looked so smart in his new red and black school uniform. Even so, she felt a little self-conscious as they waited at the tram stop.

‘Two to Park Street,’ she told the clippie when the No. 11 pulled away. She was unable to hide her pride when she noticed him taking a closer look at Harry. It only convinced Maisie that she had made the right decision.

When they reached their stop, Harry refused to let his mum carry his suitcase. Maisie held on to his hand as they walked slowly up the hill towards the school, not sure which one of them was more nervous. She couldn’t take her eyes off the hansom cabs and chauffeur-driven cars that were dropping off other boys for their first day of term. She only hoped that Harry would be able to find at least one friend among them. After all, some of the nannies were better dressed than she was.

Harry began to slow down as they got nearer the school gates. Maisie could sense his discomfort – or was it just fear of the unknown?

‘I’ll leave you now,’ she said, and bent down to kiss him. ‘Good luck, Harry. Make us all proud of you.’

‘Goodbye, Mum.’

As she watched him walk away, Maisie noticed that someone else appeared to be taking an interest in Harry Clifton.

15

MAISIE WOULD NEVER FORGET the first time she had to turn away a customer.

‘I’m sure there will be a table available in a few minutes, sir.’

She prided herself on the fact that once a customer had paid the bill, her staff could clear the table, replace the cloth and have it re-laid and ready for the next guest within five minutes.

The Palm Court quickly became so popular that Maisie had to keep a couple of tables permanently reserved, just in case one of her regulars turned up unexpectedly.

She was a little embarrassed that some of her old customers from Tilly’s had begun to migrate to the Palm Court, not least dear old Mr Craddick, who remembered Harry from his paper round. She considered it an even greater compliment when Miss Tilly herself began to drop in for a morning coffee.

‘Just checking on the opposition,’ she said. ‘By the way, Maisie, this coffee is superb.’

‘So it should be,’ Maisie replied. ‘It’s yours.’

Eddie Atkins also came in from time to time, and if the size of his cigars, not to mention his waistline, was anything to go by, the sky must still have been the limit. Although he was friendly, he never asked Maisie out, but he did regularly remind her that his door was always open.

Not that Maisie didn’t have a string of admirers she occasionally allowed to take her out in the evening, maybe to dinner at a fashionable restaurant, sometimes a visit to the Old Vic or the cinema, especially if a Greta Garbo film was playing. But when they parted at the end of the evening, she allowed none of them more than a peck on the cheek before returning home. At least, not until she met Patrick Casey, who proved that the charm of the Irish was not just a cliche.

When Patrick first walked into the Palm Court, hers wasn’t the only head that turned to take a closer look. He was a shade over six foot, with wavy dark hair and the build of an athlete. That would have been enough for most women, but it was the smile that captivated Maisie, as, she suspected, it had many others.

Patrick told her he was in finance, but then Eddie had said he was in the entertainment business. His work brought him to Bristol once or twice a month, when Maisie would allow him to take her to dinner, the theatre or the cinema, and occasionally she even broke her golden rule, and didn’t take the last tram back to Still House Lane.

She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Patrick had a wife and half a dozen offspring back at home in Cork, although he swore, hand on heart, that he was a bachelor.

Whenever Mr Holcombe dropped into the Palm Court, Maisie would guide him to a table in the far corner of the room that was partly obscured by a large pillar and was shunned by her regulars. But its privacy allowed her to bring him up to date on how Harry was getting on.

Today, he seemed more interested in the future than the past, and asked, ‘Have you decided what Harry will do once he leaves St Bede’s?’

‘I haven’t given it much thought,’ Maisie admitted. ‘After all, it’s not for some time.’

‘It’s soon enough,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘and I can’t believe you’ll want him to return to Merrywood Elementary.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Maisie firmly, ‘but what choice is there?’

‘Harry says he’d like to go to Bristol Grammar School, but if he fails to win a scholarship, he’s worried that you won’t be able to afford the fees.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Maisie assured him. ‘With my present pay, combined with the tips, no one need know his mother is a waitress.’

‘Some waitress,’ said Mr Holcombe, looking around the packed room. ‘I’m only surprised you haven’t opened your own place.’

Maisie laughed, and didn’t give it another thought until she had an unexpected visit from Miss Tilly.

Maisie attended Matins at St Mary Redcliffe every Sunday so she could hear her son sing. Miss Monday had warned her that it wouldn’t be much longer before Harry’s voice broke, and she mustn’t assume that a few weeks later he’d be singing tenor solos.

Maisie tried to concentrate on the canon’s sermon that Sunday morning but found her mind drifting. She glanced across the aisle to see Mr and Mrs Barrington sitting with their son Giles and two young girls who she assumed must be their daughters, but whose names she didn’t know. Maisie had been surprised when Harry told her that Giles Barrington was his closest friend. Nothing more than a coincidence of the alphabet had put them together in the first place, he’d said. She hoped it would never become necessary for her to tell him that Giles might be more than just a good friend.

Maisie often wished she could do more to help Harry with his efforts to win a scholarship to Bristol Grammar School. Although Miss Tilly had taught her how to read a menu, add and subtract, and even write a few simple words, just the thought of what Harry must be putting himself through filled her with trepidation.

Miss Monday boosted Maisie’s confidence by continually reminding her that Harry would never have got this far if she hadn’t been willing to make so many sacrifices. ‘And in any case,’ she added, ‘you’re every bit as clever as Harry, you just haven’t been given the same opportunities.’

Mr Holcombe kept her informed on what he described as ‘the timing’, and, as the date of the examination drew nearer, Maisie became just as nervous as the candidate. She realized the truth of one of Old Jack’s remarks, that often the onlooker suffers even more than the participant.

The Palm Court room was now packed every day, but it didn’t stop Maisie from initiating even more changes in a decade the press were describing as the ‘frivolous thirties’.

In the morning, she had started offering her customers a variety of biscuits to go with their coffee, and in the afternoon, her tea menu was proving just as popular, especially after Harry told her that Mrs Barrington had given him the choice of Indian or China tea. However, Mr Frampton vetoed the suggestion that smoked salmon sandwiches should appear on the menu.

Every Sunday, Maisie would kneel on her little cushion; her one prayer was to the point. ‘Please God make sure Harry wins a scholarship. If he does, I’ll never ask you for anything again.’

With a week to go to the exams, Maisie found she couldn’t sleep, and lay awake wondering how Harry was coping. So many customers wanted to pass on their best wishes to him, some because they had heard him singing in the church choir, others because he’d delivered their morning papers, or simply because their own children had been, were, or would at some time in the future be going though the same experience. It seemed to Maisie that half of Bristol was taking the exam.

On the morning of the examination, Maisie placed several regulars at the wrong table, gave Mr Craddick coffee instead of his usual hot chocolate, and even presented two customers with someone else’s bill. No one complained.

Harry told her he thought he’d done quite well, but he couldn’t be certain if he’d done well enough. He mentioned someone called Thomas Hardy, but Maisie wasn’t sure if he was a friend or one of the masters.

When the long-case clock in the Palm Court room struck ten on that Thursday morning, Maisie knew the headmaster would be posting the exam results on the school notice board. But it was another twenty-two minutes before Mr Holcombe walked into the room and headed straight for his usual table behind the pillar. Maisie could not tell how Harry had done from the expression on the schoolmaster’s face. She quickly crossed the room to join him and, for the first time in four years, sat down in the seat opposite a customer, although ‘collapsed’ might be a more accurate description.

‘Harry has passed with distinction,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘but I’m afraid he just missed out on a scholarship.’

‘What does that mean?’ Maisie asked, trying to stop her hands from trembling.

‘The top twelve candidates had marks of 80 per cent or above, and were all awarded open scholarships. In fact, Harry’s friend Deakins came top, with 92 per cent. Harry achieved a very commendable 78 per cent, and came seventeenth out of three hundred. Mr Frobisher told me his English paper let him down.’

‘He should have read Hardy instead of Dickens,’ said a woman who’d never read a book.

‘Harry will still be offered a place at BGS,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘but he won’t receive the annual hundred pounds a year scholar’s grant.’

Maisie rose from her place. ‘Then I’ll just have to work three shifts instead of two, won’t I? Because he’s not going back to Merrywood Elementary, Mr Holcombe, I can tell you that.’

Over the next few days, Maisie was surprised by how many regulars offered their congratulations on Harry’s magnificent achievement. She also discovered that one or two of her customers had children who had failed to pass the exam, in one case by a single percentage point. They would have to settle for their second choice. It made Maisie all the more determined that nothing would stop Harry reporting to Bristol Grammar School on the first day of term.

One strange thing she noticed during the next week was that her tips doubled. Dear old Mr Craddick slipped her a five-pound note, saying, ‘For Harry. May he prove worthy of his mother.’

When the thin white envelope dropped through the letterbox in Still House Lane, an event in itself, Harry opened the letter and read it to his mother. ‘Clifton, H.’ had been offered a place in the A stream for the Michaelmas term starting on September 15th. When he came to the last paragraph, which asked Mrs Clifton to write and confirm whether the candidate wished to accept or reject the offer, he looked nervously at her.

‘You must write back straight away, accepting the offer!’ she said.

Harry threw his arms around her and whispered, ‘I only wish my father was alive.’

Perhaps he is, thought Maisie.

A few days later, a second letter landed on the doormat. This one detailed a long list of items that had to be purchased before the first day of term. Maisie noticed that Harry seemed to require two of everything, in some cases three or more, and in one case, six: socks, grey calf length, plus garters.

‘Pity you can’t borrow a pair of my suspenders,’ she said. Harry blushed.

A third letter invited new pupils to select three extracurricular activities from a list ranging from the car club to the Combined Cadet Force – some of which involved an added charge of five pounds per activity. Harry chose the choir, for which there was no extra charge, as well as the theatre club and the Arts Appreciation Society. The latter included a proviso that any visits to galleries outside Bristol would incur an extra cost.

Maisie wished there were a few more Mr Craddicks around, but she never allowed Harry to suspect there was any reason for concern, even though Mr Holcombe reminded her that her boy would be at Bristol Grammar School for the next five years. The first member of the family not to leave school before the age of fourteen, she told him.

Maisie braced herself for another visit to T.C. Marsh, Tailors of Distinction.

By the time Harry was fully kitted out and ready for the first day of term, Maisie had once again begun to walk to and from work, saving five pence a week on tram fares, or as she told her mother, ‘A pound a year, enough to pay for a new suit for Harry.’

Parents, Maisie had learnt over the years, may be considered an unfortunate necessity by their offspring, but more often than not they are also an embarrassment.

On her first speech day at St Bede’s, Maisie had been the only mother not wearing a hat. After that, she had bought one from a second-hand shop and, however out of fashion it would become, it was going to have to last until Harry left Bristol Grammar School.

Harry had agreed that she should accompany him to school on the first day of term, but Maisie had already decided that he was old enough to catch a tram home in the evening. Her main anxiety was not about how Harry would get to and from school, but what to do with him in the evenings, now he was a day boy and would no longer be sleeping at school during term. She had no doubt that if he went back to sharing a room with his uncle Stan, it could only end in tears. She tried to put the problem out of her mind as she prepared for Harry’s first day in his new school.

Hat in place, best, and only, overcoat recently cleaned, sensible black shoes with the only pair of silk stockings she possessed, Maisie felt ready to face the other parents. When she came down the stairs, Harry was already waiting for her by the door. He looked so smart in his new uniform of claret and black that she would have liked to parade him up and down Still House Lane so the neighbours would know that someone from the street was going to Bristol Grammar School.

As they had on his first day at St Bede’s, they caught the tram, but Harry asked Maisie if they could get off one stop before University Road. She was no longer allowed to hold his hand, although she did straighten his cap and tie more than once.

When Maisie first saw the noisy gathering of young men crowded around the school gates, she said, ‘I’d better be off or I’ll be late for work,’ which puzzled Harry, because he knew Mr Frampton had given her the day off.

She gave her son a quick hug, but kept a wary eye on him as he made his way up the hill. The first person to greet him was Giles Barrington. Maisie was surprised to see him, as Harry had told her he would probably be going to Eton. They shook hands like a couple of grown men who had just closed an important deal.

Maisie could see Mr and Mrs Barrington standing at the back of the crowd. Was he making sure he avoided her? A few minutes later, Mr and Mrs Deakins joined them, accompanied by the Peloquin Memorial scholar. More handshakes, left-handed in Mr Deakins’s case.

As the parents began to take leave of their children, Maisie watched Mr Barrington as he shook hands first with his son and then with Deakins, but turned away when Harry offered his hand. Mrs Barrington looked embarrassed, and Maisie wondered if she might later ask why Hugo had ignored Giles’s closest friend. If she did, Maisie felt certain he would not tell her the real reason. Maisie feared it couldn’t be long before Harry asked why Mr Barrington always snubbed him. As long as only three people knew the truth, she couldn’t think of any reason why Harry would ever find out.

16

MISS TILLY HAD BECOME such a regular at the Palm Court that she even had her own table.

She would usually arrive around four o’clock, and order a cup of tea (Earl Grey) and a cucumber sandwich. She always declined to take anything from the large assortment of cream cakes, jam tarts and chocolate éclairs, but would occasionally allow herself a buttered scone. When she popped by just before five one evening, unusually late for her, Maisie was relieved that her usual table was free.

‘I wonder if I might sit somewhere a little more discreet today, Maisie. I need to have a quiet word with you.’

‘Of course, Miss Tilly,’ said Maisie, and led her to Mr Holcombe’s preferred table behind the pillar at the far end of the room. ‘I’m off in ten minutes,’ Maisie told her. ‘I’ll join you then.’

When her deputy Susan arrived to take over, Maisie explained that she would be joining Miss Tilly for a few minutes, but didn’t expect to be served.

‘Is the old duck unhappy about something?’ Susan asked.

‘That old duck taught me everything I know,’ said Maisie with a grin.

When five o’clock struck, Maisie walked across the room and took the seat opposite Miss Tilly. She rarely sat down with a customer, and on the few occasions she did, she had never felt at ease.

‘Would you care for some tea, Maisie?’

‘No, thank you, Miss Tilly.’

‘I quite understand. I’ll try not to keep you too long, but before I tell you my real purpose for wanting to see you, may I ask how Harry is getting on?’

‘I wish he’d stop growing,’ said Maisie. ‘I seem to be letting down his trousers every few weeks. At this rate his long trousers will be short trousers before the end of the year.’

Miss Tilly laughed. ‘What about his work?’

‘His end-of-term report said – ’ Maisie paused, trying to recall the exact words – ‘“A most satisfactory start. Very promising.” He came top in English.’

‘Somewhat ironic,’ said Miss Tilly. ‘If I remember correctly, that was the subject that let him down in the entrance exam.’

Maisie nodded, and tried not to think about the financial consequences of Harry not having read enough Thomas Hardy.

‘You must be very proud of him,’ said Miss Tilly. ‘And when I went to St Mary’s on Sunday, I was delighted to see that he’s back in the choir.’

‘Yes, but he now has to be satisfied with a place in the back row with the other baritones. His days as a soloist are over. But he’s joined the theatre club, and because there are no girls at BGS, he’s playing Ursula in the school play.’

‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ said Miss Tilly. ‘Still, I mustn’t waste any more of your time, so I’ll come to the reason I wanted to see you.’ She took a sip of tea, as if she wanted to compose herself before she spoke again, and then it all came out in a rush.

‘I’ll be sixty next month, my dear, and for some time I have been considering retiring.’

It had never crossed Maisie’s mind that Miss Tilly wouldn’t go on for ever.

‘Miss Monday and I have been thinking about moving down to Cornwall. We have our eye on a little cottage by the sea.’

You mustn’t leave Bristol, Maisie wanted to say. I love you both, and if you go, who will I turn to for advice?

‘Matters came to a head last month,’ continued Miss Tilly, ‘when a local businessman made me an offer for the tea shop. It seems he wants to add it to his growing empire. And although I don’t care for the idea of Tilly’s being part of a chain, his offer was far too tempting to turn down out of hand.’ Maisie only had one question, but she didn’t interrupt while Miss Tilly was in full flow. ‘Since then, I’ve been giving the matter a great deal of thought, and I decided that if you were able to come up with the same amount he has offered, I would rather you took over the business than I hand it over to a stranger.’

‘How much did he offer?’

‘Five hundred pounds.’

Maisie sighed. ‘I’m flattered you even thought of me,’ she said at last, ‘but the truth is, I don’t have five hundred pennies to my name, let alone five hundred pounds.’

‘I was afraid you might say that,’ said Miss Tilly. ‘But if you could find a backer, I feel sure they would consider the business a good investment. After all, I made a profit of one hundred and twelve pounds and ten shillings last year, which didn’t include my salary. I would have let you have it for less than five hundred pounds, but we’ve found a delightful little cottage in St Mawes, and the owners won’t consider a penny less than three hundred. Miss Monday and I could just about survive on our savings for a year or two, but as neither of us has a pension to fall back on, the extra two hundred pounds will make all the difference.’

Maisie was just about to tell Miss Tilly how sorry she was but it was out of the question, when Patrick Casey strolled into the room and sat down at his usual table.

It wasn’t until after they’d made love that Maisie told Patrick about Miss Tilly’s offer. He sat up in bed, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘Raising that amount of capital shouldn’t prove too difficult. After all, it’s hardly Brunel trying to raise the money to build Clifton Suspension Bridge.’

‘No, but it is Mrs Clifton trying to raise five hundred pounds when she hasn’t got two halfpennies to rub together.’

‘True, but you’d be able to show a cash flow and a proven income stream, not to mention the tea shop’s goodwill. Mind you, I’ll need to look at the books for the past five years and make sure you’ve been told the whole story.’

‘Miss Tilly would never try to deceive anyone.’

‘You’ll also have to check that there isn’t a rent review due in the near future,’ Patrick said, ignoring her protestations, ‘and double-check that her accountant hasn’t come up with penalty clauses the moment you start making a profit.’

‘Miss Tilly wouldn’t do something like that,’ said Maisie.

‘You’re so trusting, Maisie. What you have to remember is, this won’t be in the hands of Miss Tilly, but a lawyer who feels he’s got to earn his fee, and an accountant looking for a payday in case you don’t retain him.’

‘You’ve clearly never met Miss Tilly.’

‘Your faith in the old lady is touching, Maisie, but my job is to protect people like you, and a hundred and twelve pounds ten shillings profit a year wouldn’t be enough for you to live on, remembering you’ll be expected to make regular repayments to your investor.’

‘Miss Tilly assured me that the profit didn’t include her salary.’

‘That might well be the case, but you don’t know what that salary is. You’ll need at least another two hundred and fifty pounds a year if you’re to survive, otherwise not only will you be out of pocket, but Harry will be out of the grammar school.’

‘I can’t wait for you to meet Miss Tilly.’

‘And what about tips? At the Royal you get 50 per cent of all the tips, which comes to at least another two hundred pounds a year, which at the moment isn’t taxed, although I’ve no doubt some future government will catch on to that.’

‘Perhaps I should tell Miss Tilly that it’s too great a risk. After all, as you keep reminding me, I have a guaranteed income at the Royal, with no risks attached.’

‘True, but if Miss Tilly is half as good as you say she is, this could be an opportunity that might not arise again.’

‘Make your mind up, Patrick,’ said Maisie, trying not to sound exasperated.

‘I will, the moment I’ve seen the books.’

‘You will, the moment you meet Miss Tilly,’ Maisie said, ‘because then you’ll understand the real meaning of goodwill.’

‘I can’t wait to meet this paragon of virtue.’

‘Does that mean you’ll represent me?’

‘Yes,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘And how much will you be charging this penniless widow, Mr Casey?’

‘Turn the light out.’

‘Are you sure this is a risk worth taking,’ asked Mr Frampton, ‘when you have so much to lose?’

‘My financial adviser thinks so,’ replied Maisie. ‘He’s assured me that not only do all the figures add up, but once I’ve paid off the loan, I should be showing a profit within five years.’

‘But those are the years Harry will be at Bristol Grammar.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Frampton, but Mr Casey has secured a substantial salary for me as part of the bargain, and after I’ve split the tips with my staff, I should be earning roughly the same amount I’m currently taking home. More important, in five years’ time I’ll own a real asset, and from then on, all the profits will be mine,’ she said, trying to recall Patrick’s exact words.

‘It’s clear to me that you’ve made up your mind,’ said Mr Frampton. ‘But let me warn you, Maisie, there’s a great deal of difference between being an employee, when you know you’ll be taking home a wage packet every week, and being an employer, when it will be your responsibility to put your money into several wage packets every Friday night. Frankly, Maisie, you are the best at what you do, but are you really sure you want to switch from being a player to joining the management?’

‘Mr Casey will be there to advise me.’

‘Casey’s a capable fellow, I’ll give you that, but he also has to look after more important clients right across the country. It will be you who has to run the business from day to day. If anything were to go wrong, he won’t always be around to hold your hand.’

‘But I may not be given an opportunity like this again in my lifetime.’ Another of Patrick’s pronouncements.

‘So be it, Maisie,’ said Frampton. ‘And don’t be in any doubt how much we’ll all miss you at the Royal. The only reason you’re not irreplaceable is because you trained your deputy so well.’

‘Susan won’t let you down, Mr Frampton.’

‘I’m sure she won’t. But she’ll never be Maisie Clifton. Let me be the first to wish you every success in your new venture, and if things don’t work out as planned, there will always be a job for you here at the Royal.’

Mr Frampton rose from behind his desk and shook hands with Maisie, just as he’d done six years before.

17

A MONTH LATER, Maisie signed six documents in the presence of Mr Prendergast, the manager of the National Provincial Bank on Corn Street. But not until Patrick had taken her through each page, line by line, now happy to admit how wrong he’d been to doubt Miss Tilly. If everyone behaved as honourably as she did, he told her, he’d be out of a job.

Maisie handed Miss Tilly a cheque for £500 on March 19th, 1934, receiving a huge hug and a tea shop in return. A week later, Miss Tilly and Miss Monday left for Cornwall.

When Maisie opened her doors for business the following day, she retained the name ‘Tilly’s’. Patrick had advised her never to underestimate the goodwill of Tilly’s name above the door (‘founded in 1898’) and that she should not even think of changing it until Miss Tilly was of blessed memory and perhaps not even then. ‘Regulars don’t like change, especially sudden ones, so don’t rush them into anything.’

Maisie did, however, spot a few changes that could be made without offending any of the regulars. She felt a new set of tablecloths wouldn’t go amiss, and the chairs and even the tables were beginning to look, well, quaint. And hadn’t Miss Tilly noticed the carpet was wearing a bit thin?

‘Pace yourself,’ Patrick warned her on one of his monthly visits. ‘Remember that it’s far easier to spend money than to earn it, and don’t be surprised if a few of the old biddies disappear and you don’t make quite as much as you’d anticipated in the first few months.’

Patrick turned out to be right. The number of covers dropped in the first month, and then again in the second, proving just how popular Miss Tilly had been. Had they fallen again in the third, Patrick would have been advising Maisie about cash flow and overdraft limits, but it bottomed – another of Patrick’s expressions – and even began to climb the following month, though not sharply.

At the end of her first year, Maisie had broken even, but she hadn’t made enough to pay back any of the bank’s loan.

‘Don’t fret, my dear,’ Miss Tilly told her on one of her rare visits to Bristol. ‘It was years before I made a profit.’ Maisie didn’t have years.

The second year began well, with some of her regulars from the Palm Court returning to their old stamping ground. Eddie Atkins had put on so much weight, and his cigars were so much larger, that Maisie could only assume the entertainment business was thriving. Mr Craddick appeared at eleven o’clock every morning, dressed in a raincoat, umbrella in hand, whatever the weather. Mr Holcombe dropped in from time to time, always wanting updates on how Harry was getting on, and she never allowed him to pay the bill. Patrick’s first stop whenever he returned to Bristol was always Tilly’s.

During her second year, Maisie had to replace one supplier who didn’t seem to know the difference between fresh and stale, and one waitress who wasn’t convinced that the customer was always right. Several young women applied for the job, as it was becoming more acceptable for women to go to work. Maisie settled on a young lady called Karen, who had a mop of curly fair hair, big blue eyes and what the fashion magazines were describing as an hourglass figure. Maisie had a feeling that Karen might attract some new customers who were a little younger than most of her regulars.

Selecting a new cake supplier proved a more difficult task. And although several companies tendered for the contract, Maisie was very demanding. However, when Bob Burrows of Burrows’ Bakery (founded 1935) turned up on her doorstep and told her that Tilly’s would be his first customer, she put him on a month’s trial.

Bob turned out to be hard-working and reliable, and even more important, his goods were always so fresh and tempting that her customers would often say, ‘Well, perhaps just one more.’ His cream buns and fruit scones were particularly popular, but it was his chocolate brownies, the new fad, that seemed to disappear from the cakestand long before midday. Although Maisie regularly pressed him, Bob kept telling her that he just couldn’t make any more.

One morning, after Bob had dropped off his wares, Maisie thought he looked a little forlorn, so she sat him down and poured him a cup of coffee. He confessed to her that he was suffering from the same cash-flow problems she’d experienced in her first year. But he was confident things would soon look up as he’d recently been taken on by two new shops, although he stressed how much he owed to Maisie for giving him his first break.

As the weeks passed, these morning coffee breaks became something of a ritual. Even so, Maisie couldn’t have been more surprised when Bob asked her out on a date, as she considered theirs to be a professional relationship. He had bought tickets for Glamorous Night, a new musical that was playing at the Hippodrome, which Maisie had hoped Patrick might take her to. She thanked Bob, but said she didn’t want to spoil their relationship. She would have liked to add that there were already two men in her life, a fifteen-year-old who was worrying about his acne, and an Irishman who only visited Bristol once a month and didn’t seem to realize she was in love with him.

Bob didn’t take no for an answer, and a month later Maisie was even more embarrassed when he presented her with a marcasite brooch. She kissed him on the cheek, and wondered how he’d found out it was her birthday. That evening she placed the brooch in a drawer, and might have forgotten all about it if other gifts hadn’t followed at regular intervals.

Patrick seemed amused by his rival’s persistence, and over dinner one night he reminded Maisie that she was a good-looking woman with prospects.

Maisie didn’t laugh. ‘It’s got to stop,’ she said.

‘Then why don’t you find another supplier?’

‘Because good ones are a lot harder to find than lovers. In any case, Bob’s reliable, his cakes are the best in town and his prices are lower than any of his competitors.’

‘And he’s in love with you,’ said Patrick.

‘Don’t tease, Patrick. It’s got to stop.’

‘I’ll tell you something far more important that’s got to stop,’ said Patrick, bending down and opening his briefcase.

‘May I remind you,’ said Maisie, ‘that we’re meant to be having a romantic candlelit dinner together, not talking business.’

‘I’m afraid this can’t wait,’ he said, placing a sheaf of papers on the table. ‘These are your accounts for the past three months, and they don’t make happy reading.’

‘But I thought you said things have been looking up.’

‘So they have. You’ve even managed to keep your outgoings within the limit recommended by the bank, but, inexplicably, your income has dropped during the same period.’

‘How’s that possible?’ said Maisie. ‘We did a record number of covers last month.’

‘That’s why I decided to check carefully through all your bills and receipts for the past month. They just don’t add up. I’ve come to the sad conclusion, Maisie, that one of your waitresses must have her hand in the till. It’s common enough in the catering trade; it usually turns out to be the barman or the head waiter but once it starts, there’s no way of stopping it until you find the person responsible and sack them. If you don’t identify the culprit fairly soon, you’re going to have another year without showing a profit, and you won’t be able to pay back one penny of the bank loan, let alone start reducing your overdraft.’

‘What do you advise?’

‘You’ll have to keep a closer eye on all your staff in future, until one of them gives herself away.’

‘How will I know which one it is?’

‘There are several signs to look out for,’ said Patrick. ‘Someone who’s living beyond their means, perhaps wearing a new coat or an expensive piece of jewellery, or taking a holiday they wouldn’t normally be able to afford. She’ll probably tell you she’s got a new boyfriend, but-’

‘Oh, hell,’ said Maisie. ‘I think I know who it might be.’

‘Who?’

‘Karen. She’s only been with me a few months, and recently she’s been going up to London on her weekends off. Last Monday she turned up at work wearing a new scarf and a pair of leather gloves that made me feel quite envious.’

‘Don’t jump to any conclusions,’ said Patrick, ‘but keep a close eye on her. Either she’s pocketing the tips or she’s got her hands in the till, or both. And one thing I can promise you, it won’t stop. In most cases the thief becomes more and more confident until they’re finally caught. You need to stop it, and stop it quickly, before she puts you out of business.’

Maisie hated having to spy on her staff. After all, she’d chosen most of the younger ones herself, while the older ones had been at Tilly’s for years.

She kept an especially close eye on Karen, but there weren’t any obvious signs that she was stealing. But then, as Patrick had warned her, thieves are more cunning than honest people, and there was no way Maisie could keep an eye on her all the time.

And then the problem solved itself. Karen handed in her notice, announcing that she was engaged and would be joining her fiance in London at the end of the month. Maisie thought her engagement ring was quite exquisite, although she could only wonder who’d paid for it. But she dismissed the thought, relieved she would now have one less problem to worry about.

But when Patrick returned to Bristol a few weeks later, he warned Maisie that her monthly income had dropped again, so it couldn’t have been Karen.

‘Is it time to call in the police?’ Maisie asked.

‘Not yet. The last thing you need are any false accusations or rumours that will only cause ill-feeling among your staff. The police may well flush out the thief, but before they do you could lose some of your best staff, who won’t like being under suspicion. And you can also be sure that some of the customers will find out, and you don’t need that.’

‘How much longer can I afford to go on like this?’

‘Let’s give it another month. If we haven’t found out who it is by then, you’ll have to call in the police.’ He gave her a huge smile. ‘Now let’s stop talking business and try to remember that we’re meant to be celebrating your birthday.’

‘That was two months ago,’ she said. ‘And if it hadn’t been for Bob, you wouldn’t even have known.’

Patrick opened his briefcase once again, but this time he produced a royal blue box with Swan’s familiar logo on it. He passed it across to Maisie, who took her time opening it, to find a pair of black leather gloves and a woollen scarf in the traditional Burberry pattern.

‘So you’re the one who’s been robbing me blind,’ said Maisie as she threw her arms around him.

Patrick didn’t respond.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Maisie.

‘I have another piece of news.’ Maisie looked into his eyes, and wondered what else could possibly be going wrong at Tilly’s. ‘I’ve been promoted. I’m to be the new deputy manager of our head office in Dublin. I’ll be tied to my desk most of the time, so somebody else will be taking my place over here. I will still be able to visit you, but not that often.’

Maisie lay in his arms and cried all night. She had thought she wouldn’t want to get married again, until the man she loved was no longer available.

She turned up late for work the following morning to find Bob waiting on the doorstep. Once she’d opened the front door, he began to unload the morning delivery from his van.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ said Maisie as she disappeared into the staff washroom.

She’d said her last goodbyes to Patrick as he boarded a train at Temple Meads, when she’d burst into tears again. She must have looked a sight and didn’t want the regulars to think anything was wrong. ‘Never bring your personal problems to work,’ Miss Tilly had often reminded her staff. ‘The customers have enough problems of their own without having to worry about yours.’

Maisie looked in the mirror: her make-up was a mess. ‘Damn,’ she said out loud when she realized she’d left her handbag on the counter. As she walked back into the shop to retrieve it, she suddenly felt sick. Bob was standing with his back to her, one hand in the till. She watched as he stuffed a handful of notes and coins into a trouser pocket, closed the till quietly and then went back to his van to pick up another tray of cakes.

Maisie knew exactly what Patrick would have advised. She walked into the café and stood by the till as Bob strolled back through the door. He was not carrying a tray, but a small red leather box. He gave her a huge smile and fell on one knee.

‘You will leave the premises right now, Bob Burrows,’ Maisie said, in a tone that surprised even her. ‘If I ever see you anywhere near my tea shop again, I will call the police.’

She expected a stream of explanations or expletives, but Bob simply stood up, put the money he’d stolen back on the counter and left without a word. Maisie collapsed on to the nearest chair just as the first member of staff arrived.

‘Good morning, Mrs Clifton. Nice weather for the time of year.’

18

WHENEVER A THIN BROWN envelope dropped through the letterbox at No. 27, Maisie assumed it was from Bristol Grammar School, and would probably be another bill for Harry’s tuition fees, plus any ‘extras’, as the Bristol Municipal Charities liked to describe them.

She always called into the bank on the way home to deposit the day’s takings in the business account and her share of the tips in a separate account, described as ‘Harry’s’, hoping that at the end of each quarter she would have enough to cover the next bill from BGS.

Maisie ripped open the envelope, and, although she couldn’t read every word of the letter, recognized the signature and, above it, the figures £37 10s. It was going to be a close-run thing, but after Mr Holcombe had read Harry’s latest report to her, she had to agree with him: it was proving to be a good investment.

‘Mind you,’ Mr Holcombe had warned her, ‘the outgoings aren’t going to be any less when the time comes for him to leave school.’

‘Why not?’ Maisie asked. ‘He shouldn’t find it hard to get a job after all that education, and then he can start paying his own bills.’

Mr Holcombe shook his head sadly, as if one of his less attentive pupils had failed to grasp a point. ‘I’m rather hoping that when he leaves Bristol, he’ll want to go up to Oxford and read English.’

‘And how long will that take?’ asked Maisie.

‘Three, possibly four years.’

‘He should have read an awful lot of English by then.’

‘Certainly enough to get a job.’

Maisie laughed. ‘Perhaps he’ll end up a schoolmaster like you.’

‘He’s not like me,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘If I had to guess, he’ll end up as a writer.’

‘Can you make a living as a writer?’

‘Certainly, if you’re successful. But if that doesn’t work out, you could be right – he might end up a schoolmaster like me.’

‘I’d like that,’ Maisie said, missing the irony.

She placed the envelope in her bag. When she called into the bank after work that afternoon, she would have to make sure there was at least £37 10s in Harry’s account before she could consider writing out a cheque for the full amount. Only the bank makes money when you’re overdrawn, Patrick had told her. The school had occasionally given her two or three weeks’ grace in the past, but Patrick had explained that, like the tea shop, they would also have to balance their books at the end of each term.

Maisie didn’t have long to wait for her tram, and once she had taken her seat, her thoughts returned to Patrick. She would never admit to anyone, even her mother, how much she missed him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a fire engine overtaking the tram. Some of the passengers stared out of the window to follow its progress. Once it was out of sight, Maisie turned her attention to Tilly’s. Since she’d sacked Bob Burrows, the bank manager had reported that the tea shop had begun to make a steady profit each month, and might even break Miss Tilly’s record of £112 10s by the end of the year, which would allow Maisie to start paying back some of the £500 loan. There might even be enough left over to buy a new pair of shoes for Harry.

Maisie got off the tram at the end of Victoria Street. As she made her way across Bedminster Bridge, she checked her watch, his first present, and once again thought about her son. Seven thirty-two: she would have more than enough time to open the tea shop and be ready to serve her first customer by eight. It always pleased her to find a little queue waiting on the pavement as she turned the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.

Just before she reached the High Street, another fire engine shot past, and she could now see a plume of black smoke rising high into the sky. But it wasn’t until she turned into Broad Street that her heart began to beat faster. The three fire engines and a police car were parked in a semi-circle outside Tilly’s.

Maisie began to run.

‘No, no, it can’t be Tilly’s,’ she shouted, and then she spotted several members of her staff standing in a group on the other side of the road. One of them was crying. Maisie was only a few yards from where the front door used to be when a policeman stepped in her path and prevented her from going any further.

‘But I’m the owner!’ she protested as she stared in disbelief at the smoking embers of what had once been the most popular tea shop in the city. Her eyes watered and she began to cough as the thick black smoke enveloped her. She stared at the charred remains of the once gleaming counter, while a layer of ash covered the floor where the chairs and tables with their spotless white tablecloths had stood when she’d locked up the previous evening.

‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ said the policeman, ‘but for your own safety I must ask you to join your staff on the other side of the road.’

Maisie turned her back on Tilly’s and reluctantly began to cross the road. Before she reached the other side, she saw him standing on the edge of the crowd. The moment their eyes met, he turned and walked away.

Detective Inspector Blakemore opened his notebook and looked across the table at the suspect.

‘Can you tell me where you were at around three o’clock this morning, Mrs Clifton?’

‘I was at home in bed,’ Maisie replied.

‘Is there anyone who can verify that?’

‘If by that, Detective Inspector, you mean was anyone in bed with me at the time, the answer is no. Why do you ask?’

The policeman made a note, which gave him a little more time to think. Then he said, ‘I’m trying to find out if anyone else was involved.’

‘Involved in what?’ asked Maisie.

‘Arson,’ he replied, watching her carefully.

‘But who would want to burn down Tilly’s?’ Maisie demanded.

‘I was rather hoping you might be able to assist me on that point,’ said Blakemore. He paused, hoping Mrs Clifton would add something that she would later regret. But she said nothing.

Detective Inspector Blakemore couldn’t make up his mind if Mrs Clifton was a very cool customer, or simply naive. He knew one person who would be able to answer that question.

Mr Frampton rose from behind his desk, shook hands with Maisie and motioned her towards a chair.

‘I was so sorry to hear about the fire at Tilly’s,’ he said. ‘Thank God no one was hurt.’ Maisie hadn’t been thanking God a lot lately. ‘I do hope the building and contents were comprehensively insured,’ he added.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Maisie. ‘Thanks to Mr Casey it was well covered, but unfortunately the insurance company is refusing to pay out a penny until the police can confirm that I was not involved.’

‘I can’t believe the police think you’re a suspect,’ said Frampton.

‘With my financial problems,’ said Maisie, ‘who can blame them?’

‘It will only be a matter of time before they work out that’s a ridiculous suggestion.’

‘I don’t have any time,’ said Maisie. ‘Which is why I’ve come to see you. I’ve got to find a job, and when we last met in this room, I recall you saying that if I ever wanted to come back to the Royal…’

‘And I meant it,’ interrupted Mr Frampton. ‘But I can’t give you your old position back, because Susan’s doing an excellent job, and I’ve recently taken on three of Tilly’s staff, so I don’t have any vacancies in the Palm Court. The only position I have available at the moment is hardly worthy-’

‘I’ll consider anything, Mr Frampton,’ said Maisie, ‘and I mean anything.’

‘Some of our customers have been telling us that they would like something to eat after the hotel restaurant has closed for the night,’ said Mr Frampton. ‘I’ve been considering introducing a limited service of coffee and sandwiches after ten o’clock, which would be available until the breakfast room opens at six a.m. I could only offer you three pounds a week to begin with, although of course all the tips would be yours. Naturally I’d understand if you felt-’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘When would you be able to start?’

‘Tonight.’

When the next brown envelope landed on the mat at No. 27, Maisie stuffed it in her bag, unopened, and wondered how long it would be before she received a second, perhaps a third, and then finally a thick white envelope containing a letter not from the bursar, but the headmaster, requesting that Mrs Clifton withdraw her son from the school at the end of term. She dreaded the moment when Harry would have to read that letter to her.

In September Harry was expecting to enter the sixth form, and he couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes whenever he talked about ‘going up’ to Oxford and reading English at the feet of Alan Quilter, one of the most prominent scholars of the day. Maisie couldn’t bear the thought of having to tell him that would no longer be possible.

Her first few nights at the Royal had been very quiet, and things didn’t get much busier during the following month. She hated being idle, and when the cleaning staff arrived at five in the morning they would often discover there was nothing for them to do in the Palm Court room. Even on her busiest night Maisie didn’t have more than half a dozen customers, and several of those had been turfed out of the hotel bar just after midnight and seemed more interested in propositioning her than in ordering coffee and a ham sandwich.

Most of her customers were commercial travellers who only booked in for one night, so her chances of building up a regular clientele didn’t look promising, and the tips were certainly not going to take care of the brown envelope that remained unopened in her handbag.

Maisie knew that if Harry was to remain at Bristol Grammar School and have the slightest chance of going up to Oxford, there was only one person she could turn to for help. She would beg if necessary.

19

‘WHAT MAKES YOU THINK Mr Hugo would be willing to help?’ asked Old Jack, leaning back in his seat. ‘He’s never shown any sign of caring about Harry in the past. On the contrary…’

‘Because if there’s one person on earth who ought to feel some responsibility for Harry’s future, it’s that man.’ Maisie immediately regretted her words.

Old Jack was silent for a moment before he asked, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Maisie?’

‘No,’ she replied, a little too quickly. She hated lying, especially to Old Jack, but she was determined that this was one secret she would take to her grave.

‘Have you given any thought to when and where you will confront Mr Hugo?’

‘I know exactly what I’m going to do. He rarely leaves his office before six in the evening, and by then most of the other staff in the building have already left for the night. I know his office is on the fifth floor, I know it’s the third door on the left. I know-’

‘But do you know about Miss Potts?’ interrupted Old Jack. ‘Even if you did manage to get past reception and somehow made it to the fifth floor unnoticed, there’s no way of avoiding her.’

‘Miss Potts? I’ve never heard of her.’

‘She’s been Mr Hugo’s private secretary for the past fifteen years. I can tell you from personal experience, you don’t need a guard dog if you’ve got Miss Potts as a secretary.’

‘Then I’ll just have to wait until she goes home.’

‘Miss Potts never goes home before the boss, and she’s always behind her desk thirty minutes before he arrives in the morning.’

‘But I’ll have even less chance of getting into the Manor House,’ said Maisie, ‘where they have a guard dog too. He’s called Jenkins.’

‘Then you’ll have to find a time and place when Mr Hugo will be on his own, can’t escape and can’t rely on Miss Potts or Jenkins to come to his rescue.’

‘Is there such a time and place?’ asked Maisie.

‘Oh yes,’ said Old Jack. ‘But you’ll have to get your timing right.’

Maisie waited until it was dark before she slipped out of Old Jack’s railway carriage. She tiptoed across the gravel path, eased open the back door, climbed in, and shut it behind her. Resigned to a long wait, she settled herself down on the comfortable leather seat. She had a clear view of the building through a side window. Maisie waited patiently for each light to go out. Old Jack had warned her that his would be among the last.

She used the time to go over the questions she planned to ask him. Questions she’d rehearsed for several days before trying them out on Old Jack that afternoon. He’d made several suggestions, which she’d happily agreed to.

Just after six, a Rolls-Royce drew up and parked outside the front of the building. A chauffeur got out and stationed himself alongside. A few moments later Sir Walter Barrington, the chairman of the company, marched out of the front door, climbed into the back of the car and was whisked away.

More and more lights went out, until finally only one was still aglow, like a single star on the top of a Christmas tree. Suddenly Maisie heard feet crunching across the gravel. She slipped off the seat and crouched down on the floor. She could hear two men, deep in conversation, heading towards her. Her plan didn’t include two men, and she was about to leap out of the other side and try to disappear into the night when they came to a halt.

‘… But despite that,’ said a voice she recognized, ‘I’d be obliged if my involvement could remain strictly between the two of us.’

‘Of course, sir, you can rely on me,’ said another voice she’d heard before, although she couldn’t remember where.

‘Let’s keep in touch, old fellow,’ said the first voice. ‘I have no doubt I’ll be calling on the bank’s services again.’

Maisie heard one set of footsteps moving away. She froze when the car door opened.

He got in, took his place behind the wheel and pulled the door closed. Doesn’t have a chauffeur, prefers to drive the Bugatti himself, fancies himself behind the wheel – all priceless pieces of information supplied by Old Jack.

He switched on the ignition and the vehicle shuddered into life. He revved the engine several times before crunching the gear lever into first. The man on the gate saluted as Mr Barrington drove out on to the main road and headed towards the city, just as he did every night, on his way back to the Manor House.

‘Don’t let him know you’re in the back until he’s reached the city centre,’ Old Jack had advised. ‘He won’t risk stopping there, because he’ll be afraid someone might see you together and recognize him. But once he reaches the outskirts of the city, he won’t hesitate to chuck you out. You’ll have ten to fifteen minutes at most.’

‘That’s all I’ll need,’ Maisie had told him.

Maisie waited until he’d driven past the cathedral and across College Green, which was always busy at that time of night. But just as she was about to sit up and tap him on the shoulder, the car began to slow down and then came to a halt. The door opened, he got out, the door closed. Maisie peered between the front seats and was horrified to see that he had parked outside the Royal Hotel.

A dozen thoughts flashed through her mind. Should she jump out before it was too late? Why was he visiting the Royal? Was it a coincidence that it was on her day off? How long did he plan to be there? She decided to stay put, fearing she would be spotted if she got out in such a public place. Besides, this could well be her last chance to confront him face to face before the bill had to be paid.

The answer to one of her questions turned out to be twenty minutes, but long before he got back into the driver’s seat and drove off, Maisie was in a cold sweat. She had no idea her heart could beat that fast. She waited until he had gone about half a mile before she sat up and tapped him on the shoulder.

He looked shocked as he turned round, which was followed by a look of recognition, and then realization. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, recovering slightly.

‘I have a feeling you know exactly what I want,’ said Maisie. ‘My only interest is Harry, and making sure his school fees are paid for the next two years.’

‘Give me one good reason why I should pay your son’s school fees.’

‘Because he’s your son,’ Maisie replied calmly.

‘And what makes you so sure of that?’

‘I watched you when you first saw him at St Bede’s,’ said Maisie, ‘and every Sunday at St Mary’s when he sang in the choir. I saw the look in your eyes then, and I saw it again when you refused to shake hands with him on the first day of term.’

‘That’s not proof,’ said Barrington, sounding a little more confident. ‘It’s nothing more than a woman’s intuition.’

‘Then perhaps the time has come to let another woman know what you get up to on a works outing.’

‘What makes you think she’d believe you?’

‘Nothing more than a woman’s intuition,’ said Maisie. This silenced him, and gave her the confidence to continue. ‘Mrs Barrington might also be interested to know why you went to so much trouble to have my brother arrested the day after Arthur disappeared.’

‘A coincidence, nothing more.’

‘And is it also just a coincidence that my husband has never been seen since?’

‘I had nothing to do with Clifton’s death!’ shouted Barring-ton as he swerved across the road, narrowly missing an oncoming vehicle.

Maisie sat bolt upright, stunned by what she’d heard. ‘So it was you who was responsible for my husband’s death.’

‘You have no proof of that,’ he said defiantly.

‘I don’t need any more proof. But in spite of all the damage you’ve done to my family over the years, I’ll still give you an easy way out. You take care of Harry’s education while he’s still at Bristol Grammar School, and I won’t bother you again.’

It was some time before Barrington responded. He eventually said, ‘I’ll need a few days to work out the best way to handle the payments.’

‘The company’s charitable trust could easily take care of such a small amount,’ said Maisie. ‘After all, your father is chairman of the governors.’

This time he didn’t have a ready response. Was he wondering how she’d come across that piece of information? He wasn’t the first person to underestimate Old Jack. Maisie opened her handbag, pulled out the thin brown envelope and placed it on the seat beside him.

The car swung into an unlit alley. Barrington jumped out and opened the back door. Maisie stepped out, feeling that the confrontation couldn’t have gone much better. As her feet touched the ground, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her violently.

‘Now you listen to me, Maisie Clifton, and listen carefully,’ he said, a look of fury in his eyes. ‘If you ever threaten me again, I’ll not only see that your brother is sacked, but I’ll make sure he never works in this city again. And if you’re ever foolish enough to even hint to my wife that I’m that boy’s father, I’ll have you arrested, and it won’t be a prison you’ll end up in, but a mental asylum.’

He let go of her, clenched a fist and then punched her full in the face. She collapsed on to the ground and curled up into a ball, expecting him to kick her again and again. When nothing happened, she looked up to see him standing over her. He was tearing the thin brown envelope into little pieces and scattering them like confetti over a bride.

Without another word, he jumped back into the car and sped away.

When the white envelope came through the letterbox, Maisie knew she was beaten. She would have to tell Harry the truth when he got back from school that afternoon. But first she had to drop into the bank, deposit her meagre tips from the previous evening, and tell Mr Prendergast there would be no more bills from BGS, as her son would be leaving at the end of term.

She decided to walk to the bank and save a penny on the tram fare. On the way, she thought about all the people she’d let down. Would Miss Tilly and Miss Monday ever forgive her? Several of her staff, particularly some of the older ones, hadn’t been able to find another job. Then there were her parents, who had always watched over Harry so that she could go to work; Old Jack, who couldn’t have done more to help her son; and most of all, Harry himself, who in the words of Mr Holcombe, was about to be crowned with the laurels of victory.

When she reached the bank, she joined the longest queue, as she was in no hurry to be served.

‘Good morning, Mrs Clifton,’ said the teller cheerfully when she eventually reached the front of the line.

‘Good morning,’ Maisie replied before placing four shillings and sixpence on the counter.

The teller checked the amount carefully, then placed the coins in different trays below the counter. He next wrote out a slip to confirm the sum Mrs Clifton had deposited, and handed it to her. Maisie stood to one side to allow the next customer to take her place while she put the slip in her bag.

‘Mrs Clifton,’ said the teller.

‘Yes?’ she said, looking back up.

‘The manager was hoping to have a word with you.’

‘I quite understand,’ she said. Maisie didn’t need him to tell her there wasn’t enough money in her account to cover the latest invoice from the school. In fact, it would be a relief to let Mr Prendergast know there would be no further bills for extracurricular activities.

The young man led her silently across the banking hall and down a long corridor. When he reached the manager’s office, he knocked gently on the door, opened it and said, ‘Mrs Clifton, sir.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Prendergast. ‘I do need to have a word with you, Mrs Clifton. Please come in.’ Where had she heard that voice before?

‘Mrs Clifton,’ he continued once she was seated, ‘I am sorry to have to inform you that we have been unable to honour your most recent cheque for thirty-seven pounds ten shillings, made payable to Bristol Municipal Charities. Were you to present it again, I fear there are still insufficient funds in your account to cover the full amount. Unless, of course, you anticipate depositing any further funds in the near future?’

‘No,’ said Maisie, taking the white envelope from her bag and placing it on the desk in front of him. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to let the BMC know that, given time, I will pay off any other expenses that have arisen during Harry’s last term.’

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Clifton,’ said Mr Prendergast. ‘I only wish I could help in some way.’ He picked up the white envelope. ‘May I open this?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Maisie, who until that moment had tried to avoid finding out just how much she still owed the school.

Mr Prendergast picked up a thin silver paperknife from his desk and slit open the envelope. He extracted a cheque from the Bristol and West of England Insurance Company to the value of six hundred pounds, made payable to Mrs Maisie Clifton.