The Sins of the Father

25

MAISIE COULD STILL REMEMBER the pain she’d experienced when her husband didn’t come home at the end of his evening shift. She knew Arthur was dead, even though it would be years before her brother Stan was willing to tell her the truth about how her husband had died at the dockyard that afternoon.

But that pain was nothing compared to being told that her only son had been buried at sea after the Devonian had been struck by a German torpedo, hours after war had been declared.

Maisie could still recall the last time she’d seen Harry. He’d come to visit her at the Grand Hotel that Thursday morning. The restaurant was packed, with a long queue of customers waiting to be seated. He’d stood in line, but when he saw his mother bustling in and out of the kitchen without a moment to spare, he slipped away, assuming she hadn’t noticed him. He was always a thoughtful boy, and he knew she didn’t approve of being interrupted at work, and, if the truth be told, he also knew she wouldn’t have wanted to hear that he’d left Oxford to join the navy.

Sir Walter Barrington dropped by the next day to let Maisie know that Harry had sailed on the morning tide as fourth officer on the SS Devonian, and would be back within the month to join the crew of HMS Resolution as an ordinary seaman, as he intended to go off in search of German U-boats in the Atlantic. What he didn’t realize was that they were already searching for him.

Maisie planned to take the day off when Harry returned, but it was not to be. Knowing how many other mothers had lost their offspring because of this evil and barbaric war didn’t help.

Dr Wallace, the senior medical officer on the SS Kansas Star, was waiting by her front door in Still House Lane when she returned home after work that October evening. He didn’t need to tell her why he was there. It was etched on his face.

They sat in the kitchen, and the doctor told her he’d been responsible for the welfare of those sailors who’d been dragged from the ocean following the sinking of the Devonian. He assured her that he’d done everything in his power to save Harry’s life, but unhappily he’d never regained consciousness. In fact, of the nine sailors he tended to that night, only one had survived, a Tom Bradshaw, the Devonian’s third officer, who was evidently a friend of Harry’s. Bradshaw had written a letter of condolence which Dr Wallace had promised to deliver to Mrs Clifton as soon as the Kansas Star returned to Bristol. He had kept his word. Maisie felt guilty the moment the doctor had left to return to his ship. She hadn’t even offered him a cup of tea.

She placed Tom Bradshaw’s letter on the mantelpiece next to her favourite photograph of Harry singing in the school choir.

When she returned to work the following day, her colleagues at the hotel were kind and solicitous, and Mr Hurst, the hotel manager, suggested she took a few days off. She told him that was the last thing she needed. Instead she took on as much overtime as she could handle, in the hope that it might dull the pain.

It didn’t.

Many of the young men who worked at the hotel were leaving to join the armed forces, and their places were being taken by women. It was no longer considered a stigma for a young lady to work, and Maisie found herself taking on more and more responsibility as the number of male staff dwindled.

The restaurant manager was due to retire on his sixtieth birthday, but Maisie assumed that Mr Hurst would ask him to stay on until the end of the war. It came as a shock when he called her into his office and offered her the job.

‘You’ve earned it, Maisie,’ he said, ‘and head office agrees with me.’

‘I’d like a couple of days to think about it,’ she replied before leaving the office.

Mr Hurst didn’t raise the subject for another week, and when he did, Maisie suggested that perhaps she should be put on a month’s trial. He laughed.

‘It’s usual,’ he reminded her, ‘for the employer, not the employee, to insist on a month’s trial.’

Within a week, they’d both forgotten about the trial period, because although the hours were long and her new responsibilities were onerous, Maisie had never felt more fulfilled. She knew that when the war was over and the lads returned from the front, she’d go back to being a waitress. She’d have gone back to being a prostitute, if it had meant Harry would be among those who came home.

Maisie didn’t need to be able to read a newspaper to know that the Japanese air force had destroyed the American fleet at Pearl Harbor, and the citizens of the United States had risen as one against a common enemy and joined the Allies, because for days it was the only subject on everyone’s lips.

It wasn’t long before Maisie met her first American.

Thousands of Yanks found their way to the West Country over the next couple of years, and many of them were billeted in an army camp on the outskirts of Bristol. Some of the officers began to dine in the hotel restaurant, but no sooner had they become regulars than they would disappear, never to be seen again. Maisie was continually, painfully, reminded that some of them were no older than Harry.

But that changed when one of them did return. Maisie didn’t immediately recognize him when he wheeled himself into the restaurant and asked for his usual table. She had always thought she was good at remembering names, and even better when it came to faces – you have to be when you can’t really read and write. But the moment she heard that Southern drawl, the penny dropped. ‘It’s Lieutenant Mulholland, isn’t it?’

‘No, Mrs Clifton. It’s Major Mulholland now. I’ve been sent back here to recuperate before they pack me off home to North Carolina.’

She smiled and showed him to his usual table, although he wouldn’t allow her to assist him with his wheelchair. Mike, as he insisted Maisie call him, did become a regular, turning up twice, even three times a week.

Maisie laughed when Mr Hurst whispered, ‘You know he’s sweet on you.’

‘I think you’ll find my courting days are over,’ she replied.

‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he countered. ‘You’re in your prime, Maisie. I can tell you, Major Mulholland’s not the first man who’s asked me if you’re walking out with anyone.’

‘Try not to forget, Mr Hurst, that I’m a grandmother.’

‘I wouldn’t tell him that if I was you,’ said the manager.

Maisie failed to recognize the major a second time when he came in one evening on crutches, the wheelchair clearly having been abandoned. Another month, and the crutches were replaced by sticks, and it wasn’t much longer before they too became relics of the past.

One evening, Major Mulholland telephoned to book a table for eight; he had something to celebrate, he told Maisie. She assumed he must be returning to North Carolina, and for the first time she realized how much she would miss him.

She didn’t consider Mike a handsome man, but he had the warmest smile and the manners of an English gentleman, or, as he once pointed out, a Southern gentleman. It had become fashionable to bad-mouth the Americans since they’d taken up residence on bases in Britain, and the oft repeated jibe that they were over-sexed, over-paid and over here could be heard on the lips of many Bristolians who’d never even met an American; not least, Maisie’s brother Stan, and nothing she could say would change his mind.

By the time the major’s celebration dinner had come to an end, the restaurant was almost empty. On the stroke of ten, a fellow officer rose to toast Mike’s health and congratulate him.

As the party was about to leave and return to camp before curfew, Maisie told him, on behalf of the whole staff, how pleased they all were that he had fully recovered and was well enough to go home.

‘I’m not going home, Maisie,’ he said, laughing. ‘We were celebrating my promotion to deputy commander of the base. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until this war is over.’ Maisie was delighted by the news, and was taken by surprise when he added, ‘It’s the regimental dance next Saturday, and I wonder if you would do me the honour of being my guest.’

Maisie was speechless. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been asked out on a date. She wasn’t sure how long he stood there waiting for her to respond, but before she could do so he said, ‘I’m afraid it will be the first time I’ve stepped on to a dance floor for several years.’

‘Me too,’ Maisie admitted.

26

MAISIE ALWAYS deposited her wages and her tips in the bank on Friday afternoon.

She didn’t take any money home, because she didn’t want Stan to find out she was earning more than he was. Her two accounts were always in credit, and every time the current account showed a balance of ten pounds, five would be transferred to her savings account – her little nest egg, as she described it, just in case something went wrong. After her financial setback with Hugo Barrington, she always assumed that something would go wrong.

That Friday she emptied her purse out on to the counter, and the teller began to sort the coins into neat little piles, as he did every week.

‘That’s four shillings and nine pence, Mrs Clifton,’ he said, filling in her account book.

‘Thank you,’ said Maisie, as he slid the book under the grille. She was putting it back in her purse when he added, ‘Mr Prendergast wondered if he could have a word with you.’

Maisie’s heart sank. She considered bank managers and rent collectors a breed who only ever dispensed bad news, and she had good cause in Mr Prendergast’s case, because the last time he’d asked to see her, it was to remind her there were insufficient funds in her account to cover Harry’s fees for his last term at Bristol Grammar School. She reluctantly headed off in the direction of the manager’s office.

‘Good morning, Mrs Clifton,’ said Mr Prendergast, rising from behind his desk as Maisie entered his office. He motioned her to a seat. ‘I wanted to speak to you about a private matter.’

Maisie felt even more apprehensive. She tried to recall if she’d written any cheques during the past couple of weeks that might have caused her account to be overdrawn. She had bought a smart dress for the dance Mike Mulholland had invited her to on the American base, but it was secondhand, and well within her budget.

‘A valued client of the bank,’ Mr Prendergast began, ‘has enquired about your plot of land in Broad Street, where Tilly’s tea shop once stood.’

‘But I assumed I’d lost everything when the building was bombed.’

‘Not everything,’ said Prendergast. ‘The deeds of the land remain in your name.’

‘But what could it possibly be worth,’ said Maisie, ‘now that the Germans have flattened most of the neighbourhood? When I last walked down Chapel Street, it was nothing more than a bomb site.’

‘That may well be the case,’ replied Mr Prendergast, ‘but my client is still willing to offer you two hundred pounds for the freehold.’

‘Two hundred pounds?’ repeated Maisie as if she’d won the pools.

‘That is the sum he is willing to pay,’ confirmed Prendergast.

‘How much do you think the land is worth?’ asked Maisie, taking the bank manager by surprise.

‘I’ve no idea, madam,’ he replied. ‘I’m a banker, not a property speculator.’

Maisie remained silent for a few moments. ‘Please tell your client that I’d like a few days to think about it.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Prendergast. ‘But you ought to be aware that my client has instructed me to leave the offer on the table for one week only.’

‘Then I’ll have to make my decision by next Friday, won’t I?’ said Maisie defiantly.

‘As you wish, madam,’ said Prendergast, when Maisie rose to leave. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you next Friday.’

When Maisie left the bank, she couldn’t help thinking that the manager had never addressed her as madam before. During her walk home past black-curtained houses – she only ever took the bus when it was raining – she started to think about how she might spend two hundred pounds, but these thoughts were soon replaced by wondering who could advise her as to whether it was a fair price.

Mr Prendergast had made it sound like a reasonable offer, but which side was he on? Perhaps she’d have a word with Mr Hurst, but long before she reached Still House Lane she decided that it would be unprofessional to involve her boss in a personal matter. Mike Mulholland seemed a shrewd, intelligent man, but what would he know about the value of land in Bristol? As for her brother Stan, there would be absolutely no point in seeking his opinion, as he’d be sure to say, ‘Take the money and run, girl.’ And come to think about it, the last person she wanted to know about her potential windfall was Stan.

By the time Maisie had turned into Merrywood Lane, darkness was falling and the residents were preparing for blackout. She was no closer to resolving the problem. As she passed the gates of Harry’s old primary school, a flood of happy memories returned, and she silently thanked Mr Holcombe for all he’d done for her son while he was growing up. She stopped on the spot. Mr Holcombe was a clever man; after all he’d been to Bristol University and got a degree. Surely he could advise her?

Maisie turned back and walked towards the school gates, but when she entered the playground there was no one to be seen. She checked her watch; a few minutes past five. All the children would have gone home some time ago, so Mr Holcombe had probably already left for the day.

She walked across the playground, opened the school door and stepped into a familiar corridor. It was as if time had stood still; the same red brick walls, just a few more initials etched into them, the same colourful paintings pinned up on the wall, just by different children, the same football cups, just won by another team. Although, where school caps had once hung, gas masks had taken their place. She recalled the first time she’d come to see Mr Holcombe, to complain about the red marks she’d found on Harry’s backside at bath-time. He’d remained calm while she lost her temper, and Maisie had left an hour later in no doubt who the guilty party was.

Maisie noticed a light coming from under the door of Mr Holcombe’s classroom. She hesitated, took a deep breath and knocked softly on the pebbled glass.

‘Come on in,’ said the cheerful voice she remembered so well.

She entered the room to find Mr Holcombe seated behind a large pile of books, pen scratching across paper. She was about to remind him who she was when he leapt up and said, ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mrs Clifton, especially if it’s me you’re looking for.’

‘Yes it is,’ Maisie replied, a little flustered. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Holcombe, but I need some advice, and I didn’t know who else to turn to.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said the schoolmaster, offering her a tiny chair, normally occupied by an eight-year-old. ‘How can I help?’

Maisie told him about her meeting with Mr Prendergast, and the offer of £200 for her piece of land on Broad Street. ‘Do you think it’s a fair price?’ she asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mr Holcombe, shaking his head. ‘I have no experience of such matters, and I’d be worried about giving you the wrong advice. Actually, I thought it might be another matter you’d come to see me about.’

‘Another matter?’ repeated Maisie.

‘Yes. I hoped you’d seen the notice on the board outside the school, and wanted to apply.’

‘Apply for what?’ she asked.

‘One of the government’s new schemes for night classes, designed to help people like you, who are clearly intelligent, but haven’t had the opportunity to continue their education.’

Maisie didn’t want to admit that even if she’d seen the notice, she would have struggled to read it. ‘I’m too overworked to consider taking on anything else at the moment,’ she said, ‘what with the hotel, and… and-’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘because I think you’d be an ideal candidate. I’ll be taking most of the classes myself and it would have given me particular pleasure to teach the mother of Harry Clifton.’

‘It’s just that-’

‘It would only be for an hour, twice a week,’ he continued, refusing to give up. ‘The classes are in the evenings, and there’s nothing to stop you dropping out if you decided they weren’t for you.’

‘It was kind of you to think of me, Mr Holcombe. Perhaps when I haven’t got quite so much on my plate.’ She stood up and shook hands with the schoolmaster.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with your problem, Mrs Clifton,’ he said as he accompanied her to the door. ‘Mind you, it’s a nice problem to have.’

‘It was good of you to spare the time, Mr Holcombe,’ she replied before leaving. Maisie walked back down the corridor, across the playground and out through the school gates. She stood on the pavement and stared at the notice board. How she wished she could read.

27

MAISIE HAD ONLY taken a taxi a couple of times in her life: once to Harry’s wedding in Oxford, and then only from the local station, and on a second occasion, quite recently, when she’d attended her father’s funeral. So when an American staff car drew up outside 27 Still House Lane, she felt a little embarrassed, and only hoped the neighbours had their curtains drawn.

As she came down the staircase wearing her new red silk dress with padded shoulders and belted at the waist – very fashionable before the war – she spotted her mother and Stan staring out of the window.

The driver got out of the car and knocked on the front door. He looked unsure that he’d come to the right address. But when Maisie opened the door, he understood immediately why the major had invited this particular belle to the regimental dance. He gave Maisie a smart salute and opened the back door of the car.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I’d prefer to sit in the front.’

Once the driver had found his way back on to the main road, Maisie asked him how long he’d been working for Major Mulholland.

‘All my life, ma’am. Man and boy.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Maisie.

‘We both come from Raleigh, North Carolina. Once this war’s over, I’ll be goin’ home to my old job in the major’s factory.’

‘I didn’t know the major owned a factory.’

‘Several, ma’am. In Raleigh, he’s known as the Corn-on-the-Cob King.’

‘Corn on the cob?’ queried Maisie.

‘You ain’t seen nothin’ like it in Bristol, ma’am. To truly appreciate corn on the cob, it has to be boiled, covered in melting butter and eaten straight after it’s picked – and preferably in North Carolina.’

‘So who’s running the factories while the Corn-on-the-Cob King is away fighting the Germans?’

‘Young Joey, his second son, with a little help from his sister Sandy, would be my guess.’

‘He has a son and a daughter back home?’

‘Had two sons and a daughter, ma’am, but sadly Mike Junior was shot down over the Philippines.’

Maisie wanted to ask the corporal about Mike senior’s wife, but felt that the young man might have been embarrassed by questions on that subject, so she moved on to safer ground and asked about his home state. ‘Finest in the forty-eight,’ he replied, and didn’t stop talking about North Carolina until they reached the camp gate.

When the guard spotted the car, he immediately raised the barrier and gave Maisie a smart salute as they drove on into the compound. ‘The major asked me to take you straight to his quarters, ma’am, so you can have a drink before going across to the dance.’

The car drew up outside a small prefabricated house and she spotted Mike standing on the doorstep waiting to greet her. She jumped out of the car before the driver could open the door, and walked quickly up the path to join him. He bent down, kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘Come on in, honey, I’d like you to meet some of my colleagues.’ He took her coat and added, ‘You look just swell.’

‘Like one of your corn on the cobs?’ suggested Maisie.

‘More like one of our North Carolina peaches,’ he said as he guided her towards a noisy room, full of laughter and animated voices. ‘Now let’s make everyone jealous, because they’re about to find out that I’m escorting the belle of the ball.’

Maisie entered a room filled with officers and their dates. She couldn’t have been made to feel more welcome. She couldn’t help wondering, if she’d been the guest of an English major a few miles up the road at the Wessex regimental HQ, would they also have treated her as their equal?

Mike guided her around the room, introducing her to all his colleagues, including the camp commander, who clearly approved. As she moved from group to group, she couldn’t help noticing several photographs scattered around the room, on tables, bookshelves and the mantelpiece, of what could only have been Mike’s wife and children.

Just after nine o’clock, the guests made their way to the gymnasium, where the dance was being held, but not before the dutiful host had helped all the ladies on with their coats. This gave Maisie the opportunity to look more closely at one of the photographs of a beautiful young woman.

‘My wife Abigail,’ said Mike when he came back into the room. ‘A great beauty, like you. I still miss her. She died of cancer almost five years ago. Now that’s something all of us should be declaring war on.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Maisie. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘No. Now you’ve discovered just how much we have in common. I understand exactly how you feel, having lost a husband and a son. But hell, this is an evening to celebrate, not to feel sorry for ourselves, so come on, honey, now you’ve made all the officers jealous, let’s go and make the other ranks sore.’

Maisie laughed as she took his arm. They left the house and joined a stream of boisterous young people who were all heading in the same direction.

Once she was on the dance floor, the youthful and exuberant Americans made Maisie feel as if she’d known them all her life. During the evening, several of the officers asked her for a dance, but Mike rarely let her out of his sight. When the band struck up the last waltz, she couldn’t believe how quickly the evening had flown by.

Once the applause had died down, everyone remained on the floor. The band played a number unfamiliar to Maisie, but which served to remind everyone else in the room that their country was at war. Many of the young men who stood to attention with hand on heart, lustily singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’, would not live to celebrate their next birthday. Like Harry. What an unnecessary waste of life, Maisie thought.

As they walked off the dance floor, Mike suggested that they return to his quarters and enjoy a glass of Southern Comfort before the corporal drove her home. It was the first bourbon Maisie had ever drunk, and it quickly loosened her tongue.

‘Mike, I have a problem,’ she said once she’d settled on the sofa and her glass had been refilled. ‘And as I’ve only got a week to solve it, I could do with a dollop of your Southern common sense.’

‘Fire away, honey,’ said Mike. ‘But I ought to warn you that if limeys are involved, I’ve never been able to get on their wavelength. In fact, you’re the first one I’ve been able to relax with. Are you sure you’re not an American?’

Maisie laughed. ‘That’s sweet of you, Mike.’ She took another swig of bourbon, by which time she felt ready to do far more than just tell him her immediate problems. ‘It all began many years ago, when I owned a tea shop in Broad Street called Tilly’s. It’s now nothing more than a derelict bomb site, but someone is offering me two hundred pounds for it.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Mike.

‘I have no idea what it’s really worth.’

‘Well, one thing’s for certain, as long as there’s a chance the Germans might return and continue their bombing raids, no one is going to be rebuilding anything on that site, at least not until the war is over.’

‘Mr Prendergast described his client as a property speculator.’

‘Sounds more like a profiteer to me,’ said Mike, ‘someone who buys derelict land on the cheap, so when the war is over they’ll be able to make a quick killing. Frankly, that sort of spiv will do anything to make a fast buck, and ought to be strung up.’

‘But isn’t it just possible that two hundred pounds is a fair price?’

‘Depends on your marriage value.’

Maisie sat bolt upright, not sure she’d heard him correctly. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘You say the whole of Broad Street was bombed, and not one building survived?’

‘Yes, but why would that make my little plot any more valuable?’

‘If this speculator guy has already got his hands on every other bit of land in the street, you’re in a strong position to strike a bargain. In fact, you should demand a dowry, because your plot may be the one piece of land that, withheld, will prevent him from rebuilding the entire block, although that’s the last thing he’d want you to find out.’

‘So how do I discover if my little site has marriage value?’

‘Tell your bank manager that you won’t settle for less than four hundred pounds, and you’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Thank you, Mike,’ said Maisie, ‘that’s good advice.’ She smiled, took another swig of Southern Comfort, and passed out in his arms.

28

WHEN MAISIE came down for breakfast the following morning, she couldn’t remember who’d driven her home, or how she’d got upstairs to her room.

‘I put you to bed,’ said her mother as she poured her a cup of tea. ‘A nice young corporal drove you home. He even helped me get you up the stairs.’

Maisie sank into a chair, before taking her mother slowly through the evening, leaving her in no doubt how much she’d enjoyed Mike’s company.

‘And you’re sure he’s not married?’ asked her mother.

‘Hold your horses, Mum, it was only our first date.’

‘Did he seem keen?’

‘I think he asked me to the theatre next week, but I’m not sure which day, or which theatre,’ she said as her brother Stan came into the room.

Stan plonked himself down at the end of the table and waited for a bowl of porridge to be placed in front of him, before gulping down the contents like a dog drinking water on a hot day. When he’d finished, he flicked off the top of a bottle of Bass and drank it in one draught. ‘I’ll have another,’ he said. ‘As it’s Sunday,’ he added, burping loudly.

Maisie never spoke during Stan’s morning ritual, and she usually slipped off to work before he had time to air his opinions on anything that crossed his mind. She rose from her place and was just about to leave for the morning service at St Mary’s, when he bellowed, ‘Sit down, woman! I want a word with you before you go to church.’

Maisie would have liked to walk out without responding, but Stan wasn’t beyond dragging her back and giving her a black eye if the mood took him. She sat back down.

‘So what are you doin’ about that two hundred nicker you’re in line for?’ he demanded.

‘How did you find out?’

‘Mum told me all about it last night when you were out on the town getting laid by your American fancy man.’

Maisie frowned at her mother, who looked embarrassed, but said nothing. ‘For your information, Stan, Major Mulholland is a gentleman, and what I do in my spare time is none of your business.’

‘If he’s an American, you stupid bitch, let me warn you – they don’t wait to be asked, they think everythin’s theirs by right.’

‘You speak with your usual first-hand knowledge on the subject, no doubt,’ said Maisie, trying to remain calm.

‘Yanks are all the same,’ said Stan. ‘They only want one thing, and once they’ve got it, they bugger off back home and leave us to finish the job, just like they did in the first war.’

Maisie realized there was no point in continuing the conversation, so she just sat there, hoping this particular storm would blow over quickly.

‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doin’ about the two hundred quid,’ said Stan.

‘I haven’t made up my mind yet,’ said Maisie. ‘In any case, how I spend my money has got nothing to do with you.’

‘It’s got everything to do with me,’ said Stan, ‘because half of it’s mine.’

‘And how do you work that out?’ asked Maisie.

‘On account of the fact that you’re livin’ in my house for a start, so I’m entitled. And let me warn you, girl, in case you’re thinkin’ of double-crossin’ me, if I don’t get my fair share, I’ll beat you so black and blue, even an American negro won’t give you a second look.’

‘You make me sick, Stan,’ said Maisie.

‘Not half as sick as I’ll make you if you don’t cough up, because then I’ll-’

Maisie stood up, marched out of the kitchen, ran down the hall, grabbed her coat and was out of the front door before Stan had come to the end of his tirade.

When she checked the lunch bookings that Sunday, Maisie quickly realized she’d have to make sure that two of her customers were seated as far away from each other as possible. She put Mike Mulholland on his usual table, and Patrick Casey on the far side of the room, so there wasn’t any chance of them bumping into each other.

She hadn’t set eyes on Patrick for nearly three years, and wondered if he’d changed. Did he still have those irresistible good looks and Irish charm that had so captivated her when they’d first met?

One of her questions was answered the moment he entered the room.

‘How nice to see you after all this time, Mr Casey,’ she said before accompanying him to his table. Several middle-aged women took a second look at the handsome Irishman as he crossed the room. ‘Will you be staying with us for long this time, Mr Casey?’ Maisie asked as she passed him a menu.

‘That depends on you,’ said Patrick. He opened the menu, but didn’t study its contents.

Maisie hoped that no one noticed her blush. She turned, to see Mike Mulholland waiting by reception; he would never allow anyone but Maisie to show him to his table. She hurried across and whispered, ‘Hello, Mike. I’ve reserved your usual table. Would you like to follow me?’

‘I sure would.’

Once Mike had turned his attention to the menu – although he always had the same two dishes every Sunday, soup of the day followed by boiled beef and Yorkshire pudding – she walked back across the room to take Patrick’s order.

During the next two hours, Maisie kept a close eye on both men, while at the same time trying to supervise a hundred other customers. When the dining-room clock struck three, there were only two people left in the room; John Wayne and Gary Cooper, thought Maisie, waiting to see who would draw first at the OK Corral. She folded Mike’s bill, put it on a plate and took it across to him. He paid it without checking.

‘Another great meal,’ he said, before adding in a whisper, ‘I hope we’re still on for the theatre Tuesday night?’

‘We sure are, honey,’ said Maisie, teasing him.

‘Then I’ll see you at the Old Vic at eight,’ he said as a waitress passed by his table.

‘I’ll look forward to that, sir, and you can be sure I’ll pass on your compliments to the chef.’

Mike stifled a laugh, before leaving the table and strolling out of the dining room. He looked back at Maisie and smiled.

Once he was out of sight, Maisie took Patrick’s bill across to him. He checked every item and left a large tip. ‘Are you doing anything special tomorrow evening?’ he asked, giving Maisie that smile she remembered so well.

‘Yes, I’m attending an evening class.’

‘You’re kidding me,’ said Patrick.

‘No, and I mustn’t be late, because it’s the first lesson of a twelve-week course.’ She didn’t tell him that she hadn’t finally decided whether to go through with it or not.

‘Then it will have to be Tuesday,’ said Patrick.

‘I already have a date on Tuesday.’

‘Do you really, or are you just saying that to get rid of me?’

‘No, I’m going to the theatre.’

‘Then what about Wednesday, or is that your night for algebraic equations?’

‘No, composition and reading out loud.’

‘Thursday?’ said Patrick, trying not to sound exasperated.

‘Yes, I’m free on Thursday,’ said Maisie, as another waitress passed by their table.

‘That’s a relief,’ said Patrick. ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to book in for a second week, just to get an appointment.’

Maisie laughed. ‘So what do you have in mind?’

‘I thought we’d start by going to-’

‘Mrs Clifton.’ Maisie swung round to find the hotel manager, Mr Hurst, standing behind her. ‘When you’ve finished with this customer,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’d be kind enough to join me in my office?’

Maisie thought she’d been discreet, but now she feared she might even get the sack, because it was against company policy for members of staff to fraternize with the customers. That was how she’d lost her previous job, and Pat Casey had been the customer in question on that occasion.

She was grateful that Patrick slipped out of the restaurant without another word, and once she’d checked the till, she reported to Mr Hurst’s office.

‘Take a seat, Mrs Clifton. I have a rather serious matter to discuss with you.’ Maisie sat down and gripped the arms of the chair to stop herself shaking. ‘I could see you were having another busy day.’

‘A hundred and forty-two covers,’ said Maisie. ‘Almost a record.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to replace you,’ he said before adding, ‘but management make these decisions, not me, you understand. It’s out of my hands.’

‘But I enjoy my job,’ said Maisie.

‘That may well be the case, but I have to tell you that on this occasion I agree with head office.’ Maisie sat back, ready to accept her fate. ‘They have made it clear,’ continued Mr Hurst, ‘that they no longer want you to work in the dining room, and have asked me to replace you as soon as possible.’

‘But why?’

‘Because they’re keen for you to go into management. Frankly, Maisie, if you were a man, you’d already be running one of our hotels. Congratulations!’

‘Thank you,’ said Maisie, as she began to think about the implications.

‘Let’s get the formalities out of the way, shall we?’ said Mr Hurst as he pulled open his desk drawer and extracted a letter. ‘You’ll need to study this carefully,’ he said. ‘It details your new terms of employment. Once you’ve read it, sign it, return it to me, and I’ll send it back to head office.’

That was when she made the decision.

29

MAISIE WAS FEARFUL of making a fool of herself.

When she reached the school gate, she nearly turned back, and would have done, if she hadn’t seen another woman older than herself entering the building. She followed her through the front door and along the corridor, stopping when she reached the classroom. She peeped inside, hoping to find the room so full that no one would notice her. But there were only seven other people present: two men and five women.

She crept to the back of the classroom and took a seat behind the two men, hoping she couldn’t be seen. Maisie immediately regretted her decision, because if she’d taken a seat by the door, she could have escaped more easily.

She bowed her head when the door opened and Mr Holcombe swept into the room. He took his place behind the desk in front of the blackboard, tugged the lapels of his long black gown and peered down at his pupils. He smiled when he spotted Mrs Clifton seated near the back.

‘I’m going to start by writing out all twenty-six letters of the alphabet,’ he began, ‘and I want you to call them out as I write them down.’ He picked up a piece of chalk and turned his back on the class. He wrote the letter A on the blackboard, and several voices could be heard in unison, B, a veritable chorus, C, everyone except Maisie. When he came to Z, Maisie mouthed the letter.

‘I’m now going to point to a letter at random and see if you can still identify it.’ The second time round, Maisie called out over half of them, and on her third attempt she was leading the chorus. When the hour was up, only Mr Holcombe would have realized it was her first lesson in twenty years and Maisie wasn’t in any hurry to go home.

‘By the time we meet again on Wednesday,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘you must all be able to write the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, in their correct order.’

Maisie intended to have the alphabet mastered by Tuesday, so there would be no possibility of her making a mistake.

‘To those of you who are unable to join me in the pub for a drink, I’ll see you on Wednesday.’

Maisie assumed you had to be invited to join Mr Holcombe, so she slipped out of her chair and headed for the door, while the others surrounded the schoolmaster’s desk with a dozen questions.

‘Will you be coming to the pub, Mrs Clifton?’ asked the schoolmaster just as Maisie reached the door.

‘Thank you, Mr Holcombe. I’d like that,’ she heard herself saying, and joined the others as they left the room and strolled across the road to the Ship Inn.

One by one, the other pupils drifted off, until only the two of them were seated at the bar.

‘Do you have any idea just how bright you are?’ asked Mr Holcombe after he’d bought her another orange juice.

‘But I left school at twelve, and I still can’t read or write.’

‘You may have left school too early, but you’ve never stopped learning. And as you’re Harry Clifton’s mother, you’ll probably end up teaching me.’

‘Harry taught you?’

‘Daily, without realizing it. But then, I knew very early on that he was brighter than me. I only hoped I could get him to Bristol Grammar School before he found it out for himself.’

‘And did you?’ asked Maisie, smiling.

‘It was a damn close-run thing,’ admitted Holcombe.

‘Last orders!’ shouted the barman.

Maisie looked at the clock behind the bar. She couldn’t believe it was already 9.30, and blackout regulations had to be adhered to.

It seemed natural that Mr Holcombe should walk her home; after all, they’d known each other for so many years. On the way through the unlit streets, he told her many more stories about Harry, which made her both happy and sad. It was clear that Mr Holcombe also missed him, and she felt guilty for not thanking him many years before.

When they reached the front door of her home in Still House Lane, Maisie said, ‘I don’t know your first name.’

‘Arnold,’ he said shyly.

‘It suits you,’ she said. ‘May I call you Arnold?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And you must call me Maisie.’ She took out her front door key and placed it in the lock. ‘Goodnight, Arnold. See you on Wednesday.’

An evening at the theatre brought back many happy memories for Maisie of the days when Patrick Casey would take her to the Old Vic whenever he visited Bristol. But just as the memory of Patrick had faded and she’d begun to spend time with another man with whom she felt there might be a future, the damned leprechaun bounced back into her life. He’d already told her that there was a reason he wanted to see her, and she wasn’t in much doubt what that reason was. She didn’t need him to throw her life into turmoil yet again. She thought about Mike, one of the kindest and most decent men she’d ever come across, and guileless in his attempts to hide his feelings for her.

One thing Patrick had instilled in her was never to be late for the theatre. He felt there was nothing more embarrassing than treading on people’s toes as you made your way in darkness to the inevitable centre seats after the curtain had risen.

Mike was already standing in the foyer holding a programme when Maisie walked into the theatre ten minutes before the curtain was due to rise. As soon as she saw him she smiled, and couldn’t help thinking how he always raised her spirits. He returned her smile, and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.

‘I don’t know a lot about Noël Coward,’ he admitted as he handed her the programme, ‘but I’ve just been reading a synopsis of the play, and it turns out to be about a man and a woman who can’t make up their mind who they should marry.’

Maisie said nothing as they entered the stalls. She began to follow the letters of the alphabet backwards until she reached H. When they made their way to the centre of the row, she wondered how Mike had managed to get such superb seats for a sold-out show.

Once the lights faded and the curtain rose, he took her hand. He only let go when Owen Nares made his entrance, and the audience burst into applause. Maisie became entranced by the story, even if it was a little too close for comfort. But the spell was broken when the loud whine of a siren drowned out Mr Nares’s words. An audible groan went up around the auditorium, as the actors hurried off stage to be replaced by the theatre manager, who efficiently organized an exit strategy that would have gladdened the heart of a regimental sergeant major. Bristolians had long been familiar with flying visits from Germans who had no intention of paying for their theatre tickets.

Mike and Maisie made their way out of the theatre and down the steps to a bleak but familiar shelter that had become a home from home for regular theatregoers. The audience grabbed any place that was available for the unticketed performance. The great social equalizer, as Clement Attlee had described life in an air-raid shelter.

‘Not my idea of a date,’ said Mike, placing his jacket on the stone floor.

‘When I was young,’ said Maisie, as she sat down on the jacket, ‘many a young fellow tried to get me down here, but you’re the first one who’s succeeded.’ Mike laughed, as she began to scribble something on the cover of the programme.

‘I’m flattered,’ he said, placing an arm gently around her shoulder as the ground started to shake with bombs that sounded perilously close. ‘You’ve never been to America, have you, Maisie?’ he asked, trying to take her mind off the air raid.

‘I’ve never been to London,’ admitted Maisie. ‘In fact, the furthest I’ve ever travelled is to Weston-super-Mare and Oxford, and as both trips turned out to be disastrous, I’d be perhaps better off staying at home.’

Mike laughed. ‘I’d love to show you America,’ he said, ‘particularly the south.’

‘I think we’d have to ask the Germans to take a few nights off before we could consider doing that,’ said Maisie as the all-clear sounded.

A ripple of applause burst out in the shelter, and everyone emerged from the unscheduled interval and made their way back into the theatre.

Once they’d taken their seats, the theatre manager walked on to the stage. ‘The performance will continue with no interval,’ he announced. ‘But should the Germans decide to pay us another visit, it will have to be cancelled. I’m sorry to say there will be no refunds. German regulations,’ he announced. A few people laughed.

Within moments of the curtain going back up, Maisie once again lost herself in the story, and when the actors finally took their bows, the whole audience rose in appreciation, not only for the performance, but for another small victory over the Luftwaffe, as Mike described it.

‘Harvey’s or the Pantry?’ asked Mike as he picked up the programme, on which each letter of the play’s title had been crossed out and rewritten below, arranged in alphabetical order, A E E I I L P R S T V V.

‘The Pantry,’ said Maisie, not wanting to admit that on the one occasion she’d been to Harvey’s with Patrick, she’d spent the entire evening glancing around the tables dreading the thought that Lord Harvey’s daughter Elizabeth might be dining there with Hugo Barrington.

Mike took a long time studying the menu, which surprised Maisie, because the choice of dishes was so limited. He usually chatted about what was taking place back at camp, or the fort as he liked to call it, but not tonight; not even the oft-repeated grumbles about limeys not understanding baseball. She began to wonder if he wasn’t feeling well.

‘Is everything all right, Mike?’ she asked.

He looked up. ‘They’re sending me back to the States,’ he said as a waiter appeared by their side and asked if they would like to order. Great timing, thought Maisie, but at least it gave her a little time to think, and not about what she wanted to eat. Once they’d ordered and the waiter had left them, Mike tried again.

‘I’ve been assigned to a desk job in Washington.’

Maisie leaned across the table and took his hand.

‘I pressed them to let me stay for another six months… so I could be with you, but they turned my request down.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Maisie, ‘but-’

‘Please don’t say anything, Maisie, because I’m finding this difficult enough already. Though God knows I’ve given it enough thought.’ This was followed by another long silence. ‘I realize we’ve only known each other for a short time, but my feelings haven’t changed since the first day I set eyes on you.’ Maisie smiled. ‘And I wondered,’ he continued, ‘hoped, prayed, that you might consider coming back to America with me… as my wife.’

Maisie was speechless. ‘I’m so very flattered,’ she eventually managed, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Of course, I realize you’ll need time to think it over. I’m sorry that the ravages of war don’t allow for the niceties of a long courtship.’

‘When do you go home?’

‘At the end of the month. So if you did say yes, we could get married at the base and fly back together as man and wife.’ He leant forward and took her hand. ‘I’ve never felt more certain about anything in my whole life,’ he said as the waiter reappeared by their side.

‘So which one of you is the chopped liver?’

Maisie didn’t sleep that night, and when she came down to breakfast the following morning, she told her mother that Mike had proposed to her.

‘Jump at it,’ was Mrs Tancock’s immediate response. ‘You’ll never get a better chance to begin a new life. And, let’s face it,’ she added, glancing sadly at the photograph of Harry on the mantelpiece, ‘there’s no longer any reason for you to stay here.’

Maisie was about to express her one reservation when Stan burst into the room. She got up from the table. ‘I’d better get a move on if I’m not going to be late for work.’

‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that ’undred quid you owe me!’ he shouted as she left the room.

Maisie was sitting on the edge of her seat in the front row when Mr Holcombe entered the classroom at seven that evening.

Her hand shot up several times during the next hour, like a tiresome schoolgirl who knows all the answers and wants teacher to notice her. If he did, he didn’t let on.

‘Could you start coming in on Tuesdays and Thursdays in future, Maisie?’ Mr Holcombe asked as they strolled across to the pub with the rest of the class.

‘Why?’ asked Maisie. ‘Aren’t I good enough?’

‘Am I not good enough,’ corrected the schoolmaster without thinking. ‘On the contrary,’ he added, ‘I’ve decided to put you into the intermediate class, before this lot,’ he said, indicating her fellow classmates with the sweep of an arm, ‘become overwhelmed.’

‘But won’t I be out of my depth, Arnold?’

‘I do hope so, but no doubt you’ll have caught up by the end of the month, by which time I’ll have to put you into the advanced class.’

Maisie didn’t respond, as she knew it wouldn’t be too long before she would have to tell Arnold that she’d made other plans for the end of the month.

Once again, they ended up sitting alone together at the bar, and once again he accompanied her back to Still House Lane, only this time, when Maisie took the front-door key out of her bag, she thought he looked as if he might be trying to summon up the courage to kiss her. Surely not. Hadn’t she got enough problems to cope with?

‘I was just wondering,’ he said, ‘which book you ought to read first.’

‘It won’t be a book,’ said Maisie as she placed the key in the lock, ‘it will be a letter.’

30

PATRICK CASEY had breakfast, lunch and dinner in the hotel restaurant on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Maisie assumed that he would take her to dinner at the Plimsoll Line in the hope that it might evoke past memories. In fact, she hadn’t been back to the restaurant since Patrick had disappeared off to Ireland. She was right, and it did.

Maisie was determined that she would not be seduced once again by Patrick’s charm and good looks, and she intended to tell him about Mike and their plans for the future. But as the evening progressed, she found it more and more difficult to raise the subject.

‘So, what have you been up to since I was last in Bristol?’ Patrick asked her over a pre-dinner drink in the lounge bar. ‘Not that anyone could miss the fact that you’re running the best hotel restaurant in the city while somehow managing to fit in evening classes at the same time.’

‘Yes, I shall miss all that when…’ she began wistfully.

‘When what?’ asked Patrick.

‘It’s only a twelve-week course,’ said Maisie, trying to recover.

‘In twelve weeks’ time,’ said Patrick, ‘my bet is you’ll be the one who’s giving the classes.’

‘What about you? What have you been up to?’ she asked as the head waiter came over to tell them their table was ready.

Patrick didn’t answer the question until they’d sat down at a quiet table in the corner of the room.

‘You may remember I was promoted to deputy manager of the company about three years ago, which is why I had to go back to Dublin.’

‘I haven’t forgotten why you had to go back to Dublin,’ said Maisie with some feeling.

‘I tried to return to Bristol several times, but once war broke out, it proved almost impossible, and it didn’t help that I couldn’t even write to you.’

‘Well, that problem may well be solved in the near future.’

‘Then you can read to me in bed.’

‘And how has your company fared during these hard times?’ asked Maisie, steering the conversation back on to safer ground.

‘Actually, a lot of Irish companies have done rather well out of the war. Because of the country’s neutrality, we’ve been able to deal with both sides.’

‘You’re willing to do business with the Germans?’ said Maisie in disbelief.

‘No, as a company we’ve always made it clear where our allegiances lie, but you won’t be surprised to know that quite a few of my countrymen are happy to do business with the Germans. Because of that, we had a couple of tough years, but once the Americans entered the war, even the Irish began to believe the Allies might end up on the winning side.’

That was her chance to tell Patrick about one American in particular, but she didn’t take it. ‘So what brings you to Bristol now?’ she asked.

‘The simple answer is, you.’

‘Me?’ Maisie quickly tried to think of a convincing way of bringing the conversation back on to a less personal footing.

‘Yes. Our managing director will be retiring at the end of the year, and the chairman has asked me to take his place.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Maisie, relieved to be back on safer ground. ‘And you want me to take over as your deputy,’ she added, trying to make light of it.

‘No, I want you to be my wife.’

Maisie’s tone changed. ‘Didn’t it cross your mind, Patrick, just for one moment during the past three years, that someone else might have come into my life?’

‘Daily,’ said Patrick, ‘which is why I came over to find out if there was someone else.’

Maisie hesitated. ‘Yes, there is.’

‘And has he asked you to marry him?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Have you accepted his proposal?’

‘No, but I’ve promised to let him have my answer before he returns to America at the end of the month,’ she said more firmly.

‘Does that mean I’m still in with a chance?’

‘Frankly, Patrick, the odds are stacked against you. You haven’t been in touch for nearly three years, and suddenly you turn up out of the blue as if nothing’s changed.’

Patrick made no attempt to defend himself, while a waiter served their main courses. ‘I wish it was that easy,’ he said.

‘Patrick, it was always that easy. If you’d asked me to marry you three years ago, I would have happily jumped on the first boat to Ireland.’

‘I couldn’t ask you then.’

Maisie put down her knife and fork without taking a bite. ‘I always wondered if you were married.’

‘Why didn’t you say something at the time?’

‘I was so much in love with you, Patrick, I was even willing to suffer that indignity.’

‘And to think I only returned to Ireland because I couldn’t ask you to be my wife.’

‘And has that changed?’

‘Yes. Bryony left me over a year ago. She met someone who took more interest in her than I did, which wouldn’t have been difficult.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Maisie, ‘why is my life always so complicated?’

Patrick smiled. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disrupted your life again, but I won’t give in so easily this time, not while I still believe there’s even the slightest chance.’ He leant across the table and took her hand. A moment later the waiter reappeared by their side, an anxious look on his face as he looked at the two untouched plates of food that had been allowed to go cold.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Maisie. ‘It’s not.’

Maisie lay awake and thought about the two men in her life. Mike, so reliable, so kind, who she knew would be faithful until his dying day, and Patrick, so exciting, so alive, with whom there would never be a dull moment. She changed her mind several times during the night, and it didn’t help that she had so little time to make her decision.

When she came down to breakfast the following morning, her mother didn’t mince her words when Maisie asked her, if given the choice, which of the two men she should marry.

‘Mike,’ she said without hesitation. ‘He’ll be far more reliable in the long run, and marriage is for the long run. In any case,’ she added, ‘I’ve never trusted the Irish.’

Maisie considered her mother’s words, and was about to ask another question when Stan barged into the room. Once he’d gulped down his porridge, he barged into her thoughts.

‘Aren’t you seeing the bank manager today?’

Maisie didn’t reply.

‘I thought so. Just make sure you come straight home with my ’undred quid. If you don’t, my girl, I’ll come looking for you.’

‘How nice to see you again, madam,’ said Mr Prendergast as he ushered Maisie into a chair just after four o’clock that afternoon. He waited for Maisie to settle before he ventured, ‘Have you been able to give my client’s generous offer some thought?’

Maisie smiled. With one word, Mr Prendergast had given away whose interests he was looking after.

‘I most certainly have,’ Maisie replied, ‘and I would be obliged if you would tell your client that I wouldn’t consider accepting a penny less than four hundred pounds.’

Mr Prendergast’s mouth opened.

‘And as it’s possible that I might be leaving Bristol at the end of the month, perhaps you’d also be kind enough to tell your client that my generous offer will only remain on the table for one week.’

Mr Prendergast closed his mouth.

‘I’ll try to drop by again at the same time next week, Mr Prendergast, when you can let me know your client’s decision.’ Maisie rose from her place and gave the manager a sweet smile, before adding, ‘I do hope you have a pleasant weekend, Mr Prendergast.’

Maisie was finding it difficult to concentrate on Mr Holcombe’s words, and not just because the intermediate class was proving far more demanding than the beginners, which she already regretted forsaking. When her hand did go up, it was more often to ask a question than to answer one.

Arnold’s enthusiasm for his subject was contagious, and he had a real gift for making everyone feel equal and the most insignificant contribution seem important.

After twenty minutes of going back over what he called the basics he invited the class to turn to page 72 of Little Women. Numbers weren’t a problem for Maisie, and she quickly turned to the correct page. He then invited a woman in the third row to stand and read the first paragraph, while the rest of the class followed each sentence word for word. Maisie placed a finger at the top of the page and tried desperately to follow the narrative, but she soon lost her place.

When the schoolmaster asked an elderly man in the front row to read the same passage a second time, Maisie was able to identify some of the words, but she was praying that Arnold wouldn’t ask her to be next. She breathed a sigh of relief when someone else was invited to read the paragraph again. When the new reader sat down, Maisie bowed her head, but she didn’t escape.

‘And finally, I’m going to ask Mrs Clifton to stand up and read us the same passage.’

Maisie rose uncertainly from her place and tried to concentrate. She recited the entire paragraph almost word for word, without once looking down at the page. But then, she had spent so many years having to remember long, complicated restaurant orders.

Mr Holcombe gave her a warm smile as she sat down. ‘What a remarkable memory you have, Mrs Clifton.’ No one else seemed to pick up the significance of his words. ‘I would now like to move on and discuss the meaning of certain words in that paragraph. In the second line, for example, you’ll see the word betrothal, an old-fashioned word. Can anyone give me a more modern example, that has the same meaning?’

Several hands shot up, and Maisie’s would have been among them if she hadn’t recognized a familiar heavy step heading towards the classroom door.

‘Miss Wilson,’ said the schoolmaster.

‘Marriage,’ said Miss Wilson as the door burst open and Maisie’s brother barged into the room. He stopped in front of the blackboard, his eyes darting from person to person.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Mr Holcombe politely.

‘No,’ said Stan. ‘I’ve come to collect what’s rightfully mine, so keep your mouth shut, schoolmaster, if you know what’s good for you, and mind your own business.’ His eyes settled on Maisie.

Maisie had intended to tell him at breakfast that it would be another week before she found out if Mr Prendergast’s valued customer had accepted her counter-offer. But as Stan walked purposefully towards her, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to convince him that she didn’t have the money.

‘Where’s my cash?’ he demanded long before he’d reached her desk.

‘I haven’t got it yet,’ said Maisie. ‘You’re going to have to wait another week.’

‘Like hell I am,’ said Stan, who grabbed her by the hair and began to drag her, screaming, out from behind her desk. As he moved towards the door, the rest of the class sat mesmerized. Only one man stood in his path.

‘Get out of my way, schoolmaster.’

‘I suggest you let go of your sister, Mr Tancock, if you don’t want to be in even more trouble than you already are.’

‘From you and whose army?’ laughed Stan. ‘If you don’t fuck off, mate, I’ll knock your teeth right down your throat, and I promise you, that won’t be a pretty sight.’

Stan didn’t see the first punch coming, and when it landed in his solar plexus, he bent double, so he could be excused for not recovering before the second blow landed on his chin. The third sent him sprawling to the ground like a felled oak.

Stan lay on the floor, clutching his stomach, expecting a boot to be put in. The schoolmaster towered over him, and waited for him to recover. When he finally did, Stan rose unsteadily to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the schoolmaster as he edged slowly towards the door. When he thought he was at a safe distance, he looked back at Maisie, who was still lying on the floor, curled up in a ball, sobbing quietly.

‘You’d better not come home till you’ve got my money, my girl,’ he growled, ‘if you know what’s good for you!’ Without another word he stormed out into the corridor.

Even after Maisie heard the door slam, she was still too frightened to move. The rest of the class gathered up their books and slipped quietly out of the room. No one would be visiting the pub that night.

Mr Holcombe walked quickly across the room, knelt down beside his charge and gathered her trembling body in his arms. It was some time before he said, ‘You’d better come home with me tonight, Maisie. I’ll make up a bed in the spare room. You can stay for as long as you want to.’