They both turned to look for their friend. Harry was standing alone, far from the madding crowd.
MAISIE CLIFTON
1920-1936
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 o
n 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.