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 sca
ttered 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.