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 hi
m 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.