Clifton Chronicles 02 - The Sins of the Father (26 page)

‘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

M
AISIE 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.