The Sins of the Father Read online

  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.