Only Time Will Tell Read online

  ‘You’ve got the job, Mrs Clifton,’ were her new boss’s first words.

  Harry was left in the care of his grandmother whenever Maisie went to work. Although she was only paid nine pence an hour, she was allowed to keep half her tips, so that at the end of a good week she could take home as much as three pounds. There was also an unexpected bonus. Once the ‘open’ sign had been turned back to ‘closed’ at six o’clock in the evening, Miss Tilly would allow Maisie to take home any food that was left over. The word ‘stale’ was never allowed to cross a customer’s lips.

  After six months, Miss Tilly was so pleased with Maisie’s progress that she put her in charge of her own station of eight tables, and after another six months, several regulars would insist that Maisie served them. Miss Tilly solved the problem by increasing Maisie’s allocation of tables to twelve, and raising her pay to a shilling an hour. With two pay packets coming in each week, Maisie was once again able to wear both her engagement ring and her wedding ring, and the silver-plated tea strainer was back in its place.

  If Maisie was honest about it, Stan being released from prison for good behaviour after only eighteen months turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing.

  Harry, now aged three and a half, had to move back into his mother’s room, and Maisie tried not to think about just how peaceful it had been while Stan was away.

  Maisie was surprised when Stan got his old job back at the docks as if nothing had happened. This only convinced her that he knew far more about Arthur’s disappearance than he let on, however much she pressed him. On one occasion when she became a little too persistent, he belted her one. Although, the following morning, Miss Tilly pretended not to notice the black eye, one or two of the customers did, so Maisie never raised the subject with her brother again. But whenever Harry asked him about his father, Stan stuck to the family line and said, ‘Your old man was killed in the war. I was standin’ by his side when the bullet hit him.’

  Maisie spent as much of her spare time with Harry as she could. She assumed that once he was old enough to attend Merrywood Elementary School, her life would become a lot easier. But taking Harry to school in the morning meant the added expense of a tram ride to make sure she was not late for work. She would then take a break in the afternoon so she could pick him up from school. Once Maisie had given him his tea, she would leave him in the care of his grandma and return to work.

  Harry had only been at school for a few days when Maisie noticed some cane marks on his backside while she was giving him his weekly bath.

  ‘Who did that?’ she demanded.

  ‘The headmaster.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can’t tell you, Mum.’

  When Maisie saw six new red stripes even before the previous ones had faded, she questioned Harry again, but still he didn’t let on. The third time the marks appeared, she put on her coat and set off for Merrywood Elementary with the intention of giving his teacher a piece of her mind.

  Mr Holcombe wasn’t at all what Maisie had expected. To start with, he couldn’t have been much older than she was, and he stood up when she entered the room - not at all like the teachers she remembered from her days at Merrywood.

  ‘Why is my son being caned by the headmaster?’ she demanded, even before Mr Holcombe had a chance to offer her a seat.

  ‘Because he keeps playing truant, Mrs Clifton. He disappears soon after morning assembly, and gets back in time for football in the afternoon.’

  ‘So where is he spending the day?’

  ‘At the docks would be my guess,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell me why.’

  ‘Because his uncle works there, and he’s always telling Harry that school is a waste of time because sooner or later he’ll end up joining him at Barrington’s.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Mr Holcombe.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Maisie. ‘It was good enough for his father.’

  ‘That may well be, but it won’t be good enough for Harry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maisie asked indignantly.

  ‘Harry is bright, Mrs Clifton. Very bright. If only I could persuade him to attend class more regularly, there’s no saying what he might achieve.’

  Maisie suddenly wondered if she would ever find out which of the two men was Harry’s father.

  ‘Some clever children don’t discover how bright they are until after they’ve left school,’ continued Mr Holcombe, ‘and then spend the rest of their lives regretting the wasted years. I want to make sure Harry does not fall into that category.’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ asked Maisie, finally sitting down.

  ‘Encourage him to stay at school, and not slope off to the docks every day. Tell him how proud you’d be if he did well in class, and not only on the football field - which, just in case you didn’t realize, Mrs Clifton, isn’t his forte.’

  ‘His forte?’

  ‘I do apologize. But even Harry must have worked out by now that he’s never going to make the school XI, let alone play for Bristol City.’

  ‘I’ll do anything I can to help,’ promised Maisie.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Clifton,’ said Mr Holcombe as Maisie rose to leave. ‘If you felt able to encourage him, I’ve no doubt it will be far more effective in the long term than the headmaster’s cane.’

  From that day, Maisie began to take a far greater interest in what Harry got up to at school. She enjoyed listening to his stories about Mr Holcombe and what he’d taught him that day, and as the stripes didn’t reappear, she assumed he must have stopped playing truant. And then one night just before going to bed, she checked on the sleeping child and found that the stripes were back, redder and deeper than before. She didn’t need to go and see Mr Holcombe, because he called in at the tea shop the following day.

  ‘He managed to come to my class for a whole month,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘and then he disappeared again.’

  ‘But I don’t know what more I can do,’ said Maisie helplessly. ‘I’ve already stopped his pocket money, and told him not to expect another penny from me unless he stays at school. The truth is, his uncle Stan has far more influence over him than I do.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘But I may have found a solution to our problem, Mrs Clifton. However, it has no chance of succeeding without your full cooperation.’

  Maisie assumed that although she was only twenty-six, she would never marry again. After all, widows with a child in tow were not much of a catch when there were so many single women available. The fact that she always wore her engagement and wedding rings probably cut down the number of propositions she received at the tea shop, although one or two still tried it on. She didn’t include dear old Mr Craddick, who just liked to hold her hand.

  Mr Atkins was one of Miss Tilly’s regulars, and he liked to sit at one of the tables where Maisie was serving. He dropped in most mornings, always ordering a black coffee and a piece of fruit cake. To Maisie’s surprise, after he’d paid his bill one morning, he invited her to the cinema.

  ‘Greta Garbo in Flesh and the Devil,’ he said, trying to make it sound more tempting.

  This wasn’t the first time one of the customers had asked Maisie out, but it was the first time someone young and good-looking had shown any interest.

  In the past, her stock response had succeeded in putting off the most persistent of suitors. ‘How kind of you, Mr Atkins, but I like to spend any spare time I have with my son.’

  ‘Surely you could make an exception for just one evening?’ he said, not giving up quite as easily as the others.

  Maisie glanced quickly at his left hand: no sign of a wedding ring, or, even more damning, a pale circle revealing that one had been removed.

  She heard herself saying, ‘How kind of you, Mr Atkins,’ and agreed to meet him on Thursday evening, after she’d put Harry to bed.

  ‘Call me Eddie,’ he said, leaving a sixpenny tip.

  Maisie was impressed when Eddie turned