Only Time Will Tell Read online

  When she reached the bank, she joined the longest queue, as she was in no hurry to be served.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Clifton,’ said the teller cheerfully when she eventually reached the front of the line.

  ‘Good morning,’ Maisie replied before placing four shillings and sixpence on the counter.

  The teller checked the amount carefully, then placed the coins in different trays below the counter. He next wrote out a slip to confirm the sum Mrs Clifton had deposited, and handed it to her. Maisie stood to one side to allow the next customer to take her place while she put the slip in her bag.

  ‘Mrs Clifton,’ said the teller.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, looking back up.

  ‘The manager was hoping to have a word with you.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ she said. Maisie didn’t need him to tell her there wasn’t enough money in her account to cover the latest invoice from the school. In fact, it would be a relief to let Mr Prendergast know there would be no further bills for extracurricular activities.

  The young man led her silently across the banking hall and down a long corridor. When he reached the manager’s office, he knocked gently on the door, opened it and said, ‘Mrs Clifton, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Prendergast. ‘I do need to have a word with you, Mrs Clifton. Please come in.’ Where had she heard that voice before?

  ‘Mrs Clifton,’ he continued once she was seated, ‘I am sorry to have to inform you that we have been unable to honour your most recent cheque for thirty-seven pounds ten shillings, made payable to Bristol Municipal Charities. Were you to present it again, I fear there are still insufficient funds in your account to cover the full amount. Unless, of course, you anticipate depositing any further funds in the near future?’

  ‘No,’ said Maisie, taking the white envelope from her bag and placing it on the desk in front of him. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to let the BMC know that, given time, I will pay off any other expenses that have arisen during Harry’s last term.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Clifton,’ said Mr Prendergast. ‘I only wish I could help in some way.’ He picked up the white envelope. ‘May I open this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Maisie, who until that moment had tried to avoid finding out just how much she still owed the school.

  Mr Prendergast picked up a thin silver paperknife from his desk and slit open the envelope. He extracted a cheque from the Bristol and West of England Insurance Company to the value of six hundred pounds, made payable to Mrs Maisie Clifton.

  HUGO BARRINGTON

  1921-1936

  20

  I wouldn’t even have remembered her name, if she hadn’t later accused me of killing her husband.

  It all began when my father insisted I accompany the workers on their annual outing to Weston-super-Mare. ‘Good for their morale to see the chairman’s son taking an interest,’ he said.

  I wasn’t convinced, and quite frankly considered the whole exercise a waste of time, but once my father has made up his mind about anything, there is no point arguing. And it would have been a waste of time if Maisie - such a common name - hadn’t come along for the ride. Even I was surprised to find how eager she was to jump into bed with the boss’s son. I assumed that once we were back in Bristol, I’d never hear from her again. Perhaps I wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t married Arthur Clifton.

  I was sitting at my desk going over the tender for the Maple Leaf, checking and rechecking the figures, hoping to find some way the company might save a little money, but however hard I tried, the bottom line didn’t make good reading. It didn’t help that it had been my decision to tender for the contract.

  My opposite number at Myson had driven a hard bargain, and after several delays I hadn’t budgeted for, we were running five months behind schedule, with penalty clauses that would be triggered should we fail to complete the build by December 15th. What had originally looked like a dream contract that would show a handsome profit, was turning into a nightmare, where we would wake up on December 15th with heavy losses.

  My father had been against Barrington’s taking on the contract in the first place and had made his views clear. ‘We should stick to what we’re good at,’ he repeated from the chair at every board meeting. ‘For the past hundred years, Barrington’s Shipping Line has transported goods to and from the far corners of the earth, leaving our rivals in Belfast, Liverpool and Newcastle to build ships.’

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to sway him, so I spent my time trying to persuade the younger members of the board that we had missed out on several opportunities in recent years, while others had snapped up lucrative contracts that could easily have come our way. I finally convinced them, by a slim majority, to dip a toe in the water and sign up with Myson to build them a cargo vessel to add to their fast-growing fleet.

  ‘If we do a good job and deliver the Maple Leaf on time,’ I told the board, ‘more contracts are sure to follow.’

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t live to regret it,’ was my father’s only comment after he’d lost the vote at the board meeting.

  I was already regretting it. Although the Barrington Line was predicting record profits for 1921, it was beginning to look as if its new subsidiary, Barrington Shipbuilding, would be the only red entry on the annual balance sheet. Some members of the board were already distancing themselves from the decision, while reminding everyone that they had voted with my father.

  I had only recently been appointed managing director of the company and I could just imagine what was being said behind my back. ‘Chip off the old block’ clearly wasn’t on anyone’s lips. One director had already resigned and couldn’t have made his views more clear when he departed, warning my father, ‘The boy lacks judgement. Be careful he doesn’t end up bankrupting the company.’

  But I hadn’t given up. I remained convinced that as long as we finished the job on time, we could still break even, and possibly make a small profit. So much depended on what happened during the next few weeks. I’d already given the order to work round the clock in three eight-hour shifts, and promised the workforce handsome bonuses if they managed to complete the contract on time. After all, there were enough men hanging around outside the gates, desperate for work.

  I was just about to tell my secretary I was going home, when he burst into my office unannounced.

  He was a short, squat man, with heavy shoulders and bulging muscles, the build of a stevedore. My first thought was to wonder how he had managed to get past Miss Potts, who followed in his wake looking unusually flustered. ‘I couldn’t stop him,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Shall I call the watchman?’

  I looked into the man’s eyes and said, ‘No.’

  Miss Potts remained by the door while we sized each other up, like a mongoose and a snake, each wondering who would strike first. Then the man reluctantly removed his cap and started jabbering. It was some time before I could understand what he was saying.

  ‘My best mate’s goin’ to die! Arthur Clifton’s goin’ to die unless you do somethin’ about it.’

  I told him to calm down and explain what the problem was, when my works manager came charging into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled by Tancock, sir,’ he said once he’d caught his breath, ‘but I can assure you it’s all under control. Nothin’ for you to worry about.’

  ‘What is all under control?’ I asked.

  ‘Tancock here claims that his mate Clifton was workin’ inside the hull when the shift changed, and the new shift somehow managed to seal him inside.’

  ‘Come and see for yourself!’ shouted Tancock. ‘You can hear him tappin’!’

  ‘Could that be possible, Haskins?’ I asked.

  ‘Anything’s possible, sir, but it’s more likely Clifton’s buggered off for the day and is already in the pub.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he signed off at the gate?’ demanded Tancock.

  ‘Nothing unusual in that, sir,’ said Haski