Jeffrey Archer - Only Time Will Tell

Once I’d settled Mr Sparks down in the kitchen and poured him a cup of tea, I told him, ‘Not a brass farthing. They say he left without giving notice, so they aren’t responsible for his actions. And I still don’t know what really happened that day.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘They’ve all clammed up, not just the management, but the workers as well. I can’t get a word out of them. “More than my life’s worth,” one of them told me. But your husband’s subs were fully paid up,’ he added, ‘so you’re entitled to union compensation.’

I just stood there, with no idea what he was going on about.

Mr Sparks took a document out of his briefcase, placed it on the kitchen table and turned to the back page.

‘Sign here,’ he said placing a forefinger on the dotted line.

After I had put an X where he was pointing, he took an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I’m sorry it’s so little,’ he said as he handed it to me.

I didn’t open the envelope until he had finished his cup of tea and left.

Seven pounds, nine shillings and sixpence turned out to be the value they’d put on Arthur’s life. I sat alone at the kitchen table, and I think that was the moment I knew I’d never see my husband again.

That afternoon I went back to the pawn shop and redeemed my wedding ring from Mr Cohen; it was the least I could do in memory of Arthur. The following morning I cleared the rent arrears, as well as the slate at the butcher, the baker and yes, the candlestick maker. There was just enough left over to buy some second-hand clothes from the church jumble sale, mostly for Harry.

But it was less than a month before the chalk was once again scratching across the slate at the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, and it wasn’t long after that I had to return to the pawn shop and hand my wedding ring back to Mr Cohen.

When the rent collector came knocking on the door of number 27 and never received a reply, I suppose none of the family should have been surprised that the next caller would be the bailiff. That was when I decided the time had come for me to look for a job.

MAISIE’S ATTEMPTS to find a job didn’t turn out to be easy, not least because the government had recently issued a directive to all employers advising them to take on men who had served in the armed forces before considering any other candidates. This was in keeping with Lloyd George’s promise that Britain’s soldiers would return home to a land fit for heroes.

Although women over thirty had been given the vote at the last election after their sterling service in munitions factories during the war, they were pushed to the back of the queue when it came to peacetime jobs. Maisie decided that her best chance of finding employment was to apply for jobs men wouldn’t consider, either because they felt they were too demeaning, or the pay was derisory. With that in mind, Maisie stood in line outside W.D. & H.O. Wills, the city’s largest employer. When she reached the front of the queue, she asked the supervisor, ‘Is it true you’re looking for packers in the cigarette factory?’

‘Yes, but you’re too young, luv,’ he told her.

‘I’m twenty-two.’

‘You’re too young,’ he repeated. ‘Come back in two or three years’ time.’

Maisie was back at Still House Lane in time to share a bowl of chicken broth and a slice of last week’s bread with Harry and her mum.

The next day, she joined an even longer queue outside Harvey’s, the wine merchants. When she reached the front, three hours later, she was told by a man wearing a starched white collar and a thin black tie that they were only taking on applicants with experience.

‘So how do I get experience?’ Maisie asked, trying not to sound desperate.

‘By joining our apprentice scheme.’

‘Then I’ll join,’ she told the starched collar.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘You’re too old.’

Maisie repeated every word of the sixty-second interview to her mother over a thinner bowl of broth from the same pot along with a crust of bread from the same loaf.

‘You could always try the docks,’ her mother suggested.

‘What do you have in mind, Mum? Should I sign up to be a stevedore?’

Maisie’s mum didn’t laugh, but then Maisie couldn’t remember the last time she had. ‘They’ve always got work for cleaners,’ she said. ‘And God knows that lot owe you.’

Maisie was up and dressed long before the sun had risen the following morning and, as there wasn’t enough breakfast to go round, she set out hungry on the long walk to the docks.

When she arrived, Maisie told the man on the gate she was looking for a cleaning job.

‘Report to Mrs Nettles,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the large red-brick building she’d so nearly entered once before. ‘She’s in charge of hirin’ and firin’ cleaners.’ He clearly didn’t remember her from her previous visit.

Maisie walked uneasily towards the building, but came to a halt a few paces before she reached the front door. She stood and watched as a succession of smartly dressed men wearing hats and coats and carrying umbrellas made their way through the double doors.

Maisie remained rooted to the spot, shivering in the cold morning air as she tried to find enough courage to follow them inside. She was just about to turn away when she spotted an older woman in overalls entering another door, at the side of the building. Maisie chased after her.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman suspiciously once Maisie had caught up with her.

‘I’m lookin’ for a job.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘We could do with some young ’uns. Report to Mrs Nettles,’ she added, pointing towards a narrow door that might have been mistaken for a broom cupboard. Maisie walked boldly up to it and knocked.

‘Come on in,’ said a tired voice.

Maisie opened the door to find a woman of about her mother’s age sitting on the only chair, surrounded by buckets, mops and several large bars of soap.

‘I was told to report to you if I was lookin’ for a job.’

‘You was told right. That’s if you’re willing to work all the hours God gives, for damn all pay.’

‘What are the hours, and what’s the pay?’ asked Maisie.

‘You start at three in the morning, and you have to be off the premises by seven, before their nibs turns up, when they expect to find their offices spick and span. Or you can start at seven of an evening and work through till midnight, whichever suits you. Pay’s the same whatever you decide, sixpence an hour.’

‘I’ll do both shifts,’ said Maisie.

‘Good,’ the woman said, selecting a bucket and mop. ‘I’ll see you back here at seven this evenin’, when I’ll show you the ropes. My name’s Vera Nettles. What’s yours?’

‘Maisie Clifton.’

Mrs Nettles dropped the bucket on the floor and propped the mop back up against the wall. She walked across to the door and opened it. ‘There’s no work for you here, Mrs Clifton,’ she said.

Over the next month, Maisie tried to get a job in a shoe shop, but the manager didn’t feel he could employ someone with holes in her shoes; a milliner’s, where the interview was terminated the moment they discovered she couldn’t add up; and a flower shop, which wouldn’t consider taking on anyone who didn’t have their own garden. Grandpa’s allotment didn’t count. In desperation, she applied for a job as a barmaid in a local pub, but the landlord said, ‘Sorry, luv, but your tits aren’t big enough.’

The following Sunday at Holy Nativity, Maisie knelt and asked God to give her a helping hand.