Jeffrey Archer - Only Time Will Tell

‘How can I begin to thank you for all you’ve done for me over the years?’ said Maisie.

‘It’s Harry who should be thanking you,’ said Miss Tilly, ‘and I suspect it will only be a matter of time before he realizes that.’

Maisie started her new job a month later, and it didn’t take her long to discover why the Palm Court was never more than a third full.

The waitresses regarded their work simply as a job, unlike Miss Tilly, who considered it to be a vocation. They never bothered to remember the customers’ names, or their favourite tables. Worse, the coffee was often cold by the time it was served, and the cakes were left to go stale until someone bought them. Maisie wasn’t surprised they didn’t get any tips; they didn’t deserve them.

After another month, she began to realize just how much Miss Tilly had taught her.

After three months, Maisie had replaced five of the seven waitresses, without having to recruit anyone from Tilly’s. She had also ordered smart new uniforms for all her staff, along with new plates, cups and saucers and, even more important, changed her coffee supplier and her cake-maker. That was something she was willing to steal from Miss Tilly.

‘You’re costing me a lot of money, Maisie,’ said Mr Frampton when another stack of bills landed on his desk. Try not to forget what I said about return on investment.’

‘Give me another six months, Mr Frampton, and you’ll see the results.’

Although Maisie worked night and day, she always found time to drop Harry off at school in the morning and pick him up in the afternoon. But she warned Mr Frampton that there would be one day when she wouldn’t be on time for work.

When she told him why, he gave her the whole day off.

Just before they left the house, Maisie checked herself in the mirror. She was dressed in her Sunday best but not going to church. She smiled down at her son, who looked so smart in his new red and black school uniform. Even so, she felt a little self-conscious as they waited at the tram stop.

‘Two to Park Street,’ she told the clippie when the No. 11 pulled away. She was unable to hide her pride when she noticed him taking a closer look at Harry. It only convinced Maisie that she had made the right decision.

When they reached their stop, Harry refused to let his mum carry his suitcase. Maisie held on to his hand as they walked slowly up the hill towards the school, not sure which one of them was more nervous. She couldn’t take her eyes off the hansom cabs and chauffeur-driven cars that were dropping off other boys for their first day of term. She only hoped that Harry would be able to find at least one friend among them. After all, some of the nannies were better dressed than she was.

Harry began to slow down as they got nearer the school gates. Maisie could sense his discomfort – or was it just fear of the unknown?

‘I’ll leave you now,’ she said, and bent down to kiss him. ‘Good luck, Harry. Make us all proud of you.’

‘Goodbye, Mum.’

As she watched him walk away, Maisie noticed that someone else appeared to be taking an interest in Harry Clifton.

MAISIE WOULD NEVER FORGET the first time she had to turn away a customer.

‘I’m sure there will be a table available in a few minutes, sir.’

She prided herself on the fact that once a customer had paid the bill, her staff could clear the table, replace the cloth and have it re-laid and ready for the next guest within five minutes.

The Palm Court quickly became so popular that Maisie had to keep a couple of tables permanently reserved, just in case one of her regulars turned up unexpectedly.

She was a little embarrassed that some of her old customers from Tilly’s had begun to migrate to the Palm Court, not least dear old Mr Craddick, who remembered Harry from his paper round. She considered it an even greater compliment when Miss Tilly herself began to drop in for a morning coffee.

‘Just checking on the opposition,’ she said. ‘By the way, Maisie, this coffee is superb.’

‘So it should be,’ Maisie replied. ‘It’s yours.’

Eddie Atkins also came in from time to time, and if the size of his cigars, not to mention his waistline, was anything to go by, the sky must still have been the limit. Although he was friendly, he never asked Maisie out, but he did regularly remind her that his door was always open.

Not that Maisie didn’t have a string of admirers she occasionally allowed to take her out in the evening, maybe to dinner at a fashionable restaurant, sometimes a visit to the Old Vic or the cinema, especially if a Greta Garbo film was playing. But when they parted at the end of the evening, she allowed none of them more than a peck on the cheek before returning home. At least, not until she met Patrick Casey, who proved that the charm of the Irish was not just a cliche.

When Patrick first walked into the Palm Court, hers wasn’t the only head that turned to take a closer look. He was a shade over six foot, with wavy dark hair and the build of an athlete. That would have been enough for most women, but it was the smile that captivated Maisie, as, she suspected, it had many others.

Patrick told her he was in finance, but then Eddie had said he was in the entertainment business. His work brought him to Bristol once or twice a month, when Maisie would allow him to take her to dinner, the theatre or the cinema, and occasionally she even broke her golden rule, and didn’t take the last tram back to Still House Lane.

She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Patrick had a wife and half a dozen offspring back at home in Cork, although he swore, hand on heart, that he was a bachelor.

Whenever Mr Holcombe dropped into the Palm Court, Maisie would guide him to a table in the far corner of the room that was partly obscured by a large pillar and was shunned by her regulars. But its privacy allowed her to bring him up to date on how Harry was getting on.

Today, he seemed more interested in the future than the past, and asked, ‘Have you decided what Harry will do once he leaves St Bede’s?’

‘I haven’t given it much thought,’ Maisie admitted. ‘After all, it’s not for some time.’

‘It’s soon enough,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘and I can’t believe you’ll want him to return to Merrywood Elementary.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Maisie firmly, ‘but what choice is there?’

‘Harry says he’d like to go to Bristol Grammar School, but if he fails to win a scholarship, he’s worried that you won’t be able to afford the fees.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Maisie assured him. ‘With my present pay, combined with the tips, no one need know his mother is a waitress.’

‘Some waitress,’ said Mr Holcombe, looking around the packed room. ‘I’m only surprised you haven’t opened your own place.’

Maisie laughed, and didn’t give it another thought until she had an unexpected visit from Miss Tilly.

Maisie attended Matins at St Mary Redcliffe every Sunday so she could hear her son sing. Miss Monday had warned her that it wouldn’t be much longer before Harry’s voice broke, and she mustn’t assume that a few weeks later he’d be singing tenor solos.

Maisie tried to concentrate on the canon’s sermon that Sunday morning but found her mind drifting. She glanced across the aisle to see Mr and Mrs Barrington sitting with their son Giles and two young girls who she assumed must be their daughters, but whose names she didn’t know. Maisie had been surprised when Harry told her that Giles Barrington was his closest friend. Nothing more than a coincidence of the alphabet had put them together in the first place, he’d said. She hoped it would never become necessary for her to tell him that Giles might be more than just a good friend.