Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (22 page)

Maisie heard one set of footsteps moving away. She froze when the car door opened.

He got in, took his place behind the wheel and pulled the door closed. Doesn’t have a chauffeur, prefers to drive the Bugatti himself, fancies himself behind the wheel – all priceless pieces of information supplied by Old Jack.

He switched on the ignition and the vehicle shuddered into life. He revved the engine several times before crunching the gear lever into first. The man on the gate saluted as Mr Barrington drove out on to the main road and headed towards the city, just as he did every night, on his way back to the Manor House.

‘Don’t let him know you’re in the back until he’s reached the city centre,’ Old Jack had advised. ‘He won’t risk stopping there, because he’ll be afraid someone might see you together and recognize him. But once he reaches the outskirts of the city, he won’t hesitate to chuck you out. You’ll have ten to fifteen minutes at most.’

‘That’s all I’ll need,’ Maisie had told him.

Maisie waited until he’d driven past the cathedral and across College Green, which was always busy at that time of night. But just as she was about to sit up and tap him on the shoulder, the car began to slow down and then came to a halt. The door opened, he got out, the door closed. Maisie peered between the front seats and was horrified to see that he had parked outside the Royal Hotel.

A dozen thoughts flashed through her mind. Should she jump out before it was too late? Why was he visiting the Royal? Was it a coincidence that it was on her day off? How long did he plan to be there? She decided to stay put, fearing she would be spotted if she got out in such a public place. Besides, this could well be her last chance to confront him face to face before the bill had to be paid.

The answer to one of her questions turned out to be twenty minutes, but long before he got back into the driver’s seat and drove off, Maisie was in a cold sweat. She had no idea her heart could beat that fast. She waited until he had gone about half a mile before she sat up and tapped him on the shoulder.

He looked shocked as he turned round, which was followed by a look of recognition, and then realization. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, recovering slightly.

‘I have a feeling you know exactly what I want,’ said Maisie. ‘My only interest is Harry, and making sure his school fees are paid for the next two years.’

‘Give me one good reason why I should pay your son’s school fees.’

‘Because he’s your son,’ Maisie replied calmly.

‘And what makes you so sure of that?’

‘I watched you when you first saw him at St Bede’s,’ said Maisie, ‘and every Sunday at St Mary’s when he sang in the choir. I saw the look in your eyes then, and I saw it again when you refused to shake hands with him on the first day of term.’

‘That’s not proof,’ said Barrington, sounding a little more confident. ‘It’s nothing more than a woman’s intuition.’

‘Then perhaps the time has come to let another woman know what you get up to on a works outing.’

‘What makes you think she’d believe you?’

‘Nothing more than a woman’s intuition,’ said Maisie. This silenced him, and gave her the confidence to continue. ‘Mrs Barrington might also be interested to know why you went to so much trouble to have my brother arrested the day after Arthur disappeared.’

‘A coincidence, nothing more.’

‘And is it also just a coincidence that my husband has never been seen since?’

‘I had nothing to do with Clifton’s death!’ shouted Barrington as he swerved across the road, narrowly missing an oncoming vehicle.

Maisie sat bolt upright, stunned by what she’d heard. ‘So it was you who was responsible for my husband’s death.’

‘You have no proof of that,’ he said defiantly.

‘I don’t need any more proof. But in spite of all the damage you’ve done to my family over the years, I’ll still give you an easy way out. You take care of Harry’s education while he’s still at Bristol Grammar School, and I won’t bother you again.’

It was some time before Barrington responded. He eventually said, ‘I’ll need a few days to work out the best way to handle the payments.’

‘The company’s charitable trust could easily take care of such a small amount,’ said Maisie. ‘After all, your father is chairman of the governors.’

This time he didn’t have a ready response. Was he wondering how she’d come across that piece of information? He wasn’t the first person to underestimate Old Jack. Maisie opened her handbag, pulled out the thin brown envelope and placed it on the seat beside him.

The car swung into an unlit alley. Barrington jumped out and opened the back door. Maisie stepped out, feeling that the confrontation couldn’t have gone much better. As her feet touched the ground, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her violently.

‘Now you listen to me, Maisie Clifton, and listen carefully,’ he said, a look of fury in his eyes. ‘If you ever threaten me again, I’ll not only see that your brother is sacked, but I’ll make sure he never works in this city again. And if you’re ever foolish enough to even hint to my wife that I’m that boy’s father, I’ll have you arrested, and it won’t be a prison you’ll end up in, but a mental asylum.’

He let go of her, clenched a fist and then punched her full in the face. She collapsed on to the ground and curled up into a ball, expecting him to kick her again and again. When nothing happened, she looked up to see him standing over her. He was tearing the thin brown envelope into little pieces and scattering them like confetti over a bride.

Without another word, he jumped back into the car and sped away.

When the white envelope came through the letterbox, Maisie knew she was beaten. She would have to tell Harry the truth when he got back from school that afternoon. But first she had to drop into the bank, deposit her meagre tips from the previous evening, and tell Mr Prendergast there would be no more bills from BGS, as her son would be leaving at the end of term.

She decided to walk to the bank and save a penny on the tram fare. On the way, she thought about all the people she’d let down. Would Miss Tilly and Miss Monday ever forgive her? Several of her staff, particularly some of the older ones, hadn’t been able to find another job. Then there were her parents, who had always watched over Harry so that she could go to work; Old Jack, who couldn’t have done more to help her son; and most of all, Harry himself, who in the words of Mr Holcombe, was about to be crowned with the laurels of victory.

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.