Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(27)

On Sunday afternoon, Giles had a long net; on Monday, Deakins reluctantly handed over his responsibilities to the new library monitor, and on Tuesday Harry read Far from the Madding Crowd and cursed out loud. On Wednesday night, Giles and Harry talked into the small hours, while Deakins slept soundly.





Long before the clock on the tower struck ten that Thursday morning, forty boys were already roaming around the quad, hands in pockets, heads bowed as they waited for the headmaster to make his appearance. Although every one of them knew that Dr Oakshott wouldn’t be a minute early or a minute late, by five to ten most eyes were staring across the quad waiting for the door of the headmaster’s house to open. The rest were looking up at the clock on the great hall, willing the minute hand to move a little faster.

As the first chime sounded, the Reverend Samuel Oakshott opened his front door and stepped out on to the path. He was carrying a sheet of paper in one hand and four tin-tacks in the other. Not a man who left anything to chance. When he reached the end of the path, he opened the little wicket gate and walked across the quad at his usual pace, oblivious to all around him. The boys quickly stood aside, creating a corridor so the headmaster’s progress would not be impeded. He came to a halt in front of the notice board as the tenth chime rang out. He posted the exam results on the board, and departed without a word.

Forty boys rushed forward, forming a scrum around the notice board. No one was surprised that Deakins headed the list, with 92 per cent, and had been awarded the Peloquin Scholarship to Bristol Grammar School. Giles leapt in the air, making no attempt to disguise his relief when he saw 64 per cent by his name.

They both turned to look for their friend. Harry was standing alone, far from the madding crowd.





MAISIE CLIFTON



1920-1936





11


When Arthur and me got married, the occasion couldn’t have been described as pushing the boat out, but then, neither the Tancocks nor the Cliftons ever did have two brass farthings to rub together. The biggest expense turned out to be the choir, half a crown, and worth every penny. I’d always wanted to be a member of Miss Monday’s choir, and although she told me my voice was good enough, I wasn’t considered on account of the fact I couldn’t read or write.

The reception, if you could call it that, was held at Arthur’s parents’ terraced house in Still House Lane: a barrel of beer, some peanut butter sandwiches and a dozen pork pies. My brother Stan even brought his own fish and chips. And to top it all, we had to leave early to catch the last bus to Weston-super-Mare for our honeymoon. Arthur booked us into a seafront guest house on the Friday evening, and as it rained for most of the weekend, we rarely left the bedroom.

It felt strange that the second time I had sex was also in Weston-super-Mare. I was shocked when I saw Arthur naked for the first time. A deep red, roughly stitched scar stretched tight across his stomach. Damn the Germans. He never said he’d been wounded during the war.

I wasn’t surprised that Arthur became aroused the moment I pulled off my slip, but I must admit I’d expected him to take his boots off before we made love.

We checked out of the guest house on Sunday afternoon and caught the last bus back to Bristol, as Arthur had to report to the dockyard by six o’clock on Monday morning.

After the wedding, Arthur moved into our house – just until we could afford a place of our own, he told my father, which usually meant until one of our parents passed away. In any case, both our families had lived on Still House Lane for as long as anyone could remember.

Arthur was delighted when I told him I was in the family way, because he wanted at least six babies. My worry was whether the first would be his, but, as only my mum and I knew the truth, there was no reason for Arthur to be suspicious.

Eight months later I gave birth to a boy, and thank God there was nothing to suggest that he wasn’t Arthur’s. We christened him Harold, which pleased my father, because it meant his name would survive for another generation.

From then on, I took it for granted that, like Mum and Gran, I would be stuck at home having a baby every other year. After all, Arthur came from a family of eight, and I was the fourth of five. But Harry turned out to be my only child.





Arthur usually came straight home after work of an evening so he could spend some time with the baby before I put him to bed. When he didn’t turn up that Friday night, I assumed he’d gone off to the pub with my brother. But when Stan staggered in just after midnight, blind drunk and flashing a wad of fivers, Arthur was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Stan gave me one of the fivers, which made me wonder if he’d robbed a bank. But when I asked him where Arthur was, he clammed up.

I didn’t go to bed that night, just sat on the bottom step of the stairs waiting for my husband to come home. Arthur had never stayed out all night from the day we was married.

Although Stan had sobered up by the time he came down to the kitchen the following morning, he didn’t say a word during breakfast. When I asked him again where Arthur was, he claimed he hadn’t seen him since they’d clocked off work the previous evening. It’s not difficult to tell when Stan’s lying, because he won’t look you in the eye. I was about to press him further when I heard a loud banging on the front door. My first thought was that it must be Arthur, so I rushed to answer it.