Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(30)

‘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.

That hand turned out to be Miss Monday’s, who told Maisie she had a friend who owned a tea shop on Broad Street and was looking for a waitress.

‘But I don’t have any experience,’ said Maisie.

‘That may well prove to be an advantage,’ said Miss Monday. ‘Miss Tilly is most particular, and prefers to train her staff in her own way.’

‘Perhaps she’ll think I’m too old, or too young.’

‘You are neither too old nor too young,’ said Miss Monday. ‘And be assured, I wouldn’t recommend you if I didn’t think you were up to it. But I must warn you, Maisie, that Miss Tilly is a stickler for time-keeping. Be at the tea shop before eight o’clock tomorrow. If you’re late, that will not only be the first impression you make, but also the last.’

Maisie was standing outside Tilly’s Tea Shop at six o’clock the following morning, and didn’t budge for the next two hours. At five minutes to eight a plump, middle-aged, smartly dressed woman, with her hair arranged in a neat bun and a pair of half-moon spectacles propped on the end of her nose, turned the ‘closed’ sign on the door to ‘open’, to allow a frozen Maisie to step inside.

‘You’ve got the job, Mrs Clifton,’ were her new boss’s first words.





Harry was left in the care of his grandmother whenever Maisie went to work. Although she was only paid nine pence an hour, she was allowed to keep half her tips, so that at the end of a good week she could take home as much as three pounds. There was also an unexpected bonus. Once the ‘open’ sign had been turned back to ‘closed’ at six o’clock in the evening, Miss Tilly would allow Maisie to take home any food that was left over. The word ‘stale’ was never allowed to cross a customer’s lips.

After six months, Miss Tilly was so pleased with Maisie’s progress that she put her in charge of her own station of eight tables, and after another six months, several regulars would insist that Maisie served them. Miss Tilly solved the problem by increasing Maisie’s allocation of tables to twelve, and raising her pay to a shilling an hour. With two pay packets coming in each week, Maisie was once again able to wear both her engagement ring and her wedding ring, and the silver-plated tea strainer was back in its place.





If Maisie was honest about it, Stan being released from prison for good behaviour after only eighteen months turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing.

Harry, now aged three and a half, had to move back into his mother’s room, and Maisie tried not to think about just how peaceful it had been while Stan was away.

Maisie was surprised when Stan got his old job back at the docks as if nothing had happened. This only convinced her that he knew far more about Arthur’s disappearance than he let on, however much she pressed him. On one occasion when she became a little too persistent, he belted her one. Although, the following morning, Miss Tilly pretended not to notice the black eye, one or two of the customers did, so Maisie never raised the subject with her brother again. But whenever Harry asked him about his father, Stan stuck to the family line and said, ‘Your old man was killed in the war. I was standin’ by his side when the bullet hit him.’