Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(37)

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.





Maisie often wished she could do more to help Harry with his efforts to win a scholarship to Bristol Grammar School. Although Miss Tilly had taught her how to read a menu, add and subtract, and even write a few simple words, just the thought of what Harry must be putting himself through filled her with trepidation.

Miss Monday boosted Maisie’s confidence by continually reminding her that Harry would never have got this far if she hadn’t been willing to make so many sacrifices. ‘And in any case,’ she added, ‘you’re every bit as clever as Harry, you just haven’t been given the same opportunities.’

Mr Holcombe kept her informed on what he described as ‘the timing’, and, as the date of the examination drew nearer, Maisie became just as nervous as the candidate. She realized the truth of one of Old Jack’s remarks, that often the onlooker suffers even more than the participant.

The Palm Court room was now packed every day, but it didn’t stop Maisie from initiating even more changes in a decade the press were describing as the ‘frivolous thirties’.

In the morning, she had started offering her customers a variety of biscuits to go with their coffee, and in the afternoon, her tea menu was proving just as popular, especially after Harry told her that Mrs Barrington had given him the choice of Indian or China tea. However, Mr Frampton vetoed the suggestion that smoked salmon sandwiches should appear on the menu.

Every Sunday, Maisie would kneel on her little cushion; her one prayer was to the point. ‘Please God make sure Harry wins a scholarship. If he does, I’ll never ask you for anything again.’

With a week to go to the exams, Maisie found she couldn’t sleep, and lay awake wondering how Harry was coping. So many customers wanted to pass on their best wishes to him, some because they had heard him singing in the church choir, others because he’d delivered their morning papers, or simply because their own children had been, were, or would at some time in the future be going though the same experience. It seemed to Maisie that half of Bristol was taking the exam.

On the morning of the examination, Maisie placed several regulars at the wrong table, gave Mr Craddick coffee instead of his usual hot chocolate, and even presented two customers with someone else’s bill. No one complained.

Harry told her he thought he’d done quite well, but he couldn’t be certain if he’d done well enough. He mentioned someone called Thomas Hardy, but Maisie wasn’t sure if he was a friend or one of the masters.