Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(43)

‘How much longer can I afford to go on like this?’

‘Let’s give it another month. If we haven’t found out who it is by then, you’ll have to call in the police.’ He gave her a huge smile. ‘Now let’s stop talking business and try to remember that we’re meant to be celebrating your birthday.’

‘That was two months ago,’ she said. ‘And if it hadn’t been for Bob, you wouldn’t even have known.’

Patrick opened his briefcase once again, but this time he produced a royal blue box with Swan’s familiar logo on it. He passed it across to Maisie, who took her time opening it, to find a pair of black leather gloves and a woollen scarf in the traditional Burberry pattern.

‘So you’re the one who’s been robbing me blind,’ said Maisie as she threw her arms around him.

Patrick didn’t respond.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Maisie.

‘I have another piece of news.’ Maisie looked into his eyes, and wondered what else could possibly be going wrong at Tilly’s. ‘I’ve been promoted. I’m to be the new deputy manager of our head office in Dublin. I’ll be tied to my desk most of the time, so somebody else will be taking my place over here. I will still be able to visit you, but not that often.’

Maisie lay in his arms and cried all night. She had thought she wouldn’t want to get married again, until the man she loved was no longer available.

She turned up late for work the following morning to find Bob waiting on the doorstep. Once she’d opened the front door, he began to unload the morning delivery from his van.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ said Maisie as she disappeared into the staff washroom.

She’d said her last goodbyes to Patrick as he boarded a train at Temple Meads, when she’d burst into tears again. She must have looked a sight and didn’t want the regulars to think anything was wrong. ‘Never bring your personal problems to work,’ Miss Tilly had often reminded her staff. ‘The customers have enough problems of their own without having to worry about yours.’

Maisie looked in the mirror: her make-up was a mess. ‘Damn,’ she said out loud when she realized she’d left her handbag on the counter. As she walked back into the shop to retrieve it, she suddenly felt sick. Bob was standing with his back to her, one hand in the till. She watched as he stuffed a handful of notes and coins into a trouser pocket, closed the till quietly and then went back to his van to pick up another tray of cakes.

Maisie knew exactly what Patrick would have advised. She walked into the café and stood by the till as Bob strolled back through the door. He was not carrying a tray, but a small red leather box. He gave her a huge smile and fell on one knee.

‘You will leave the premises right now, Bob Burrows,’ Maisie said, in a tone that surprised even her. ‘If I ever see you anywhere near my tea shop again, I will call the police.’

She expected a stream of explanations or expletives, but Bob simply stood up, put the money he’d stolen back on the counter and left without a word. Maisie collapsed on to the nearest chair just as the first member of staff arrived.

‘Good morning, Mrs Clifton. Nice weather for the time of year.’





18


WHENEVER A THIN BROWN envelope dropped through the letterbox at No. 27, Maisie assumed it was from Bristol Grammar School, and would probably be another bill for Harry’s tuition fees, plus any ‘extras’, as the Bristol Municipal Charities liked to describe them.

She always called into the bank on the way home to deposit the day’s takings in the business account and her share of the tips in a separate account, described as ‘Harry’s’, hoping that at the end of each quarter she would have enough to cover the next bill from BGS.

Maisie ripped open the envelope, and, although she couldn’t read every word of the letter, recognized the signature and, above it, the figures ￡37 10s. It was going to be a close-run thing, but after Mr Holcombe had read Harry’s latest report to her, she had to agree with him: it was proving to be a good investment.

‘Mind you,’ Mr Holcombe had warned her, ‘the outgoings aren’t going to be any less when the time comes for him to leave school.’

‘Why not?’ Maisie asked. ‘He shouldn’t find it hard to get a job after all that education, and then he can start paying his own bills.’

Mr Holcombe shook his head sadly, as if one of his less attentive pupils had failed to grasp a point. ‘I’m rather hoping that when he leaves Bristol, he’ll want to go up to Oxford and read English.’

‘And how long will that take?’ asked Maisie.

‘Three, possibly four years.’

‘He should have read an awful lot of English by then.’

‘Certainly enough to get a job.’

Maisie laughed. ‘Perhaps he’ll end up a schoolmaster like you.’

‘He’s not like me,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘If I had to guess, he’ll end up as a writer.’

‘Can you make a living as a writer?’

‘Certainly, if you’re successful. But if that doesn’t work out, you could be right – he might end up a schoolmaster like me.’

‘I’d like that,’ Maisie said, missing the irony.