She placed Tom Bradshaw's letter on the mantelpiece next to her favourite photograph of Harry singing in the school choir.
When she returned to work the following day, her colleagues at the hotel were kind and solicitous, and Mr Hurst, the hotel manager, suggested she took a few days off. She told him that was the last thing she needed. Instead she took on as much overtime as she could handle, in the hope that it might dull the pain.
It didn't.
The Sins of the Father
Many of the young men who worked at the hotel were leaving to join the armed forces, and their places were being taken by women. It was no longer considered a stigma for a young lady to work, and Maisie found herself taking on more and more responsibility as the number of male staff dwindled.
The restaurant manager was due to retire on his sixtieth birthday, but Maisie assumed that Mr Hurst would ask him to stay on until the end of the war. It came as a shock when he called her into his office and offered her the job.
'You've earned it, Maisie,' he said, 'and head office agrees with me.'
'I'd like a couple of days to think about it,' she replied before leaving the office.
Mr Hurst didn't raise the subject for another week, and when he did, Maisie suggested that perhaps she should be put on a month's trial. He laughed.
'It's usual,' he reminded her, 'for the employer, not the employee, to insist on a month's trial.'
Within a week, they'd both forgotten about the trial period, because although the hours were long and her new responsibilities were onerous, Maisie had never felt more fulfilled. She knew that when the war was over and the lads returned from the front, she'd go back to being a waitress. She'd have gone back to being a prostitute, if it had meant Harry would be among those who came home.
The Sins of the Father
Maisie didn't need to be able to read a newspaper to know that the Japanese air force had destroyed the American fleet at Pearl Harbor, and the citizens of the United States had risen as one against a common enemy and joined the Allies, because for days it was the only subject on everyone's lips.
It wasn't long before Maisie met her first American.
Thousands of Yanks found their way to the West Country over the next couple of years, and many of them were billeted in an army camp on the outskirts of Bristol. Some of the officers began to dine in the hotel restaurant, but no sooner had they become regulars than they would disappear, never to be seen again. Maisie was continually, painfully, reminded that some of them were no older than Harry.
But that changed when one of them did return. Maisie didn't immediately recognize him when he wheeled himself into the restaurant and asked for his usual table. She had always thought she was good at remembering names, and even better when it came to faces - you have to be when you can't really read and write. But the moment she heard that Southern drawl, the penny dropped. 'It's Lieutenant Mulholland, isn't it?'
'No, Mrs Clifton. It's Major Mulholland now. I've been sent back here to recuperate before they pack me off home to North Carolina.'
She smiled and showed him to his usual table, although he wouldn't allow her to assist him with his wheelchair. Mike, as he insisted Maisie call him, did become a regular, turning up twice, even three times a week.
Maisie laughed when Mr Hurst whispered, 'You know he's sweet on you.'
'I think you'll find my courting days are over,' she replied.
'Don't kid yourself,' he countered. 'You're in your prime, Maisie. I can tell you, Major Mulholland's not the first man who's asked me if you're walking out with anyone.'
'Try not to forget, Mr Hurst, that I'm a grandmother.'
'I wouldn't tell him that if I was you,' said the manager.
Maisie failed to recognize the major a second time when he came in one evening on crutches, the wheelchair clearly having been abandoned. Another month, and the crutches were replaced by sticks, and it wasn't much longer before they too became relics of the past.
One evening, Major Mulholland telephoned to book a table for eight; he had something to celebrate, he told Maisie. She assumed he must be returning to North Carolina, and for the first time she realized how much she would miss him.
She didn't consider Mike a handsome man, but he had the warmest smile and the manners of an English gentleman, or, as he once pointed out, a Southern gentleman. It had become fashionable to bad-mouth the Americans since they'd taken up residence on bases in Britain, and the oft repeated jibe that they were over-sexed, over-paid and over here could be heard on the lips of many Bristolians who'd never even met an American; not least, Maisie's brother Stan, and nothing she could say would change his mind.
By the time the major's celebration dinner had come to an end, the restaurant was almost empty. On the stroke of ten, a fellow officer rose to toast Mike's health and congratulate him.
As the party was about to leave and return to camp before curfew, Maisie told him, on behalf of the whole staff, how pleased they all were that he had fully recovered and was well enough to go home.
'I'm not going home, Maisie,' he said, laughing. 'We were celebrating my promotion to deputy commander of the base. I'm afraid you're stuck with me until this war is over.' Maisie was delighted by the news, and was taken by surprise when he added, 'It's the regimental dance next Saturday, and I wonder if you would do me the honour of being my guest.'
Maisie was speechless. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been asked out on a date. She wasn't sure how long he stood there waiting for her to respond, but before she could do so he said, 'I'm afraid it will be the first time I've stepped on to a dance floor for several years.'
'Me too,' Maisie admitted.
26
MAISIE ALWAYS deposited her wages and her tips in the bank on Friday afternoon.
She didn't take any money home, because she didn't want Stan to find out she was earning more than he was. Her two accounts were always in credit, and every time the current account showed a balance of ten pounds, five would be transferred to her savings account - her little nest egg, as she described it, just in case something went wrong. After her financial setback with Hugo Barrington, she always assumed that something would go wrong.
That Friday she emptied her purse out on to the counter, and the teller began to sort the coins into neat little piles, as he did every week.
'That's four shillings and nine pence, Mrs Clifton,' he said, filling in her account book.
'Thank you,' said Maisie, as he slid the book under the grille. She was putting it back in her purse when he added, 'Mr Prendergast wondered if he could have a word with you.'
Maisie's heart sank. She considered bank managers and rent collectors a breed who only ever dispensed bad news, and she had good cause in Mr Prendergast's case, because the last time he'd asked to see her, it was to remind her there were insufficient funds in her account to cover Harry's fees for his last term at Bristol Grammar School. She reluctantly headed off in the direction of the manager's office.
'Good morning, Mrs Clifton,' said Mr Prendergast, rising from behind his desk as Maisie entered his office. He motioned her to a seat. 'I wanted to speak to you about a private matter.'
Maisie felt even more apprehensive. She tried to recall if she'd written any cheques during the past couple of weeks that might have caused her account to be overdrawn. She had bought a smart dress for the dance Mike Mulholland had invited her to on the American base, but it was secondhand, and well within her budget.