Only Time Will Tell (2011)

by Jeffrey Archer

  When the time came for me to take the third and final test, I was ready for it. Miss Monday asked those of us who remained to write out the Ten Commandments in the correct order without referring to the Book of Exodus.

  The choir mistress turned a blind eye to the fact that I placed theft ahead of murder, couldn’t spell ‘adultery’, and certainly didn’t know what it meant. Only after two other miscreants were summarily dismissed for lesser offences did I realize just how exceptional my voice must be.

  On the first Sunday of Advent, Miss Monday announced that she had selected three new trebles - or ‘little angels’, as the Reverend Watts was wont to describe us - to join her choir, the remainder having been rejected for committing such unforgivable sins as chattering during the sermon, sucking a gobstopper and, in the case of two boys, being caught playing conkers during the Nunc Dimittis.

  The following Sunday, I dressed up in a long blue cassock with a ruffled white collar. I alone was allowed to wear a bronze medallion of the Virgin Mother around my neck, to show that I had been selected as the treble soloist. I would have proudly worn the medallion all the way back home, even to school the next morning, to show off to the rest of the lads, if only Miss Monday hadn’t retrieved it at the end of each service.

  On Sundays I was transported into another world, but I feared this state of delirium could not last for ever.

  2

  WHEN UNCLE STAN rose in the morning, he somehow managed to wake the entire household. No one complained, as he was the breadwinner in the family, and in any case he was cheaper and more reliable than an alarm clock.

  The first noise Harry would hear was the bedroom door slamming. This would be followed by his uncle tramping along the creaky wooden landing, down the stairs and out of the house. Then another door would slam as he disappeared into the privy. If anyone was still asleep, the rush of water as Uncle Stan pulled the chain, followed by two more slammed doors before he returned to the bedroom, served to remind them that Stan expected his breakfast to be on the table by the time he walked into the kitchen. He only had a wash and a shave on Saturday evenings before going off to the Palais or the Odeon. He took a bath four times a year on quarter-day. No one was going to accuse Stan of wasting his hard-earned cash on soap.

  Maisie, Harry’s mum, would be next up, leaping out of bed moments after the first slammed door. There would be a bowl of porridge on the stove by the time Stan came out of the privy. Grandma followed shortly afterwards, and would join her daughter in the kitchen before Stan had taken his place at the head of the table. Harry had to be down within five minutes of the first slammed door if he hoped to get any breakfast. The last to arrive in the kitchen would be Grandpa, who was so deaf he often managed to sleep through Stan’s early morning ritual. This daily routine in the Clifton household never varied. When you’ve only got one outside privy, one sink and one towel, order becomes a necessity.

  By the time Harry was splashing his face with a trickle of cold water, his mother would be serving breakfast in the kitchen: two thickly sliced pieces of bread covered in lard for Stan, and four thin slices for the rest of the family, which she would toast if there was any coal left in the sack dumped outside the front door every Monday. Once Stan had finished his porridge, Harry would be allowed to lick the bowl.

  A large brown pot of tea was always brewing on the hearth, which Grandma would pour into a variety of mugs through a silver-plated Victorian tea strainer she had inherited from her mother. While the other members of the family enjoyed a mug of unsweetened tea - sugar was only for high days and holidays - Stan would open his first bottle of beer, which he usually gulped down in one draught. He would then rise from the table and burp loudly before picking up his lunch box, which Grandma had prepared while he was having his breakfast: two Marmite sandwiches, a sausage, an apple, two more bottles of beer and a packet of five coffin nails. Once Stan had left for the docks, everyone began to talk at once.

  Grandma always wanted to know who had visited the tea shop where her daughter worked as a waitress: what they ate, what they were wearing, where they sat; details of meals that were cooked on a stove in a room lit by electric light bulbs that didn’t leave any candle wax, not to mention customers who sometimes left a thruppenny-bit tip, which Maisie had to split with the cook.

  Maisie was more concerned to find out what Harry had done at school the previous day. She demanded a daily report, which didn’t seem to interest Grandma, perhaps because she’d never been to school. Come to think of it, she’d never been to a tea shop either.

  Grandpa rarely commented, because after four years of loading and unloading an artillery field gun, morning, noon and night, he was so deaf he had to satisfy himself with watching their lips move and nodding from time to time. This could give outsiders the impression he was stupid, which the rest of the family knew to their cost he wasn’t.

  The family’s morning routine only varied at weekends. On Saturdays, Harry would follow his uncle out of the kitchen, always remaining a pace behind him as he walked to the docks. On Sunday, Harry’s mum would accompany the boy to Holy Nativity Church, where, from the third row of the pews, she would bask in the glory of the choir’s treble soloist.

  But today was Saturday. During the twenty-minute walk to the docks, Harry never opened his mouth unless his uncle spoke. Whenever he did, it invariably turned out to be the same conversation they’d had the previous Saturday.

  ‘When are you goin’ to leave school and do a day’s work, young’un?’ was always Uncle Stan’s opening salvo.

  ‘Not allowed to leave until I’m fourteen,’ Harry reminded him. ‘It’s the law.’

  ‘A bloody stupid law, if you ask me. I’d packed up school and was workin’ on the docks by the time I were twelve,’ Stan would announce as if Harry had never heard this profound observation before. Harry didn’t bother to respond, as he already knew what his uncle’s next sentence would be. ‘And what’s more I’d signed up to join Kitchener’s army before my seventeenth birthday.’

  ‘Tell me about the war, Uncle Stan,’ said Harry, aware that this would keep him occupied for several hundred yards.

  ‘Me and your dad joined the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment on the same day,’ Stan said, touching his cloth cap as if saluting a distant memory. ‘After twelve weeks’ basic training at Taunton Barracks, we was shipped off to Wipers to fight the Boche. Once we got there, we spent most of our time cooped up in rat-infested trenches waiting to be told by some toffee-nosed officer that when the bugle sounded, we was going over the top, bayonets fixed, rifles firing as we advanced towards the enemy lines.’ This would be followed by a long pause, after which Stan would add, ‘I was one of the lucky ones. Got back to Blighty all ship-shape and Bristol fashion.’ Harry could have predicted his next sentence word for word, but remained silent. ‘You just don’t know how lucky you are, my lad. I lost two brothers, your uncle Ray and your uncle Bert, and your father not only lost a brother, but his father, your other grandad, what you never met. A proper man, who could down a pint of beer faster than any docker I’ve ever come across.’

  If Stan had looked down, he would have seen the boy mouthing his words, but today, to Harry’s surprise, Uncle Stan added a sentence he’d never uttered before. ‘And your dad would still be alive today, if only management had listened to me.’

  Harry was suddenly alert. His dad’s death had always been the subject of whispered conversations and hushed tones. But Uncle Stan clammed up, as if he realized he’d gone too far. Maybe next week, thought Harry, catching his uncle up and keeping in step with him as if they were two soldiers on a parade ground.

  ‘So who are City playin’ this afternoon?’ asked Stan, back on script.

  ‘Charlton Athletic,’ Harry replied.

  ‘They’re a load of old cobblers.’

  ‘They trounced us last season,’ Harry reminded his uncle.

  ‘Bloody lucky, if you ask me,’ said Stan, and didn’t open his mouth again. When they reached th
e entrance to the dockyard, Stan clocked in before heading off to the pen where he was working with a gang of other dockers, none of whom could afford to be a minute late. Unemployment was at an all-time high and too many young men were standing outside the gates waiting to take their place.

  Harry didn’t follow his uncle, because he knew that if Mr Haskins caught him hanging around the sheds he would get a clip round the ear, followed by a boot up the backside from his uncle for annoying the ganger. Instead, he set off in the opposite direction.

  Harry’s first port of call every Saturday morning was Old Jack Tar, who lived in the railway carriage at the other end of the dockyard. He had never told Stan about his regular visits because his uncle had warned him to avoid the old man at all costs.

  ‘Probably hasn’t had a bath in years,’ said a man who washed once a quarter, and then only after Harry’s mother complained about the smell.

  But curiosity had long ago got the better of Harry, and one morning he’d crept up to the railway carriage on his hands and knees, lifted himself up and peeped through a window. The old man was sitting in first class, reading a book.

  Old Jack turned to face him and said, ‘Come on in, lad.’ Harry jumped down, and didn’t stop running until he reached his front door.

  The following Saturday, Harry once again crawled up to the carriage and peered inside. Old Jack seemed to be fast asleep, but then Harry heard him say, ‘Why don’t you come in, my boy? I’m not going to bite you.’

  Harry turned the heavy brass handle and tentatively pulled open the carriage door, but he didn’t step inside. He just stared at the man seated in the centre of the carriage. It was hard to tell how old he was because his face was covered in a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard, which made him look like the sailor on the Players Please packet. But he looked at Harry with a warmth in his eyes that Uncle Stan had never managed.

  ‘Are you Old Jack Tar?’ Harry ventured.

  ‘That’s what they call me,’ the old man replied.

  ‘And is this where you live?’ Harry asked, glancing around the carriage, his eyes settling on a stack of old newspapers piled high on the opposite seat.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It’s been my home for these past twenty years. Why don’t you close the door and take a seat, young man?’

  Harry gave the offer some thought before he jumped back out of the carriage and once again ran away.

  The following Saturday, Harry did close the door, but he kept hold of the handle, ready to bolt if the old man as much as twitched a muscle. They stared at each other for some time before Old Jack asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Harry.’

  ‘And where do you go to school?’

  ‘I don’t go to school.’

  ‘Then what are you hoping to do with your life, young man?’

  ‘Join my uncle on the docks, of course,’ Harry replied.

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ said the old man.

  ‘Why not?’ Harry bristled. ‘Don’t you think I’m good enough?’

  ‘You’re far too good,’ replied Old Jack. ‘When I was your age,’ he continued, ‘I wanted to join the army, and nothing my old man could say or do would dissuade me.’ For the next hour Harry stood, mesmerized, while Old Jack Tar reminisced about the docks, the city of Bristol, and lands beyond the sea that he couldn’t have been taught about in geography lessons.

  The following Saturday, and for more Saturdays than he would remember, Harry continued to visit Old Jack Tar. But he never once told his uncle or his mother, for fear they would stop him going to see his first real friend.

  When Harry knocked on the door of the railway carriage that Saturday morning, Old Jack had clearly been waiting for him, because his usual Cox’s Orange Pippin had been placed on the seat opposite. Harry picked it up, took a bite and sat down.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tar,’ Harry said as he wiped some juice from his chin. He never asked where the apples came from; it just added to the mystery of the great man.

  How different he was from Uncle Stan, who repeated the little he knew again and again, whereas Old Jack introduced Harry to new words, new experiences, even new worlds every week. He often wondered why Mr Tar wasn’t a schoolmaster - he seemed to know even more than Miss Monday, and almost as much as Mr Holcombe. Harry was convinced that Mr Holcombe knew everything, because he never failed to answer any question Harry put to him. Old Jack smiled across at him, but didn’t speak until Harry had finished his apple and thrown the core out of the window.

  ‘What have you learnt at school this week,’ the old man asked, ‘that you didn’t know a week ago?’

  ‘Mr Holcombe told me there are other countries beyond the sea that are part of the British Empire, and they are all reigned over by the King.’

  ‘He’s quite right,’ said Old Jack. ‘Can you name any of those countries?’

  ‘Australia. Canada. India.’ He hesitated. ‘And America.’

  ‘No, not America,’ said Old Jack. ‘That used to be the case, but it isn’t any more, thanks to a weak Prime Minister and a sick King.’

  ‘Who was the King, and who was the Prime Minister?’ demanded Harry angrily.

  ‘King George III was on the throne in 1776,’ said Old Jack, ‘but to be fair, he was a sick man, while Lord North, his Prime Minister, simply ignored what was taking place in the colonies, and, sadly, in the end our own kith and kin took up arms against us.’

  ‘But we must have beaten them?’ said Harry.

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ said Old Jack. ‘Not only did they have right on their side - not that that’s a prerequisite for victory—’

  ‘What does prerequisite mean?’

  ‘Required as a pre-condition,’ said Old Jack, who then continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘But they were also led by a brilliant general.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘George Washington.’

  ‘You told me last week that Washington was the capital of America. Was he named after the city?’

  ‘No, the city was named after him. It was built on an area of marshland known as Columbia, through which the Potomac River flows.’

  ‘Is Bristol named after a man too?’

  ‘No,’ chuckled Old Jack, amused by how quickly Harry’s inquisitive mind could switch from subject to subject. ‘Bristol was originally called Brigstowe, which means the site of a bridge.’

  ‘So when did it become Bristol?’

  ‘Historians differ in their opinions,’ said Old Jack, ‘although Bristol Castle was built by Robert of Gloucester in 1109, when he saw the opportunity to trade wool with the Irish. After that, the city developed into a trading port. Since then it’s been a centre of shipbuilding for hundreds of years, and grew even more quickly when the navy needed to expand in 1914.’

  ‘My dad fought in the Great War,’ said Harry with pride. ‘Did you?’

  For the first time, Old Jack hesitated before answering one of Harry’s questions. He just sat there, not saying a word. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Tar,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Old Jack. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been asked that question for some years.’ Without another word, he opened his hand to reveal a sixpence.

  Harry took the little silver coin and bit it, something he’d seen his uncle do. ‘Thank you,’ he said before pocketing it.

  ‘Go and buy yourself some fish and chips from the dockside cafe, but don’t tell your uncle, because he’ll only ask where you got the money.’

  In truth, Harry had never told his uncle anything about Old Jack. He’d once heard Stan tell his mum, ‘The loony ought to be locked up.’ He’d asked Miss Monday what a loony was, because he couldn’t find the word in the dictionary, and when she told him, he realized for the first time just how stupid his Uncle Stan must be.

  ‘Not necessarily stupid,’ Miss Monday counselled, ‘simply ill-informed and therefore prejudiced. I have no doubt, Harry,’ she added, ‘that you’ll meet man
y more such men during your lifetime, some of them in far more exalted positions than your uncle.’

  3

  MAISIE WAITED UNTIL she heard the front door slam and was confident that Stan was on his way to work before she announced, ‘I’ve been offered a job as a waitress at the Royal Hotel.’

  No one seated round the table responded, as conversations at breakfast were supposed to follow a regular pattern and not take anyone by surprise. Harry had a dozen questions he wanted to ask but waited for his grandma to speak first. She simply busied herself with pouring another cup of tea, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter in the first place.

  ‘Will someone please say something?’ said Maisie.

  ‘I didn’t even realize you were looking for another job,’ ventured Harry.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said Maisie. ‘But last week a Mr Frampton, the manager of the Royal, dropped into Tilly’s for coffee. He came back several times, and then he offered me a job!’

  ‘I thought you were happy at the tea shop,’ said Grandma, finally joining in. ‘After all, Miss Tilly pays well, and the hours suit.’

  ‘I am happy,’ said Harry’s mum, ‘but Mr Frampton’s offering me five pounds a week, and half of all the tips. I could be bringing home as much as six pounds on a Friday.’ Grandma sat there with her mouth wide open.

  ‘Will you have to work nights?’ asked Harry, once he’d finished licking Stan’s porridge bowl.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Maisie said, ruffling her son’s hair, ‘and what’s more I’ll get one day off a fortnight.’

  ‘Are your clothes posh enough for a grand hotel like the Royal?’ asked Grandma.

  ‘I’ll be supplied with a uniform, and a fresh white apron every morning. The hotel even has its own laundry.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Grandma, ‘but I can think of one problem we’re all going to have to learn to live with.’