Only Time Will Tell (2011)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘True, but if Miss Tilly is half as good as you say she is, this could be an opportunity that might not arise again.’

  ‘Make your mind up, Patrick,’ said Maisie, trying not to sound exasperated.

  ‘I will, the moment I’ve seen the books.’

  ‘You will, the moment you meet Miss Tilly,’ Maisie said, ‘because then you’ll understand the real meaning of goodwill.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet this paragon of virtue.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll represent me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘And how much will you be charging this penniless widow, Mr Casey?’

  ‘Turn the light out.’

  ‘Are you sure this is a risk worth taking,’ asked Mr Frampton, ‘when you have so much to lose?’

  ‘My financial adviser thinks so,’ replied Maisie. ‘He’s assured me that not only do all the figures add up, but once I’ve paid off the loan, I should be showing a profit within five years.’

  ‘But those are the years Harry will be at Bristol Grammar.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Frampton, but Mr Casey has secured a substantial salary for me as part of the bargain, and after I’ve split the tips with my staff, I should be earning roughly the same amount I’m currently taking home. More important, in five years’ time I’ll own a real asset, and from then on, all the profits will be mine,’ she said, trying to recall Patrick’s exact words.

  ‘It’s clear to me that you’ve made up your mind,’ said Mr Frampton. ‘But let me warn you, Maisie, there’s a great deal of difference between being an employee, when you know you’ll be taking home a wage packet every week, and being an employer, when it will be your responsibility to put your money into several wage packets every Friday night. Frankly, Maisie, you are the best at what you do, but are you really sure you want to switch from being a player to joining the management?’

  ‘Mr Casey will be there to advise me.’

  ‘Casey’s a capable fellow, I’ll give you that, but he also has to look after more important clients right across the country. It will be you who has to run the business from day to day. If anything were to go wrong, he won’t always be around to hold your hand.’

  ‘But I may not be given an opportunity like this again in my lifetime.’ Another of Patrick’s pronouncements.

  ‘So be it, Maisie,’ said Frampton. ‘And don’t be in any doubt how much we’ll all miss you at the Royal. The only reason you’re not irreplaceable is because you trained your deputy so well.’

  ‘Susan won’t let you down, Mr Frampton.’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t. But she’ll never be Maisie Clifton. Let me be the first to wish you every success in your new venture, and if things don’t work out as planned, there will always be a job for you here at the Royal.’

  Mr Frampton rose from behind his desk and shook hands with Maisie, just as he’d done six years before.

  17

  A MONTH LATER, Maisie signed six documents in the presence of Mr Prendergast, the manager of the National Provincial Bank on Corn Street. But not until Patrick had taken her through each page, line by line, now happy to admit how wrong he’d been to doubt Miss Tilly. If everyone behaved as honourably as she did, he told her, he’d be out of a job.

  Maisie handed Miss Tilly a cheque for PS500 on March 19th, 1934, receiving a huge hug and a tea shop in return. A week later, Miss Tilly and Miss Monday left for Cornwall.

  When Maisie opened her doors for business the following day, she retained the name ‘Tilly’s’. Patrick had advised her never to underestimate the goodwill of Tilly’s name above the door (‘founded in 1898’) and that she should not even think of changing it until Miss Tilly was of blessed memory and perhaps not even then. ‘Regulars don’t like change, especially sudden ones, so don’t rush them into anything.’

  Maisie did, however, spot a few changes that could be made without offending any of the regulars. She felt a new set of tablecloths wouldn’t go amiss, and the chairs and even the tables were beginning to look, well, quaint. And hadn’t Miss Tilly noticed the carpet was wearing a bit thin?

  ‘Pace yourself,’ Patrick warned her on one of his monthly visits. ‘Remember that it’s far easier to spend money than to earn it, and don’t be surprised if a few of the old biddies disappear and you don’t make quite as much as you’d anticipated in the first few months.’

  Patrick turned out to be right. The number of covers dropped in the first month, and then again in the second, proving just how popular Miss Tilly had been. Had they fallen again in the third, Patrick would have been advising Maisie about cash flow and overdraft limits, but it bottomed - another of Patrick’s expressions - and even began to climb the following month, though not sharply.

  At the end of her first year, Maisie had broken even, but she hadn’t made enough to pay back any of the bank’s loan.

  ‘Don’t fret, my dear,’ Miss Tilly told her on one of her rare visits to Bristol. ‘It was years before I made a profit.’ Maisie didn’t have years.

  The second year began well, with some of her regulars from the Palm Court returning to their old stamping ground. Eddie Atkins had put on so much weight, and his cigars were so much larger, that Maisie could only assume the entertainment business was thriving. Mr Craddick appeared at eleven o’clock every morning, dressed in a raincoat, umbrella in hand, whatever the weather. Mr Holcombe dropped in from time to time, always wanting updates on how Harry was getting on, and she never allowed him to pay the bill. Patrick’s first stop whenever he returned to Bristol was always Tilly’s.

  During her second year, Maisie had to replace one supplier who didn’t seem to know the difference between fresh and stale, and one waitress who wasn’t convinced that the customer was always right. Several young women applied for the job, as it was becoming more acceptable for women to go to work. Maisie settled on a young lady called Karen, who had a mop of curly fair hair, big blue eyes and what the fashion magazines were describing as an hourglass figure. Maisie had a feeling that Karen might attract some new customers who were a little younger than most of her regulars.

  Selecting a new cake supplier proved a more difficult task. And although several companies tendered for the contract, Maisie was very demanding. However, when Bob Burrows of Burrows’ Bakery (founded 1935) turned up on her doorstep and told her that Tilly’s would be his first customer, she put him on a month’s trial.

  Bob turned out to be hard-working and reliable, and even more important, his goods were always so fresh and tempting that her customers would often say, ‘Well, perhaps just one more.’ His cream buns and fruit scones were particularly popular, but it was his chocolate brownies, the new fad, that seemed to disappear from the cakestand long before midday. Although Maisie regularly pressed him, Bob kept telling her that he just couldn’t make any more.

  One morning, after Bob had dropped off his wares, Maisie thought he looked a little forlorn, so she sat him down and poured him a cup of coffee. He confessed to her that he was suffering from the same cash-flow problems she’d experienced in her first year. But he was confident things would soon look up as he’d recently been taken on by two new shops, although he stressed how much he owed to Maisie for giving him his first break.

  As the weeks passed, these morning coffee breaks became something of a ritual. Even so, Maisie couldn’t have been more surprised when Bob asked her out on a date, as she considered theirs to be a professional relationship. He had bought tickets for Glamorous Night, a new musical that was playing at the Hippodrome, which Maisie had hoped Patrick might take her to. She thanked Bob, but said she didn’t want to spoil their relationship. She would have liked to add that there were already two men in her life, a fifteen-year-old who was worrying about his acne, and an Irishman who only visited Bristol once a month and didn’t seem to realize she was in love with him.

  Bob didn’t take no for an answer, and a month later Maisie was even more embarrassed when he presen
ted her with a marcasite brooch. She kissed him on the cheek, and wondered how he’d found out it was her birthday. That evening she placed the brooch in a drawer, and might have forgotten all about it if other gifts hadn’t followed at regular intervals.

  Patrick seemed amused by his rival’s persistence, and over dinner one night he reminded Maisie that she was a good-looking woman with prospects.

  Maisie didn’t laugh. ‘It’s got to stop,’ she said.

  ‘Then why don’t you find another supplier?’

  ‘Because good ones are a lot harder to find than lovers. In any case, Bob’s reliable, his cakes are the best in town and his prices are lower than any of his competitors.’

  ‘And he’s in love with you,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Don’t tease, Patrick. It’s got to stop.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something far more important that’s got to stop,’ said Patrick, bending down and opening his briefcase.

  ‘May I remind you,’ said Maisie, ‘that we’re meant to be having a romantic candlelit dinner together, not talking business.’

  ‘I’m afraid this can’t wait,’ he said, placing a sheaf of papers on the table. ‘These are your accounts for the past three months, and they don’t make happy reading.’

  ‘But I thought you said things have been looking up.’

  ‘So they have. You’ve even managed to keep your outgoings within the limit recommended by the bank, but, inexplicably, your income has dropped during the same period.’

  ‘How’s that possible?’ said Maisie. ‘We did a record number of covers last month.’

  ‘That’s why I decided to check carefully through all your bills and receipts for the past month. They just don’t add up. I’ve come to the sad conclusion, Maisie, that one of your waitresses must have her hand in the till. It’s common enough in the catering trade; it usually turns out to be the barman or the head waiter but once it starts, there’s no way of stopping it until you find the person responsible and sack them. If you don’t identify the culprit fairly soon, you’re going to have another year without showing a profit, and you won’t be able to pay back one penny of the bank loan, let alone start reducing your overdraft.’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘You’ll have to keep a closer eye on all your staff in future, until one of them gives herself away.’

  ‘How will I know which one it is?’

  ‘There are several signs to look out for,’ said Patrick. ‘Someone who’s living beyond their means, perhaps wearing a new coat or an expensive piece of jewellery, or taking a holiday they wouldn’t normally be able to afford. She’ll probably tell you she’s got a new boyfriend, but—’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ said Maisie. ‘I think I know who it might be.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Karen. She’s only been with me a few months, and recently she’s been going up to London on her weekends off. Last Monday she turned up at work wearing a new scarf and a pair of leather gloves that made me feel quite envious.’

  ‘Don’t jump to any conclusions,’ said Patrick, ‘but keep a close eye on her. Either she’s pocketing the tips or she’s got her hands in the till, or both. And one thing I can promise you, it won’t stop. In most cases the thief becomes more and more confident until they’re finally caught. You need to stop it, and stop it quickly, before she puts you out of business.’

  Maisie hated having to spy on her staff. After all, she’d chosen most of the younger ones herself, while the older ones had been at Tilly’s for years.

  She kept an especially close eye on Karen, but there weren’t any obvious signs that she was stealing. But then, as Patrick had warned her, thieves are more cunning than honest people, and there was no way Maisie could keep an eye on her all the time.

  And then the problem solved itself. Karen handed in her notice, announcing that she was engaged and would be joining her fiance in London at the end of the month. Maisie thought her engagement ring was quite exquisite, although she could only wonder who’d paid for it. But she dismissed the thought, relieved she would now have one less problem to worry about.

  But when Patrick returned to Bristol a few weeks later, he warned Maisie that her monthly income had dropped again, so it couldn’t have been Karen.

  ‘Is it time to call in the police?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Not yet. The last thing you need are any false accusations or rumours that will only cause ill-feeling among your staff. The police may well flush out the thief, but before they do you could lose some of your best staff, who won’t like being under suspicion. And you can also be sure that some of the customers will find out, and you don’t need that.’

  ‘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 cafe 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 PS37 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.

  She placed the envelope in her bag. When she called into the bank after work that afternoon, she would have to make sure there was at least PS37 10s in Harry’s account before she could consider writing out a cheque for the full amount. Only the bank makes money when you’re overdrawn, Patrick had told her. The school had occasionally given her two or three weeks’ grace in the past, but Patrick had explained that, like the tea shop, they would also have to balance their books at the end of each term.