Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  MAISIE CLIFTON

  1972

  25

  WILLIAM WARWICK WAS just about to arrest the wrong person when there was a gentle tap on the door.

  The rule was sacrosanct in the Clifton household. It had to be a serious matter—a very serious matter—before any member of the family would consider interrupting Harry while he was writing. In fact, he could recall the three occasions it had occurred during the past twenty-five years.

  The first had been when his beloved daughter Jessica had won a scholarship to the Slade School of Fine Art in Bloomsbury. She had burst into the room without knocking, waving the letter of acceptance, and Harry had dropped his pen and opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate. The second was when Emma had won the casting vote over Major Alex Fisher to become chairman of Barrington’s Shipping, and the first woman to chair a public company; another bottle of champagne. And the third he still considered to be marginal. Giles had barged in to announce that he’d been offered a peerage by Harold Wilson and would be taking the title Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands.

  Harry put his pen down on his desk and swiveled his chair around to face the intruder. Emma walked in, her head bowed, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. Harry didn’t need to be told that his mother was dead.

  * * *

  Harry spent more hours working on the eulogy for his mother’s funeral than he had on any lecture, address or speech he’d ever delivered in the past. His final draft, the fourteenth, in which he felt he’d captured her indomitable spirit, ran for twelve minutes.

  He visited St. Luke’s the morning before the service so he could see where he would be sitting and how far it was from the pulpit. He then tested the acoustics to find out how well his voice carried. The Dean of St. Luke’s pointed out that if there was a large congregation, his words might be a little muffled. A useful warning, thought Harry, because the church turned out to be so packed that if the family hadn’t had reserved seats, they would have had to stand at the back. The order of service had been chosen in advance by Maisie, so no one was surprised that it was traditionally English, and very Maisie: “Rock of Ages,” “Abide with Me,” “To Be a Pilgrim” and of course “Jerusalem,” ensured that the congregation sang with heart and voice.

  Sebastian had been selected to read the first lesson. During the last verse of “Abide with Me,” he walked slowly up to the lectern, no longer trying to disguise a slight limp that had taken longer to recover from than the Indian surgeon had predicted. No one could predict how long it would take to recover from the last funeral he’d attended.

  He began to read 1 Corinthians, Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not charity, and Giles delivered the second reading, a poem by Kipling, If you can keep your head when all about you … while the choir sang “O Rejoice That the Lord Has Risen.” By the time Harry rose from his place in the front row and made his way to the pulpit during the last verse of “Abide with Me,” there was a sense of anticipation as he climbed the pulpit steps. He placed his text on the small brass lectern and checked the opening sentence, though in truth he knew the whole script by heart. He looked up and, once the congregation had settled, he began.

  “How proud my mother would have been to see so many of you here today, some who have traveled from far and wide to celebrate her amazing life. You just can’t fill the churches nowadays, she used to say. Can’t understand it myself, because when I was a child the sermons went on for over an hour. Dear Mother,” Harry said, looking up at the ceiling, “I promise mine won’t be over an hour, and by the way, the church is packed.” A ripple of laughter broke out, allowing Harry to relax a little.

  “Maisie was born in 1901, in the reign of Queen Victoria, and died at the age of seventy-one, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the Second. My bookends, is how she used to describe the two Queens. She began life at 27 Still House Lane, in the back streets of the Bristol docks, and my father, Arthur Clifton, a docker, who was born in 1898, lived at number 37. They didn’t even have to cross the road to bump into each other. My father died when I was only one, so I never knew him, and the responsibility for bringing me up fell squarely on the shoulders of my mother. Maisie was never ambitious for herself, but that didn’t stop her spending those early years scrimping and saving farthings, yes, farthings, to ensure that I was never hungry, and never went without. Of course I had no idea of the sacrifices she had to endure to make it possible for me to attend St. Bede’s as a choral scholar, and later to go on to Bristol Grammar School before being offered a place at Oxford, a city she visited only once.

  “If Maisie had been born today, it would have been a city that would have welcomed her with open arms. How can I be so sure of that? Because at the age of sixty-two, when most people are preparing for retirement, Maisie enrolled at Bristol University, and three years later graduated with a first-class honors degree. She remains to this day the only member of the Clifton family to have managed that distinction. Imagine what she might have achieved if she had been born a generation later.

  “My mother was a regular churchgoer until the day she died, and I once asked her if she thought she’d go to heaven. ‘I certainly hope so,’ she told me, ‘as I need to have a word with St. Peter, St. Paul and our Lord.’ You will not be surprised to hear that I asked her what she intended to say to them. ‘I shall point out to St. Peter that none of the women who were close to our Lord ever denied him, let alone three times. Typical man.’ This time the laughter was sustained. Harry, now feeling in control of his audience, didn’t continue until he had complete silence. ‘And when it comes to St. Paul,’ Maisie said, ‘I shall ask him why it took him so long to get the message.’ And our Lord? I asked her. ‘If you are the son of God, could you please point out to the Almighty that the world would be a far better place if there had only been one religion, because then we could have all sung from the same hymn sheet.’” Harry had never experienced applause in a church before, and he knew it would have delighted his mother.

  “When someone close to you dies, you remember all the things you wished you’d said and it’s suddenly too late to say. I wish I’d understood, appreciated and been fully aware of the sacrifices my mother made, which have allowed me to live such a privileged life, a life I fear I sometimes take for granted. When I first went to St. Bede’s, dressed in my smart navy blazer and long gray trousers, we took the tram from Chapel Street, and I never understood why we got off a few hundred yards from the school. It was because my mother didn’t want the other boys to see her. She thought I would be ashamed of her.

  “I am ashamed,” said Harry, his voice cracking. “I should have paraded this great lady, not hidden her. And when I went to Bristol Grammar School, she continued to work full-time as a waitress at the Royal Hotel during the day, and as a hostess at Eddie’s Club every evening. I didn’t realize it was because that was the only way she could afford the school fees. But, like St. Peter, whenever any of my school chums asked if it was true that my mother worked in a nightclub, I denied her.” Harry’s head dropped, and Emma looked on anxiously as the tears ran down his cheeks.

  “What hardships did she have to endure without ever once, ever once … burdening me with her problems. And now it’s too late to let her know.” Harry’s head dropped again. “To tell her…” he said, desperately searching for his place. He gripped the side of the pulpit. “And when I went to Bristol Grammar School … I didn’t realize.” He furiously turned back a page. “I never realized…” He turned another page. “Whenever any of my school chums asked me…”

  Giles rose slowly from his place in the front row, walked across to the pulpit and climbed the steps. He placed an arm around his friend’s shoulder, and guided him back to his place in the front pew.

  Harry took Emma’s hand and whispered, “I let her down when she most needed me.”

  Giles didn’t whisper when he replied, “No son has ever paid his mother a greater compliment, and right now she’s telling St. Peter, ‘
That’s my boy Harry down there.’”

  After the service, Harry and Emma stood by the door of the church, shaking hands with a long line of well-wishers. Harry had still not fully recovered, but it quickly became clear that the congregation universally agreed with Giles’s sentiments.

  Family and friends returned to the Manor House and raised glasses as they swapped stories about a remarkable woman, who touched the lives of everyone with whom she came into contact. Finally, when the last guest had departed, Harry, Emma and Sebastian were left alone.

  “Let’s drink to my mother’s memory,” said Harry. “I think it’s time to open the ’57 Merlot that Harold Guinzburg said should be saved for a special occasion. But before we do,” he added as he uncorked the bottle, “I have to tell you that my mother gave me a letter a few weeks ago that she said was not to be opened until after her funeral.” He removed an envelope from his inside pocket with a flourish, tore it open and pulled out several handwritten pages in Maisie’s bold, unmistakable script.

  Emma sat down, feeling a little apprehensive, while Seb perched on the edge of his seat as if he were back at school before Harry began to read.

  Dearest Harry,

  These are no more than a few rambling thoughts from an old woman who should know better, so you are most welcome to dismiss them as such.

  Let me begin with my dear grandson, young Sebastian. I still think of him as young, despite all that he’s achieved in such a short period of time. Achievements that have been earned by ability combined with prodigious hard work, and I am sure he will realize his aim of becoming a millionaire by the age of forty. Commendable, no doubt, but Sebastian, by the time you reach my age you will have learned that acquiring great wealth is unimportant if you have no one to share it with. Samantha was among the kindest, most generous people I have ever known, and you were foolish to part with such a gem. If that was not enough, it has been a great sadness to me that I never met my great-granddaughter, Jessica, because if she was anything like your sister, I know I would have adored her.

  “How could she possibly have known about Jessica?” said Seb.

  “I told her,” admitted Harry.

  I would also like to have known Priya, who by all accounts was a very special young woman, who loved you so dearly she was willing to sacrifice her life for you. And what a compliment to your parents that the color of her skin never crossed your mind, because you were in love with her, so her race and religion were irrelevant, which would not have been possible for someone of my generation. You lost Priya because of her parents’ prejudice. Make sure you don’t lose Sam and Jessica because you are too proud to make the first move.

  Sebastian bowed his head. He knew she was right.

  And now to you, dear Emma. Frankly, people should never listen to their mothers-in-law. Behind every successful man, they say, is a surprised mother-in-law. Harry owes so much of his success to your loving support, as both a wife and mother. But, and you knew there would be a “but,” you have, in my opinion, by no means achieved your potential. Proust said, we all end up doing the thing we’re second best at. There is no doubt that you have been an outstanding chairman of Barrington’s Shipping, as your directors, shareholders and the City of London readily acknowledge. But that should not be enough for someone with your remarkable talents. No, I believe the time has come for you to use some of your vision and energy for the public good. There are so many causes that could flourish under your leadership. Simply giving money to charity is the easy way out. Giving time is much more precious. So make it your aim that, when you die, people will not remember you only as the chairman of Barrington’s.

  “Why didn’t she tell me that when she was alive?” said Emma. “Perhaps she thought you were too busy to listen, my darling.” “I can’t wait to hear what she has to say to you, Dad.”

  And finally, my beloved son, Harry. For a mother to say that she is proud of her son is only human. However, I could never have dreamed of the happiness your success, both as a novelist and as a campaigner for those who don’t know freedom, would bring me.

  Although I believe, as I know you do, that your courageous fight for Anatoly Babakov is your finest achievement, I know you will not be satisfied until he is a free man and can join his wife in America.

  Have you ever told Emma you turned down a knighthood, an honor you would not consider accepting while Babakov was still in prison? I am proud of you for that, even though I would have enjoyed hearing my son addressed as Sir Harry.

  “You never told me,” said Emma.

  “I never told anyone,” said Harry. “Giles must have somehow found out.” He returned to the letter.

  And now to William Warwick, who has entertained so many people, for so many years. Harry, perhaps it’s time for him to retire, so that you can finally stretch yourself to reach even greater heights. You told me once, many years ago, the rough outline of a novel you had always wanted to write, but had never got around to. You never got around to it because Harold Guinzburg, that wicked old publisher, kept tempting you with bigger and bigger advances. Perhaps the time has now come for you to write a book that will bring happiness for generations to come, whose reputation will outlive any bestseller list and make it possible for you to join that handful of authors whose names will never die.

  Rant over. All that is left for me to say is thank you for making my final years so peaceful, comfortable and enjoyable. And when the time comes for any of you to write a similar letter, please don’t be like me and feel you could have done so much more with your life.

  Your loving mother,

  Maisie

  Harry poured three glasses of the ’57 Merlot and handed one each to Emma and Seb. He raised his own glass and said, “To Maisie. Shrewd old thing.”

  “To Maisie,” repeated Emma and Seb, raising their glasses.

  “Ah, and I nearly forgot,” said Harry, picking the letter back up. “There’s a postscript.”

  P.S. Please remember me to your dear friend Giles, who can consider himself lucky that I didn’t write about him, because had I done so, it would have been a far longer letter.

  EMMA CLIFTON

  1972–1975

  26

  “GOOD MORNING, Mrs. Clifton. My name is Eddie Lister. We met briefly at your mother-in-law’s funeral, but there’s no reason you should remember me.”

  “How did you know Maisie, Mr. Lister?” Emma asked, because he was right, she couldn’t place him.

  “I’m chairman of the governors of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. She was one of our volunteers and will be sadly missed by patients and staff alike.”

  “I had no idea,” said Emma. “What did she do?”

  “She was in charge of the lending library and organized the daily rota for the book trolley to be taken around the wards. More people read books at BRI than in almost any other hospital in the country.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” said Emma. “Are you looking for someone to replace her, because if you are, I’d certainly be happy to do so.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Clifton, that isn’t the reason I’m calling.”

  “But I’m confident I could organize the library and, what’s more, my family has had a close association with the hospital for many years. My grandfather, Sir Walter Barrington, was chairman of the governors, my husband was nursed back to health at BRI after being seriously wounded by a German landmine in 1945, and my mother spent the last months of her life there under the care of Dr. Raeburn. What’s more, I was born at the Royal Infirmary.”

  “I’m impressed, Mrs. Clifton, but I still don’t think you’re the right person to organize the book trolley.”

  “May I ask why you won’t even consider me?”

  “Because I was rather hoping you’d agree to become a governor of the hospital.”

  Emma was momentarily silenced. “I’m not altogether sure I know what a hospital governor does.”

  “Every major NHS hospital—and ours is one of the largest in the countr
y—has a board of governors drawn from the local community.”

  “And what would my responsibilities be?”

  “We hold a meeting every quarter, and I also invite each trustee to take an interest in one particular department of the hospital. I thought nursing might appeal to you. Our senior matron, Mima Puddicombe, represents the two thousand nurses who work full- or part-time at BRI. I should mention that if you agree to become a governor, there is no remuneration or expenses. I realize you are a busy woman, Mrs. Clifton, with many responsibilities, but I do hope you’ll give some thought to my proposal before you make—”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  Mr. Lister sighed. “Yes, I feared you’d be too busy with all your other commitments, and of course I thoroughly understand—”

  “I’d be delighted to become a governor of the hospital, Mr. Chairman. When do I start?”

  * * *

  “Marshal Koshevoi is becoming somewhat restless, Comrade Brandt. He thinks it’s time you came up with something a little more tangible. After all, you’ve been living with Barrington for the past year and all you’ve produced so far is the minutes of the Labour Party’s weekly meetings in the House of Lords. Hardly illuminating.”

  “I have to be careful, comrade director,” said Karin as they walked arm in arm down a quiet country lane. “If Barrington were to become suspicious and my cover was blown, all our painstaking preparations would have been for nothing. And while he’s in opposition, and not a member of the government, he isn’t privy to what’s going on in Whitehall. But if the Labour Party wins the next election, and Barrington is confident they will, that could all change overnight. And if I recall your exact words when I took on this assignment, ‘We are not in a hurry, we’re in this for the long game.’”

  “That is still the case, comrade. However, I’m becoming concerned that you might be enjoying your bourgeois existence as Barrington’s mistress a little too much, and have forgotten where your true allegiance lies.”