Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (14 page)

But it was less than a month before the chalk was once again scratching across the slate at the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, and it wasn’t long after that I had to return to the pawn shop and hand my wedding ring back to Mr Cohen.

When the rent collector came knocking on the door of number 27 and never received a reply, I suppose none of the family should have been surprised that the next caller would be the bailiff. That was when I decided the time had come for me to look for a job.

12

M
AISIE’S ATTEMPTS
to find a job didn’t turn out to be easy, not least because the government had recently issued a directive to all employers advising them to take on men who had served in the armed forces before considering any other candidates. This was in keeping with Lloyd George’s promise that Britain’s soldiers would return home to a land fit for heroes.

Although women over thirty had been given the vote at the last election after their sterling service in munitions factories during the war, they were pushed to the back of the queue when it came to peacetime jobs. Maisie decided that her best chance of finding employment was to apply for jobs men wouldn’t consider, either because they felt they were too demeaning, or the pay was derisory. With that in mind, Maisie stood in line outside W.D. & H.O. Wills, the city’s largest employer. When she reached the front of the queue, she asked the supervisor, ‘Is it true you’re looking for packers in the cigarette factory?’

‘Yes, but you’re too young, luv,’ he told her.

‘I’m twenty-two.’

‘You’re too young,’ he repeated. ‘Come back in two or three years’ time.’

Maisie was back at Still House Lane in time to share a bowl of chicken broth and a slice of last week’s bread with Harry and her mum.

The next day, she joined an even longer queue outside Harvey’s, the wine merchants. When she reached the front, three hours later, she was told by a man wearing a starched white collar and a thin black tie that they were only taking on applicants with experience.

‘So how do I get experience?’ Maisie asked, trying not to sound desperate.

‘By joining our apprentice scheme.’

‘Then I’ll join,’ she told the starched collar.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘You’re too old.’

Maisie repeated every word of the sixty-second interview to her mother over a thinner bowl of broth from the same pot along with a crust of bread from the same loaf.

‘You could always try the docks,’ her mother suggested.

‘What do you have in mind, Mum? Should I sign up to be a stevedore?’

Maisie’s mum didn’t laugh, but then Maisie couldn’t remember the last time she had. ‘They’ve always got work for cleaners,’ she said. ‘And God knows that lot owe you.’

Maisie was up and dressed long before the sun had risen the following morning and, as there wasn’t enough breakfast to go round, she set out hungry on the long walk to the docks.

When she arrived, Maisie told the man on the gate she was looking for a cleaning job.

‘Report to Mrs Nettles,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the large redbrick building she’d so nearly entered once before. ‘She’s in charge of hirin’ and firin’ cleaners.’ He clearly didn’t remember her from her previous visit.

Maisie walked uneasily towards the building, but came to a halt a few paces before she reached the front door. She stood and watched as a succession of smartly dressed men wearing hats and coats and carrying umbrellas made their way through the double doors.

Maisie remained rooted to the spot, shivering in the cold morning air as she tried to find enough courage to follow them inside. She was just about to turn away when she spotted an older woman in overalls entering another door, at the side of the building. Maisie chased after her.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman suspiciously once Maisie had caught up with her.

‘I’m lookin’ for a job.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘We could do with some young ’uns. Report to Mrs Nettles,’ she added, pointing towards a narrow door that might have been mistaken for a broom cupboard. Maisie walked boldly up to it and knocked.

‘Come on in,’ said a tired voice.

Maisie opened the door to find a woman of about her mother’s age sitting on the only chair, surrounded by buckets, mops and several large bars of soap.

‘I was told to report to you if I was lookin’ for a job.’

‘You was told right. That’s if you’re willing to work all the hours God gives, for damn all pay.’

‘What are the hours, and what’s the pay?’ asked Maisie.

‘You start at three in the morning, and you have to be off the premises by seven, before their nibs turns up, when they expect to find their offices spick and span. Or you can start at seven of an evening and work through till midnight, whichever suits you. Pay’s the same whatever you decide, sixpence an hour.’

‘I’ll do both shifts,’ said Maisie.

‘Good,’ the woman said, selecting a bucket and mop. ‘I’ll see you back here at seven this evenin’, when I’ll show you the ropes. My name’s Vera Nettles. What’s yours?’

‘Maisie Clifton.’

Mrs Nettles dropped the bucket on the floor and propped the mop back up against the wall. She walked across to the door and opened it. ‘There’s no work for you here, Mrs Clifton,’ she said.

Over the next month, Maisie tried to get a job in a shoe shop, but the manager didn’t feel he could employ someone with holes in her shoes; a milliner’s, where the interview was terminated the moment they discovered she couldn’t add up; and a flower shop, which wouldn’t consider taking on anyone who didn’t have their own garden. Grandpa’s allotment didn’t count. In desperation, she applied for a job as a barmaid in a local pub, but the landlord said, ‘Sorry, luv, but your tits aren’t big enough.’

The following Sunday at Holy Nativity, Maisie knelt and asked God to give her a helping hand.

That hand turned out to be Miss Monday’s, who told Maisie she had a friend who owned a tea shop on Broad Street and was looking for a waitress.

‘But I don’t have any experience,’ said Maisie.

‘That may well prove to be an advantage,’ said Miss Monday. ‘Miss Tilly is most particular, and prefers to train her staff in her own way.’

‘Perhaps she’ll think I’m too old, or too young.’

‘You are neither too old nor too young,’ said Miss Monday. ‘And be assured, I wouldn’t recommend you if I didn’t think you were up to it. But I must warn you, Maisie, that Miss Tilly is a stickler for time-keeping. Be at the tea shop before eight o’clock tomorrow. If you’re late, that will not only be the first impression you make, but also the last.’

Maisie was standing outside Tilly’s Tea Shop at six o’clock the following morning, and didn’t budge for the next two hours. At five minutes to eight a plump, middle-aged, smartly dressed woman, with her hair arranged in a neat bun and a pair of half-moon spectacles propped on the end of her nose, turned the ‘closed’ sign on the door to ‘open’, to allow a frozen Maisie to step inside.

‘You’ve got the job, Mrs Clifton,’ were her new boss’s first words.

Harry was left in the care of his grandmother whenever Maisie went to work. Although she was only paid nine pence an hour, she was allowed to keep half her tips, so that at the end of a good week she could take home as much as three pounds. There was also an unexpected bonus. Once the ‘open’ sign had been turned back to ‘closed’ at six o’clock in the evening, Miss Tilly would allow Maisie to take home any food that was left over. The word ‘stale’ was never allowed to cross a customer’s lips.

After six months, Miss Tilly was so pleased with Maisie’s progress that she put her in charge of her own station of eight tables, and after another six months, several regulars would insist that Maisie served them. Miss Tilly solved the problem by increasing Maisie’s allocation of tables to twelve, and raising her pay to a shilling an hour. With two pay packets coming in each week, Maisie was once again able to wear both her engagement ring and her wedding ring, and the silver-plated tea strainer was back in its place.

If Maisie was honest about it, Stan being released from prison for good behaviour after only eighteen months turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing.

Harry, now aged three and a half, had to move back into his mother’s room, and Maisie tried not to think about just how peaceful it had been while Stan was away.

Maisie was surprised when Stan got his old job back at the docks as if nothing had happened. This only convinced her that he knew far more about Arthur’s disappearance than he let on, however much she pressed him. On one occasion when she became a little too persistent, he belted her one. Although, the following morning, Miss Tilly pretended not to notice the black eye, one or two of the customers did, so Maisie never raised the subject with her brother again. But whenever Harry asked him about his father, Stan stuck to the family line and said, ‘Your old man was killed in the war. I was standin’ by his side when the bullet hit him.’

Maisie spent as much of her spare time with Harry as she could. She assumed that once he was old enough to attend Merrywood Elementary School, her life would become a lot easier. But taking Harry to school in the morning meant the added expense of a tram ride to make sure she was not late for work. She would then take a break in the afternoon so she could pick him up from school. Once Maisie had given him his tea, she would leave him in the care of his grandma and return to work.

Harry had only been at school for a few days when Maisie noticed some cane marks on his backside while she was giving him his weekly bath.

‘Who did that?’ she demanded.

‘The headmaster.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t tell you, Mum.’

When Maisie saw six new red stripes even before the previous ones had faded, she questioned Harry again, but still he didn’t let on. The third time the marks appeared, she put on her coat and set off for Merrywood Elementary with the intention of giving his teacher a piece of her mind.

Mr Holcombe wasn’t at all what Maisie had expected. To start with, he couldn’t have been much older than she was, and he stood up when she entered the room – not at all like the teachers she remembered from her days at Merrywood.