Mr Frampton rose from behind his desk, shook hands with Maisie and motioned her towards a chair.
‘I was so sorry to hear about the fire at Tilly’s,’ he said. ‘Thank God no one was hurt.’ Maisie hadn’t been thanking God a lot lately. ‘I do hope the building and contents were comprehensively insured,’ he added.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Maisie. ‘Thanks to Mr Casey it was well covered, but unfortunately the insurance company is refusing to pay out a penny until the police can confirm that I was not involved.’
‘I can’t believe the police think you’re a suspect,’ said Frampton.
‘With my financial problems,’ said Maisie, ‘who can blame them?’
‘It will only be a matter of time before they work out that’s a ridiculous suggestion.’
‘I don’t have any time,’ said Maisie. ‘Which is why I’ve come to see you. I’ve got to find a job, and when we last met in this room, I recall you saying that if I ever wanted to come back to the Royal . . .’
‘And I meant it,’ interrupted Mr Frampton. ‘But I can’t give you your old position back, because Susan’s doing an excellent job, and I’ve recently taken on three of Tilly’s staff, so I don’t have any vacancies in the Palm Court. The only position I have available at the moment is hardly worthy—’
‘I’ll consider anything, Mr Frampton,’ said Maisie, ‘and I mean anything.’
‘Some of our customers have been telling us that they would like something to eat after the hotel restaurant has closed for the night,’ said Mr Frampton. ‘I’ve been considering introducing a limited service of coffee and sandwiches after ten o’clock, which would be available until the breakfast room opens at six a.m. I could only offer you three pounds a week to begin with, although of course all the tips would be yours. Naturally I’d understand if you felt—’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘When would you be able to start?’
‘Tonight.’
When the next brown envelope landed on the mat at No. 27, Maisie stuffed it in her bag, unopened, and wondered how long it would be before she received a second, perhaps a third, and then finally a thick white envelope containing a letter not from the bursar, but the headmaster, requesting that Mrs Clifton withdraw her son from the school at the end of term. She dreaded the moment when Harry would have to read that letter to her.
In September Harry was expecting to enter the sixth form, and he couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes whenever he talked about ‘going up’ to Oxford and reading English at the feet of Alan Quilter, one of the most prominent scholars of the day. Maisie couldn’t bear the thought of having to tell him that would no longer be possible.
Her first few nights at the Royal had been very quiet, and things didn’t get much busier during the following month. She hated being idle, and when the cleaning staff arrived at five in the morning they would often discover there was nothing for them to do in the Palm Court room. Even on her busiest night Maisie didn’t have more than half a dozen customers, and several of those had been turfed out of the hotel bar just after midnight and seemed more interested in propositioning her than in ordering coffee and a ham sandwich.
Most of her customers were commercial travellers who only booked in for one night, so her chances of building up a regular clientele didn’t look promising, and the tips were certainly not going to take care of the brown envelope that remained unopened in her handbag.
Maisie knew that if Harry was to remain at Bristol Grammar School and have the slightest chance of going up to Oxford, there was only one person she could turn to for help. She would beg if necessary.