‘Yes, of course,’ said Prendergast. ‘But you ought to be aware that my client has instructed me to leave the offer on the table for one week only.’
‘Then I’ll have to make my decision by next Friday, won’t I?’ said Maisie defiantly.
‘As you wish, madam,’ said Prendergast, when Maisie rose to leave. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you next Friday.’
When Maisie left the bank, she couldn’t help thinking that the manager had never addressed her as madam before. During her walk home past black-curtained houses – she only ever took the bus when it was raining – she started to think about how she might spend two hundred pounds, but these thoughts were soon replaced by wondering who could advise her as to whether it was a fair price.
Mr Prendergast had made it sound like a reasonable offer, but which side was he on? Perhaps she’d have a word with Mr Hurst, but long before she reached Still House Lane she decided that it would be unprofessional to involve her boss in a personal matter. Mike Mulholland seemed a shrewd, intelligent man, but what would he know about the value of land in Bristol? As for her brother Stan, there would be absolutely no point in seeking his opinion, as he’d be sure to say, ‘Take the money and run, girl.’ And come to think about it, the last person she wanted to know about her potential windfall was Stan.
By the time Maisie had turned into Merrywood Lane, darkness was falling and the residents were preparing for blackout. She was no closer to resolving the problem. As she passed the gates of Harry’s old primary school, a flood of happy memories returned, and she silently thanked Mr Holcombe for all he’d done for her son while he was growing up. She stopped on the spot. Mr Holcombe was a clever man; after all he’d been to Bristol University and got a degree. Surely he could advise her?
Maisie turned back and walked towards the school gates, but when she entered the playground there was no one to be seen. She checked her watch; a few minutes past five. All the children would have gone home some time ago, so Mr Holcombe had probably already left for the day.
She walked across the playground, opened the school door and stepped into a familiar corridor. It was as if time had stood still; the same red brick walls, just a few more initials etched into them, the same colourful paintings pinned up on the wall, just by different children, the same football cups, just won by another team. Although, where school caps had once hung, gas masks had taken their place. She recalled the first time she’d come to see Mr Holcombe, to complain about the red marks she’d found on Harry’s backside at bath-time. He’d remained calm while she lost her temper, and Maisie had left an hour later in no doubt who the guilty party was.
Maisie noticed a light coming from under the door of Mr Holcombe’s classroom. She hesitated, took a deep breath and knocked softly on the pebbled glass.
‘Come on in,’ said the cheerful voice she remembered so well.
She entered the room to find Mr Holcombe seated behind a large pile of books, pen scratching across paper. She was about to remind him who she was when he leapt up and said, ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mrs Clifton, especially if it’s me you’re looking for.’
‘Yes it is,’ Maisie replied, a little flustered. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Holcombe, but I need some advice, and I didn’t know who else to turn to.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said the schoolmaster, offering her a tiny chair, normally occupied by an eight-year-old. ‘How can I help?’
Maisie told him about her meeting with Mr Prendergast, and the offer of ￡200 for her piece of land on Broad Street. ‘Do you think it’s a fair price?’ she asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mr Holcombe, shaking his head. ‘I have no experience of such matters, and I’d be worried about giving you the wrong advice. Actually, I thought it might be another matter you’d come to see me about.’
‘Another matter?’ repeated Maisie.
‘Yes. I hoped you’d seen the notice on the board outside the school, and wanted to apply.’
‘Apply for what?’ she asked.
‘One of the government’s new schemes for night classes, designed to help people like you, who are clearly intelligent, but haven’t had the opportunity to continue their education.’
Maisie didn’t want to admit that even if she’d seen the notice, she would have struggled to read it. ‘I’m too overworked to consider taking on anything else at the moment,’ she said, ‘what with the hotel, and . . . and—’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Holcombe, ‘because I think you’d be an ideal candidate. I’ll be taking most of the classes myself and it would have given me particular pleasure to teach the mother of Harry Clifton.’
‘It’s just that—’