The Sins of the Father - By Jeffrey Archer Page 0,67

speechless. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been asked out on a date. She wasn't sure how long he stood there waiting for her to respond, but before she could do so he said, 'I'm afraid it will be the first time I've stepped on to a dance floor for several years.'

'Me too,' Maisie admitted.
Chapter 26
MAISIE ALWAYS deposited her wages and her tips in the bank on Friday afternoon.

She didn't take any money home, because she didn't want Stan to find out she was earning more than he was. Her two accounts were always in credit, and every time the current account showed a balance of ten pounds, five would be transferred to her savings account - her little nest egg, as she described it, just in case something went wrong. After her financial setback with Hugo Barrington, she always assumed that something would go wrong.

That Friday she emptied her purse out on to the counter, and the teller began to sort the coins into neat little piles, as he did every week.

'That's four shillings and nine pence, Mrs Clifton,' he said, filling in her account book.

'Thank you,' said Maisie, as he slid the book under the grille. She was putting it back in her purse when he added, 'Mr Prendergast wondered if he could have a word with you.'

Maisie's heart sank. She considered bank managers and rent collectors a breed who only ever dispensed bad news, and she had good cause in Mr Prendergast's case, because the last time he'd asked to see her, it was to remind her there were insufficient funds in her account to cover Harry's fees for his last term at Bristol Grammar School. She reluctantly headed off in the direction of the manager's office.

'Good morning, Mrs Clifton,' said Mr Prendergast, rising from behind his desk as Maisie entered his office. He motioned her to a seat. 'I wanted to speak to you about a private matter.'

Maisie felt even more apprehensive. She tried to recall if she'd written any cheques during the past couple of weeks that might have caused her account to be overdrawn. She had bought a smart dress for the dance Mike Mulholland had invited her to on the American base, but it was secondhand, and well within her budget.

'A valued client of the bank,' Mr Prendergast began, 'has enquired about your plot of land in Broad Street, where Tilly's tea shop once stood.'

'But I assumed I'd lost everything when the building was bombed.'

'Not everything,' said Prendergast. 'The deeds of the land remain in your name.'

'But what could it possibly be worth,' said Maisie, 'now that the Germans have flattened most of the neighbourhood? When I last walked down Chapel Street, it was nothing more than a bomb site.'

'That may well be the case,' replied Mr Prendergast, 'but my client is still willing to offer you two hundred pounds for the freehold.'

'Two hundred pounds?' repeated Maisie as if she'd won the pools.

'That is the sum he is willing to pay,' confirmed Prendergast.

'How much do you think the land is worth?' asked Maisie, taking the bank manager by surprise.

'I've no idea, madam,' he replied. 'I'm a banker, not a property speculator.'

Maisie remained silent for a few moments. 'Please tell your client that I'd like a few days to think about it.'

'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