went in. Most of the people sitting oh the benches looked as if they were already converted. Maisie sat near the exit and picked up a hymnbook.
She could understand why people joined chapels and went preaching at race meetings. It made them feel they belonged to something. The feeling of belonging was the real temptation Solly offered her: not so much the diamonds and furs, but the prospect of being Solly Greenbourne's mistress, with somewhere to live and a regular income and a position in the scheme of things. It was not a respectable position, nor permanent--the arrangement would end the moment Solly got bored with her--but it was a lot more than she had now.
The congregation stood up to sing a hymn. It was all about being washed in the blood of the Lamb, and it made Maisie feel ill. She went out.
She passed a puppet show as it was reaching its climax, with the irascible Mr. Punch being knocked from one side of the little stage to the other by his club-wielding wife. She studied the crowd with a knowledgeable eye. There was not much money in a Punch-and-Judy show if it was operated honestly: most of the audience would slip away without paying anything and the rest would give halfpennies. But there were other ways to fleece the customers. After a few moments she spotted a boy at the back robbing a man in a top hat. Everyone but Maisie was watching the show, and no one else saw the small grubby hand sliding into the man's waistcoat pocket.
Maisie had no intention of doing anything about it. Wealthy and careless young men deserved to lose their pocket watches, and bold thieves earned their loot, in her opinion. But when she looked more closely at the victim she recognized the black hair and blue eyes of Hugh Pilaster. She recalled April's telling her that Hugh had no money. He could not afford to lose his watch. She decided on impulse to save him from his own carelessness.
She made her way quickly around to the back of the crowd. The pickpocket was a ragged sandy-haired boy of about eleven years, just the age Maisie had been when she ran away from home. He was delicately drawing Hugh's watch chain out of his waistcoat. There was a burst of uproarious laughter from the audience watching the show, and at that moment the pickpocket edged away with the watch in his hand.
Maisie grabbed him by the wrist.
He gave a small cry of fear and tried to wriggle free, but she was too strong for him. 'Give it to me and I'll say nothing,' she hissed.
He hesitated for a moment. Maisie saw fear and greed at war on his dirty face. Then a kind of weary resignation took over, and he dropped the watch on the ground.
'Away and steal someone else's watch,' she said. She released his hand and he was gone in a twinkling.
She picked up the watch. It was a gold hunter. She opened the front and checked the time: ten past three. On the back of the watch was inscribed:
Tobias Pilaster
from your loving wife
Lydia
23rd May 1851
The watch had been a gift from Hugh's mother to his father. Maisie was glad she had rescued it. She closed the face and tapped Hugh on the shoulder.
He turned around, annoyed at being distracted from the entertainment; then his bright blue eyes widened in surprise. 'Miss Robinson!'
'What's the time?' she said.
He reached automatically for his watch and found his pocket empty. 'That's funny ...' He looked around as if he might have dropped it. 'I do hope I haven't--'
She held it up.
'By Jove!' he said. 'How on earth did you find it?'
'I saw you being robbed, and rescued it.'
'Where's the thief?'
'I let him go. He was only a wee lad.'
'But ...' He was nonplussed.
'I'd have let him take the watch, only I know you can't afford to buy another.'
'You don't really mean that.'
'I do. I used to steal, when I was a child, any time I could get away with it.'
'How dreadful.'
Maisie found herself once again becoming annoyed by him. To her way of thinking there was something sanctimonious in his attitude. She said: 'I remember your father's funeral. It was a cold day, and raining. Your father died owing my father money--yet you had a coat that day, and I had none. Was that honest?'
'I don't know,' he said with sudden anger. 'I was thirteen years old when my father went bankrupt--does that mean I have to turn a blind eye to villainy all my life?'
Maisie was taken aback. It was not often that men snapped at her, and this was the second time Hugh had done it. But she did not want to quarrel with him again. She touched his arm. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to criticize your father. I just wanted you to understand why a child might steal.'
He softened immediately. 'And I haven't thanked you for saving my watch. It was my mother's wedding gift to my father, so it's more precious than its price.'
'And the child will find another fool to rob.'
He laughed. 'I've never met anyone like you!' he said. 'Would you like to have a glass of beer? It's so hot.'
It was just what she felt like. 'Yes, please.'
A few yards off there was a heavy four-wheeled cart loaded with huge barrels. Hugh bought two pottery tankards of warm, malty ale. Maisie took a long draught: she had been thirsty. It tasted better than Solly's French wine. Fixed to the cart was a sign chalked in rough capital letters saying WALK OFF WITH A POT AND IT WILL BE BROKE OVER YOUR HED.
A meditative look came over Hugh's usually lively face, and after a while he said: 'Do you realize we were both victims of the same catastrophe?'
She did not. 'What do you mean?'
'There was a financial crisis in 1866. When that happens, perfectly honest companies fail ... like when one horse in a team falls and drags the others down with it. My father's business collapsed because people owed him money and didn't pay; and he was so distraught that he took his own life, and left my mother a widow and me fatherless at the age of thirteen. Your father couldn't feed you because people owed him money and couldn't pay, and you ran away at the age of eleven.'
Maisie saw the logic of what he was saying, but her heart would not let her agree: she had hated Tobias Pilaster for too long. 'It's not the same,' she protested. 'Workingmen have no control over these things--they just do what they're told. Bosses have the power. It's their fault if things go wrong.'
Hugh looked thoughtful. 'I don't know, perhaps you're right. Bosses certainly take the lion's share of the rewards. But I'm sure of one thing, at least: bosses or workers, their children aren't to blame.'
Maisie smiled. 'It's hard to believe we've found something to agree about.'
They finished their drinks, returned the pots and walked a few yards to a merry-go- round with wooden horses. 'Do you want a ride?' said Hugh.
Maisie smiled. 'No.'
