CHAPTER FOUR
AUGUST
1
LONDON WAS HOT AND STICKY, and the population longed for fresh air and open fields. On the first day of August everyone went to the races at Goodwood.
They traveled by special trains from Victoria Station in south London. The divisions of British society were carefully mirrored in the transport arrangements—high society in the upholstered luxury of the first-class coaches, shopkeepers and schoolteachers crowded but comfortable in second class, factory workers and domestic servants crammed together on hard wooden benches in third. When they got off the train the aristocracy took carriages, the middle class boarded horse buses, and the workers walked. The picnics of the rich had been sent by earlier trains: scores of hampers, carried on the shoulders of strapping young footmen, packed with china and linen, cooked chickens and cucumbers, champagne and hothouse peaches. For the less wealthy there were stalls selling sausages, shellfish and beer. The poor brought bread and cheese wrapped in handkerchiefs.
Maisie Robinson and April Tilsley went with Solly Greenbourne and Tonio Silva. Their position in the social hierarchy was dubious. Solly and Tonio clearly belonged in first class, but Maisie and April should have gone third. Solly compromised by buying second-class tickets, and they took the horse bus from the station across the downs to the racecourse.
However, Solly was too fond of his food to settle for a lunch bought off a stall, and he had sent four servants ahead with a vast picnic of cold salmon and white wine packed in ice. They spread a snow-white tablecloth on the ground and sat around it on the springy turf. Maisie fed Solly titbits. She was growing more and more fond of him. He was kind to everyone, full of fun, and interesting to talk to. Gluttony was his only real vice. She still had not let him have his way with her, but it seemed that the more she refused him, the more devoted to her he became.
The racing began after lunch. There was a bookmaker nearby, standing on a box and shouting odds. He wore a loud checked suit, a flowing silk tie, a huge spray of flowers in his buttonhole, and a white hat. He carried a leather satchel full of money slung over his shoulder and stood under a banner which read: “Wm. Tucker, the King’s Head, Chichester.”
Tonio and Solly bet on every race. Maisie got bored: one horse race was the same as another if you didn’t gamble. April would not leave Tonio’s side, but Maisie decided to leave the others for a while and look around.
The horses were not the only attraction. The downs around the racecourse were crowded with tents, stalls and carts. There were gambling booths, freak shows, and dark-skinned gypsies in bright head scarves telling fortunes. People were selling gin, cider, meat pies, oranges and Bibles. Barrel organs and bands competed with one another, and through the crowds wandered conjurers and jugglers and acrobats, all asking for pennies. There were dancing dogs, dwarfs and giants and men on stilts. The boisterous carnival atmosphere reminded Maisie powerfully of the circus, and she suffered a nostalgic twinge of regret for the life she had left behind. The entertainers were here to take money from the public any way they could and it warmed her heart to see them succeed.
She knew she should be taking more from Solly. It was crazy to be walking out with one of the richest men in the world and living in one room in Soho. By now she ought to be wearing diamonds and furs and have her eye on a little suburban house in St. John’s Wood or Clapham. Her job riding Sammles’s horses would not last much longer: the London season was coming to an end and the people who could afford to buy horses were leaving for the country. But she would not let Solly give her anything but flowers. It drove April mad.
She passed a big marquee. Outside were two girls dressed as bookmakers and a man in a black suit shouting: “The only racing certainty at Goodwood today is the coming Day of Judgment! Stake your faith on Jesus, and the payout is eternal life.” The interior of the tent looked cool and shady, and on impulse she 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.”
“Are you here on your own?”
“No, I’m with … friends.” For some reason she did not want him to know she had been brought here by Solly. “And you? Are you with your awful aunt?”
He grimaced. “No. Methodists don’t approve of race meetings—she’d be horrified if she knew I was here.”
“Is she fond of you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then why does she let you live with her?”
“She likes to keep people in sight, so she can control them.”
“Does she control you?”
“She tries.” He grinned. “Sometimes I escape.”
“It must be hard, living with her.”
“I can’t afford to live on my own. I have to be patient and work hard at the bank. Eventually I’ll get promoted and then I’ll be independent.” He grinned again. “And then I’ll tell her to shut her gob like you did.”
“I hope you didn’t get into trouble.”
“I did, but it was worth it to see the expression on her face. That was when I started to like you.”
“Is that why you asked me to dine with you?”
“Yes. Why did you refuse?”
“Because April told me you haven’t a penny to your name.”
“I’ve enough for a couple of chops and a plum pudding.”
“How could a girl resist that?” she said mockingly.
He laughed. “Come out with me tonight. We’ll go to Cremorne Gardens and dance.”
She was tempted, but she thought of Solly and felt guilty. “No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
She asked herself the same question. She was not in love with Solly and she was taking no money from him: why was she saving herself for him? I’m eighteen years old, she thought, and if I can’t go out dancing with a boy I like, what’s the point in living? “All right, then.”
“You’ll come?”
“Aye.”
He grinned. She had made him happy. “Shall I fetch you?”
She did not want him to see the Soho slum where she shared a room with April. “No, let’s meet somewhere.”
“All right—we’ll go to Westminster Pier and take the steamer to Chelsea.”
“Yes!” She felt more excited than she had for months. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock?”
She made a rapid calculation. Solly and Tonio would want to stay until the last race. Then they had to get the train back to London. She would say good-bye to Solly at Victoria Station and walk to Westminster. She thought she could make it. “But if I’m late, you’ll wait?”
“All night, if necessary.”
Thinking of Solly made her feel guilty. “I’d better get back to my friends now.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he said eagerly.
She did not want that. “Best you don’t.”
“As you wish.”
She put out her hand and they shook. It seemed oddly formal. “Until tonight,” she said.
“I’ll be there.”
She turned and walked away, feeling that he was watching her. Now why did I do that? she thought. Do I want to go out with him? Do I really like him? The first time we met we had a quarrel that broke up the party, and today he was ready to squabble again if I hadn’t smoothed it over. We really don’t get on. We’ll never be able to dance together. Perhaps I won’t go.
But he’s got lovely blue eyes.
She made up her mind not to think about it anymore. She had agreed to meet him and she would. She might enjoy it or she might not, but fretting beforehand would not help.
She would have to invent a reason for leaving Solly. He was expecting to take her out to dinner. However, he never questioned her—he would accept any excuse, no matter how implausible. All the same she would try to think of something convincing, for it made her feel bad to abuse his easygoing nature.
She found the others where she had left them. They had spent the whole afternoon between the rail and the bookmaker in the checked suit. April and Tonio were looking bright-eyed and triumphant. As soon as April saw Maisie she said: “We’ve won a hundred and ten pounds—isn’t it wonderful?”
Maisie was happy for April. It was such a lot of money to get for nothing. As she was congratulating them, Micky Miranda appeared, strolling along with his thumbs in the pockets of his dove-gray waistcoat. She was not surprised to see him: everyone went to Goodwood.
Although Micky was startlingly good-looking, Maisie disliked him. He reminded her of the circus ringmaster, who had thought all women should be thrilled to be propositioned by him, and was highly affronted when one turned him down. Micky had Edward Pilaster in tow, as always. Maisie was curious about their relationship. They were so different: Micky slim, immaculate, confident; Edward big, clumsy, hoggish. Why were they so inseparable? But most people were enchanted by Micky. Tonio regarded him with a kind of nervous veneration, like a puppy with a cruel master.
Behind them were an older man and a young woman. Micky introduced the man as his father. Maisie studied him with interest. He did not resemble Micky at all. He was a short man with bowed legs, very broad shoulders and a weatherbeaten face. Unlike his son he did not look comfortable in a stiff collar and a top hat. The woman was clinging to him like a lover but she had to be younger than him by thirty years. Micky introduced her as Miss Cox.
They all talked about their winnings. Both Edward and Tonio had made a lot on a horse called Prince Charlie. Solly had won money then lost it again, and seemed to enjoy both equally. Micky did not say how he had fared, and Maisie guessed he had not bet as much as the others: he seemed too careful a person, too calculating, to be a heavy gambler.
However, with his next breath he surprised her. He said to Solly: “We’re going to have a heavyweight game tonight, Greenbourne—a pound minimum. Will you join in?”
She was struck by the thought that Micky’s languid posture was covering up considerable tension. He was a deep one.
Solly would go along with anything. “I’ll join in,” he said.
Micky turned to Tonio. “Would you care to join us?” His take-it-or-leave-it tone sounded false to Maisie.
“Count on me,” Tonio said excitedly. “I’ll be there!”
April looked troubled and said: “Tonio, not tonight—you promised me.” Maisie suspected that Tonio could not afford to play when the minimum stake was a pound.
“What did I promise?” he said with a wink at his friends.
She whispered something in his ear, and the men all laughed.
Micky said: “It’s be the last big game of the season, Silva. You’ll be sorry if you miss it.”
That surprised Maisie. At the Argyll Rooms she had got the impression that Micky disliked Tonio. Why was he now trying to talk Tonio into joining the card game?
Tonio said: “I’m lucky today—look how much I’ve won on the horses! I shall play cards tonight.”
Micky glanced at Edward, and Maisie caught a look of relief in their eyes. Edward said: “Shall we all dine together at the club?”
Solly looked at Maisie, and she realized she had been provided with a ready-made excuse for not spending the evening with him. “Dine with the boys, Solly,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve had a lovely day. You spend the evening at your club.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Micky.
He and his father, Miss Cox and Edward took their leave.
Tonio and April went to place a bet on the next race. Solly offered Maisie his arm and said: “Shall we walk for a while?”
They strolled along the white-painted rail that bounded the track. The sun was warm and the country air smelled good. After a while Solly said: “Do you like me, Maisie?”
She stopped, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “I like you a lot.”
He looked into her eyes, and she was mystified to see tears behind his spectacles. “Solly, dear, what is it?” she said.
“I like you, too,” he said. “More than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you.” She was touched. It was unusual for Solly to show any emotion stronger than mild enthusiasm.
Then he said: “Will you marry me?”
She was flabbergasted. This was the last thing in the world she had expected. Men of Solly’s class did not propose to girls like her. They seduced them, gave them money, kept them as mistresses, and had children by them, but they did not marry them. She was too astounded to speak.
Solly went on: “I’d give you anything you want. Please say yes.”
Marriage to Solly! Maisie would be unbelievably rich for ever and ever. A soft bed every night, a blazing fire in every room of the house, and as much butter as she could eat. She would get up when she pleased, not when she had to. She would never be cold again, never hungry, never shabbily dressed, never weary.
The word “yes” trembled on the tip of her tongue.
She thought of April’s tiny room in Soho, with its nest of mice in the wall; she thought of how the privy stank on warm days; she thought of the nights they went without dinner; she thought of how her feet ached after a day of walking the streets.
She looked at Solly. How hard could it be, to marry this man?
He said: “I love you so much, I’m just desperate for you.”
He really did love her, she could tell.
And that was the trouble.
She did not love him.
He deserved better. He deserved a wife who really loved him, not a hard-hearted guttersnipe on the make. If she married him she would be cheating him. And he was too good for that.
She felt close to tears. She said: “You’re the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever met—”
“Don’t say no, please?” he interrupted. “If you can’t say yes, say nothing. Think about it, at least for a day, perhaps longer.”
Maisie sighed. She knew she should turn him down, and it would have been easier to do so right away. But he was begging her. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
He beamed. “Thank you.”
She shook her head ruefully. “Whatever happens, Solly, I believe I’ll never be proposed to by a better man.”