Philomena wriggled between the two thickest bushes she could find. She scratched both hands and face painfully in the process, for one of the shrubs bore vicious thorns. It must be a raspberry or gooseberry bush. A pity there was no better hiding place. Still, at least she could hide here, unseen unless an observer brought torches and searched carefully. All she had left to do was to wait.

This waiting was a dull business. A thrill of adventure had buoyed Philomena at the start of the escapade, but now it waned. The scratches on her face hurt and she was hungry, but there was nothing to eat. No fruit hung on the bushes at this time of the year. She should have filled her pockets with food earlier.

Very few lights shone in the house. Candles flickered and died as servants left the main rooms and retreated to their quarters for the evening. The time ticked slowly by. A church clock chimed ten times. Nothing happened. In the distance, the dull roar of London never ceased. The noises of the night were quieter than those during the day, but were unrelenting all the same. Coaches clattered round the streets, splashing through mud and puddles, while cabbies hallooed for business. In the distance, a steam train hooted.

The damp seemed to rise slowly up her legs, seeping through the thick hob-nailed boots. At a price of just two shillings a pair, they had seemed a bargain, but now Philomena suspected that some problem with the seams had exasperated their previous owner into selling them for half their worth. Still, she had no alternative but to wait. Her legs ached from standing, but sitting on the wet ground would only add to her misery.

The clock struck again. The weather obliged with a sudden downpour, soaking the top half of Philomena’s body. Sorely tempted to forget the whole idea, Philomena had to summon all her fortitude. This was her one chance to get the better of Joseph. She would not admit defeat now. Her anxiety had melted away to wretchedness. The scratches on her face ceased to hurt but her frozen fingers began to ache. At last, the final candle in the house went out as the last servant went to bed. Now all was quite still.

She heard a murmur from the street. The voices, quiet at first, grew louder, accompanied by the clang of boots, loud in the night. If this was Joseph, she feared for the success of his venture. Frenzied shushing noises convinced her that this was indeed the burgling party, full of beer and bravado. “Climb the gate,” hissed one voice, “and open it for us.”

“Nah. You climb it.” They jostled and sniggered.