by A. J. Cronin
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Jobey,” Joe began with ingratiating friendliness. “I was just wondering if you had anything. I’m not botherin’ about myself. I never do have much on. But I’ve got my young lady and her dad along with us… my lass, you see… she’d just dance with delight if she took a couple of shillings off the ring.”
Dick Jobey tapped the toe of his neat black shoe against the railings, very pleasant and non-committal. The convention that bookmakers are full-bodied and purple-faced, talking with one corner of the mouth whilst a large cigar occupies the other, receives the lie from Dick Jobey of Tynecastle. Dick was a bookmaker, a bookmaker in quite a large way, with an office in Bigg Market and a branch in Yarrow across the road from the Catholic Church. But Dick smoked the mildest of cigarettes, drank only mineral water. A nice, quiet, affable, plainly dressed, medium-sized man who never swore, never bellowed the odds, and was never seen on any race-course but the local Gosforth Park. It was rumoured, indeed, amongst his many friends, that Dick went to Gosforth once a year to pick buttercups.
“Have you anything, then, Mr. Jobey, that I can tell the lass?”
Dick Jobey inspected Joe. He liked the tone of Joe’s remark; he had seen Joe box at St. James’s Hall; he felt, altogether, that Joe was a “likely lad.” And as Dick had a weakness for likely lads, he allowed Joe to cultivate him, to run odd commissions for him. Altogether Joe had been assiduous in worming his way into Dick Jobey’s favour. Dick spoke at last.
“I wouldn’t let her do anything till the last race, Joe.”
“No, Mr. Jobey.”
“But she might have a little on, then. Not much, you know, just half a crown for fun.”
“Yes, Mr. Jobey.”
“Of course you never can tell.”
“No, Mr. Jobey.” An excited pause. “Is it Nesfield you fancy?”
Dick shook his head.
“She hasn’t an earthly, that one. Let your young lady have a half a crown on Pink Bud. Just half a crown, mind you. And just for fun.”
Dick Jobey smiled, nodded and quietly strolled away. Thrilling with triumph, Joe elbowed his way back to Alf and Jenny.
“Oh, Joe,” Jenny protested, “wherever have you been? There’s the first race over and I’ve never even betted yet.”
In a right good humour he assured her that she could bet now to her heart’s content. Blandly he listened while she and Alf discussed their fancies. Jenny was all for picking out the pretty names, the nicest colours, or a horse belonging to someone particularly notable. Joe beamed approval. With continued blandness he accepted he money, placed her bets. She lost, lost again, and once again.
“Now isn’t that too bad?” Jenny exclaimed, completely dashed at the end of the fourth race. She had wanted so much to win. Jenny was not mean, she was generous to a fault, and quite careless of her few half-crowns; but it would have been simply lovely to win.
Alf, who had been following Captain Sanglar doggedly with nothing to show for it but an odds-on place, reassured her.
“We’ll get it all back on Nesfield, lass. She’s the three-star nap of the day.”
Gloating inside, Joe heard him plump for Nesfield.
Jenny studied her programme doubtfully.
“I’m not so sure about your old Captain,” she said. “What do you think, Joe?”
“You never can tell,” Joe suggested artlessly. “That’s Lord Kell’s filly, isn’t it?”
“So it is.” Jenny brightened. “I forgot about that. Yes, I think I better have Nesfield.”
“What about Pink Bud?” Joe ventured rather vaguely.
“Never heard of it,” Alf said promptly.
And Jenny:
“Oh no, Joe… Lord Kell’s horse for me.”
“Well” said Joe, moving off. “Have it your own way. But I think I’ll do Pink Bud.”
He took all the money he had with him, four pounds in all, and boldly slammed it on Pink Bud. He got fives about the animal, saw the price shorten rapidly to three. Then they were off. He stood at the rails, holding on tight, watching the massed horses swing round the bend. Faster, faster; he sweated, hardly dared to breathe. Panting, he watched them enter the straight, approach the post. Then he let out a wild yell. Pink Bud was home by a good two lengths.
The minute the numbers were up he collected his winnings, stuffed the four five-pound notes tight into his inside pocket, slipped the four sovereigns in his vest, buttoned up his coat, cocked his hat and swaggered back to Jenny.
“Oh, Joe,” Jenny nearly wept, “why didn’t I…”
“Yes, why didn’t you?” he bubbled over. “You should have taken my tip. I’ve won a packet. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you I was going to do it. I’d a notion about Pink Bud all the time.” He could have hugged himself with the delight of having got ahead of them. The sight of her pale, woebegone face made him laugh. He said patronisingly: “Don’t make a song about it, Jenny. I’ll take you out with me to-night. We’ll paint the old town red.”
Skilfully, they gave Alf the slip on the way out. They had done it before; and this time it was easy. Alf, plodding along with his head down, was far too busy cursing Captain Sanglar to see that they were dodging him.
They got to Tynecastle shortly after six, strolled up New-gate Street into Haymarket. All Joe’s earlier despondency had vanished, swept away by a sort of boisterous magnanimity. He condescended towards Jenny with a large, forgiving geniality; he even let her take his arm.
Suddenly, as they turned the corner of Northumberland Street, Joe stiffened, gasped:
“By gum, it can’t be him!” Then he let out a whoop. “Davey! Hey, Davey Fenwick, man!”
David stopped, turned; a slow recognition spread over his face.
“Why, Joe… it’s not you!”
“Ay, it’s me right enough,” Joe crowed, falling upon David with manly exuberance. “It’s me and none other. There’s only one Joe Gowlan in Tynecassel.”
They all laughed. Joe, with a princely wave of his hand, making the necessary introduction.
“This is Miss Sunley, Davey. Little friend of mine. An’ this is Davey, Jenny, a regular pal of Joe’s in the good old days.”
David looked at Jenny. He looked right into her clear, wide eyes. Then, under her smile, he smiled too. Admiration dawned upon his face. Very politely they shook hands.
“Jenny and me was just going to have a bit of snap,” Joe remarked, irresistibly taking charge of the situation. “But now we’ll all have a bit of snap. Fancy a bit of snap, Davey?”
“You bet,” David agreed enthusiastically. “We’re quite near Nun Street. Let’s pop into Lockhart’s.”
Joe nearly collapsed.
“Lockhart’s,” he repeated to Jenny. “Did ye hear him say Lockhart’s?”
“What’s wrong?” inquired David blankly. “It’s a jolly good spot. I often go there for a cup of cocoa in the evening.”
“Cocoa,” moaned Joe weakly, pretending to support himself against an adjacent lamp-post. “Does he take us for a couple of true blue Rechabites?”
“Now, behave, Joe, do,” Jenny entreated him, exchanging a demure glance with David.
Joe galvanised himself dramatically. He went up to David with great effect.
“Look here, my lad. You’re not in the pit now. You’re with Mr. Joe Gowlan. An’ he’s standin’ treat. So shut yer gob an’ come on.”
Saying no more, Joe thrust his thumb in his arm-hole and led the way down Northumberland Street to the Percy Grill. David and Jenny followed. They entered, sat down at a table. Joe’s exhibitionism was superb. This was one of the things he really enjoyed: showing off his ease, address, aplomb, showing off himself. In the Percy Grill he was at home: this last year he had frequently been here with Jenny. A small place it was, common and showy, with a good deal of gilt and a good many red lamp shades, a kind of annexe to the adjoining pub known as the Percy Vaults. There was one waiter with a napkin stuffed into his waistcoat, who came fawning upon them in a
nswer to Joe’s sophisticated call.
“What’ll you have?” Joe demanded. “Mine’s a whisky. An’ yours, Jenny? A port, eh? An’ yours, Davey? Be careful now, lad, an’ don’t say cocoa.”
David smiled, remarked that in this instance he would prefer beer.
When the drinks were brought, Joe ordered a lavish meal: chops, sausages and chip potatoes. Then he lolled back in his seat, inspecting David critically, finding him lankier, maturer, curiously improved. With a burst of curiosity he asked:
“What are ye doin’ with yerself now, Davey? Ye’re changed a lot, man.”
David had certainly changed. He was nearly twenty-one now but his pale face and smooth dark hair made him a little older. His brow was good, his chin as stubborn as before. He was inclined to leanness about the jaw, he had a taut and rather finely drawn look, but his shy smile was a delight. He smiled now.
“There’s nothing much to tell, Joe.”
“Ah, come on now,” said Joe patronisingly.
“Well…” said David….
These last three years had not been easy for him, they had left their mark, knocked the immaturity out of his face for good. He had come up to Baddeley on his scholarship of sixty pounds a year, taking lodgings at Westgate Hill opposite the Big Lamp. The money was ridiculously inadequate, his allowance from home sometimes did not come—Robert had once been laid up for two months on end—and David had frequently been up against it. On one occasion he had carried a man’s bag from Central Station to earn a sixpence for his supper.
It was nothing really, his enthusiasm carried him through it with a rush. The enthusiasm came from the discovery of his own ignorance. The first month at Baddeley had demonstrated him as a raw pit lad who had stumbled by good luck, hard elementary coaching and a little natural-born sense into a scholarship. At that David had set himself to get hold of something. He began to read: not the stereotyped reading prescribed by the classes, not just his Gibbon, Macaulay, perhaps but he read well. He read entranced, bewildered sometimes, but stubborn always. He joined the Fabian Society, squeezed sixpence for a gallery seat at the symphony concerts, came to know Beethoven there and Bach, wandered to the Tynecastle Municipal Gallery to discover the beauty of Whistler, Degas and the solitary glowing Manet there.
It was not easy, it was in fact a little pathetic, this troubled, solitary seeking. He was too poor, shabby and proud to make many friends. He wanted friends, but they must come to him.
Then he began to teach, going out to the poorer districts—Saltley, Witton, Hebburn—as a pupil teacher in the elementary schools. He should, of course, by reason of his ideals, have loved it; instead he hated it—the pale, undernourished and often sickly children from the slum areas distracted his attention, distressed him horribly. He wanted to give them boots, clothes and food—not thump the multiplication table into their bemused little heads. He wanted to cart them away to the Wansbeck and set them playing there in the sunshine, instead of rowing them for failing to learn ten lines of incomprehensible “poetry,” about Lycidas dying ere his prime. His heart bled at times for these wretched kids. He knew immediately and irrevocably that he was no use at a blackboard, would never be any good; that this teaching was only a means to an end, that he must get out of it presently, into another, more active, more combative sphere. He must take his B.A. next year, quickly, then move on.
David stopped suddenly: his rare smile broke out again.
“O Lord! Have I been talking all this time? You asked for the sad, sad story… that’s my only excuse!”
But Jenny refused to let him make light of it; she was terribly impressed.
“My,” she remarked, animated yet bashful. “I’d no idea I was going to meet anybody so important.” The port had brought a faint flush to her cheeks; she sparkled upon him.
David looked at her wryly.
“Important! that’s a rich piece of sarcasm, Miss Jenny.”
But Miss Jenny did not mean it for sarcasm. She had never met a student, a real student of Baddeley College before. Students of the Baddeley belonged mostly to a social world on which Jenny had as yet merely gazed with envy. Besides, she thought David, though rather shabby beside Joe’s smooth opulence, quite a good-looking young man—interesting was the word! And finally she felt that Joe had treated her abominably lately—it would be “nice” to play off David against him and make him thoroughly jealous. She murmured:
“It frightens me to death to think of all these books you study. And that B.A. too. My!”
“It’ll probably land me in some nice unventilated school, teaching underfed little kids.”
“But don’t you want to?” She was incredulous. “A teacher! That’s a lovely thing to be!”
He shook his head in smiling apology and was about to argue with her when the arrival of the chops, sausages and chips created a diversion. Joe divided them thoughtfully. He divided them extremely thoughtfully. At first Joe had heard David with an envious, slightly mocking grin, with a guffaw all ready, perfectly ready to take David down a peg. Then he had seen David look at Jenny. That was when it came to Joe, the marvellous, the wholly marvellous idea. He lifted his head, handed David his plate solicitously.
“That’s all right for you, Davey, boy?”
“Fine, thanks, Joe.” David smiled: he hadn’t seen a plateful like that in weeks.
Joe nodded, graciously passed Jenny the mustard and ordered her another port.
“What was that you were saying, Davey?” he inquired kindly. “About getting on beyond the teaching like?”
David shook his head deprecatingly.
“You wouldn’t be interested, Joe, not a bit.”
“But we are—aren’t we, Jenny?” Real enthusiasm in Joe’s voice. “Go on an’ tell us more, man.”
David gazed from one to the other: encouraged by Joe’s grave attention, by Jenny’s bright eyes. He plunged into it.
“It’s just like this, then. Don’t think I’m drunk, or a prig, or a candidate for the City Asylum. When I’ve got my B.A. I may have to take up teaching for a bit. That’ll only be for bread and butter. I’m not educating myself to teach. I’m not cut out for teaching—too impatient, I suppose. I’m educating myself to fight. What I honestly want to do is different, and it’s hard, terribly hard to explain. But it just amounts to this. I want to do something for my own kind, for the men who work in the pits. You know, Joe, what the work is. Take the Neptune, we’ve both been in it, you know what it’s done to my father. You know what the conditions are… and the pay. I want to help to change things, to make them better.”
Joe thought, he’s mad, quite bleeding well barmy. But he said, very suavely:
“Go on, Davey, that’s the stuff to give them.”
David, glowing to his subject, exclaimed:
“No, Joe, you probably think I’m talking through my hat. But you might get a better idea of what I mean if you take a look at the history of the miners—yes, the history of the miners in Northumberland only sixty or seventy years ago. They worked under something like the feudal system. They were treated as barbarians… outcasts. They had no education. Learning was checked amongst them. The conditions were terrible, improper ventilation, accidents through the owners refusing to take precautions against firedamp. Women and children of six years of age allowed to go down the pit… children of six, mind you. Boys kept eighteen hours a day underground. The men bonded, so they couldn’t stir a foot without being chucked out their houses or chucked into prison. Tommy shops everywhere—kept usually by a relative of the viewer—with the pitman compelled to buy his provisions there and his wages confiscated on pay day to settle the balance….”
All at once he broke off and laughed awkwardly towards Jenny.
“This can’t possibly interest you! I’m an idiot to bother you with it.”
“No, indeed,” she declared admiringly. “I think it’s most awfully clever of you to know all that.”
“Go on, Davey,” urged the genial Joe, signalling anothe
r port for Jenny. “Tell us more.”
But this time David shook his head definitely.
“I’ll keep it all for the Fabian Society debate. That’s when the windbags really get going. But perhaps you do see what I mean. Conditions have improved since those terrible days I’m talking about, we’ve marched a certain distance. But we haven’t marched far enough. There still are appalling hardships in some of the pits, rotten pay, and too many accidents, People don’t seem to realise. I heard a man in the tram the other day. He was reading the paper. His friend asked him what was the news. He answered: ‘Nothing. Nothing, at all. Just another of these pit accidents.’… I looked over his shoulder and saw that fifteen men had been killed in an explosion at Nottingham.”
There was a short pause. Jenny’s eyes dimmed sympathetically. Jenny had swallowed three large ports and all her emotions were beautifully responsive; she vibrated, equipoised, ready to laugh with the joy of life or weep for the sadness of death. She had come to like port quite a lot, had Jenny. A ladylike drink she considered it, a wine, too, which classed it as a beverage infinitely refined. Joe, naturally, had introduced her to it.
Joe broke the silence:
“You’ll go far, Davey,” he said solemnly. “You’re streets ahead of me. You’ll be in Parliament while I’m puddlin’ steel.”
“Don’t be an ass,” David said shortly.
But Jenny had heard; her attention towards David increased. She began, really, to devote herself to him. Her demure glances now became more demure, more significant. She sparkled. She knew all the time, of course, that she was playing David against Joe. It was extremely fascinating to have two strings to her bow.
They talked of lighter things; they talked of what Joe had done; talked and laughed until ten o’clock, all very merry and friendly. Then with a start David became aware of the time.
“Heavens above!” he exclaimed. “And I’m supposed to be working!”
“Don’t go yet,” Jenny protested. “The evening’s young.”
“I don’t want to, but I must, I really must. I’ve got a History Class exam. On Monday.”
“Well,” Joe declared roundly, “we’ll see you on Tuesday, Davey lad, like we’ve arranged. And ye’ll not get away from us so easy next time.”