by A. J. Cronin
“But, dad…” David paused, worried by his father’s attitude. Robert seemed weary, enveloped by a sort of fatalism.
Robert saw the expression and smiled again. He said:
“No, I’m not makin’ a song about it this time, Davey. They’d none of them believe me, none of the lads, ’twas only the chance of a halfpenny raise what brought them out the last time. I’m not bothering… not bothering my head.” He broke off, looked at the sky. “I think I’ll come here next Sunday. You better come too. It’s the right time of year for the Wansbeck.” He coughed, his soft yet booming cough.
David said quickly:
“You ought to get out oftener with that cough of yours.”
Robert smiled:
“I’m going to retire here one of these days.” He tapped his chest with his pipe. “But that’s nothing, that cough. It and me are old friends now. It’ll never kill me.”
David looked at his father with a silent anxiety. His nerves, all on edge these days, resented the intolerable situation: Robert’s cough, his cheerfulness, his apathy under the hardships of Scupper Flats. And suppose there really was danger in the Flats? David’s heart contracted. With a sudden determination he thought: I must speak to Barras about Scupper Flats. I’ll speak to him this week.
NINETEEN
Meanwhile Joe was having a splendid time; he described it frequently to himself as “a high old time,” or “this is the life.” He liked Shiphead, a friendly sort of town with good pubs, two handy billiard saloons, a dance hall and a regular Saturday night boxing show. He liked the change, his lodgings, his office—a single room across from the Fountain Hotel, complete with telephone, two chairs, a desk for his feet, a safe, a racing calendar and walls pasted with cut-outs of everybody from Jack Johnson to Vesta Victoria. He liked his new light brown suit, his new watch-chain worn between the top pockets of his waistcoat. He liked his finger-nails—cultivated with a pen-knife while his hat sat on the back of his head and his feet rested on the top of his desk—he liked the way he was getting off with the nice little pusher who glittered in the pay box of the new picture palace. And above all he liked his work. The work was a pinch, nothing to do but collect the slips and the money, ’phone the slips through to Dick Jobey in Tynecastle and hold the money till Saturday night when Dick came over himself to collect it. Dick had thought him the right man for the job, the right man to open this new branch in Shiphead, a likely lad, a good mixer, open and hearty, able to get in with the boys, steer clear of the police, run things smart and lively. Dick hadn’t wanted a figgering-machine, no, by gum! not no kind of a clerk to sit mopey in the office till business came. Dick wanted a smart lad, a likely, honest lad with a head on his shoulders…
And had Dick been wrong? Joe smiled genially towards the lady in the tights who seemed in the act of “la savatting” the White-eyed Kaffir on the opposite wall. A smart lad, with a head on his shoulders… Had Joe a head on his shoulders? Joe could have laughed, split himself, it was too easy, too, too easy, it was money for jam. It was all the front you put on; doing the other fellow before he did you. He shifted the toothpick, slid his hand into his inside pocket, pulled out a thin, mottle-covered book. The book pleased Joe. The book said between the red ruled lines two hundred and two pounds ten shillings and sixpence to the credit of Mr. Joe Gowlan, 7 Brown Street, Shiphead. The book proved that Joe was a considerable success.
The ’phone rang, Joe lifted the receiver.
“Hello! Yes, Mr. Carr, yes. Certainly. The two-thirty. Ten shillings Slider, any to come Blackbird in the four o’clock. You’re on, Mr. Carr.”
Carr, the chemist in Bank Street that was, Joe ruminated; funny the people what bet you never think would bet. Carr looked as though he thought of nothing but jalap and titties, went to chapel every Sunday with his wife and had ten bob on regular twice a week. Won, too. Won a packet often. You could pretty well tell the ones what won, they were cautious and up to the game, never showed it when they won. And the losers, you could tell them just the same. Take Tracy, now, that young Tracy who had come to Shiphead last month, there was a born loser for you, if you like. With mug written all over his silly dial. From the minute young Tracy had made up to him in Markey’s Billiard-room over a game of pin-pool and put a quid on Sally Sloper, finished last in a field of fourteen, he had taken young Tracy’s number. Young Tracy was anybody’s meat, thin, sloppy, fade-away chin, woodbine and laugh. And for all the woodbine young Tracy had money to play the horses, a matter of twenty quid straight he’d had on in the month and lost it all, lost every blinking time. Young Tracy had stopped being anybody’s meat, he was Joe’s meat now, and don’t you make no mistake, thought Joe.
’Phone again.
“Hello! Hello!” Whatever Joe’s private simplicities he was magnificent upon the ’phone. He had improved. He was sonorous, breezy, classy—as the occasion demanded. He did not murder King’s English now, except to register extreme affability. He lolled back, grinning, not business this time, just the little lady from the pay box of the Picturedrome giving him a tinkle before her boss came down:
“Hello, Minnie, uh-huh, who did you think it was—Chinglung-soo? Ha! Ha! Oh, you’re barmy, Minnie! What! For the three o’clock… or any race? Hellup, Minnie, what d’ye think I am… Dr. Barnado’s Homes? Expect me to give away state secrets for nowt—I mean nothing. Not on your sweet little Pearl White life, Minnie! I told you before… What!…” His mouth open, gloating suddenly, Joe listened. “Well, that’s different, Minnie, didn’t I always say I would, Minnie? It was you that got up in the air about it. Why, yes, Minnie… if you’ve changed your mind I think I can put you on a cert.” Swelling with elation, Joe kept his tone calm, persuasive, flattering. “You leave it to me, Minnie. Why yes, a cert… I always said you had it in you, Minnie. I’ll do something for you if you do something for me, that’s our motto, eh, Minnie? But listen, if you think you can slip it across me you’re… oh, all right, Minnie. I was only thinking. Eleven o’clock then, outside the Drome, you bet your garters I’ll be there. I’ll bring your winnings!”
Joe rang off exultantly. He’d always said, hadn’t he, that that was the way to do it… like in the school book, make the mountain come to Mahommey. His chest swelled. He wanted to get up and dance, do a cake-walk up and down the office. But no, he was beyond that now, a man of the world, cool, up to a thing or two. He composed himself, rested his toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, expertly lit a cigarette and got down to work.
First he took out all the morning’s slips. He considered each slip expertly, scrutinised and weighed it before he passed it. In the end he had two heaps: one large heap of likely bets and another consisting of three slips, all of which, barring three separate and individual miracles, he knew for certain losers. Tracey, for instance, had three pounds—the biggest plunge he’d ever had—on Hydrangea, an old tubed pacemaker of a horse that wasn’t even trying. Joe smiled slightly for the witless Tracy, as he did a mental calculation—no head for figgers, eh?—tore Tracy’s slip into tiny fragments. Fulbrook and Sweet Orb were on the other slips—he tore these up also. Still smiling he looked at the clock: half-past one, no more coming in. Genially, he picked up the ’phone, chaffed the operator a bit, got through to Tynecastle, a few miles down the wire.
“Hello, that Dick Jobey! This is Joe, Dick. Not a bad day. Ha! Ha! That’s right, Dick. Are you ready, right, Dick, off we go”… Joe began to read out the undestroyed slips. He read them out smartly, clearly, rather sonorously. He finished. “Yes, that’s all, Dick. What? Am I sure? You bet I am, Dick. Ever know me to make a mistake? Yes, that is the lot, Dick. Yes. So-long. See you Saturday.”
Joe smacked down the receiver heartily, rose, winked at the lady in tights, cocked his hat, locked the office and went out. He crossed the bustling street to the Fountain, went through the bar, nodding here, there, everywhere. They all knew him… him… Joe Gowlan… commission agent… Big Joe Gowlan…
He had a beefsteak, a large thick juicy beefsteak,
cooked red, the way he liked it with onions, chips and a pint of three X. He enjoyed every bit of the beef, every drop of the bitter. A rare capacity for enjoyment had Joe. Then he had a lump of Stilton and a roll. Good, that Stilton was… by God, it was good… what had he known about Stilton a couple of years ago? …he was going up, up, up in the world… him… Joe Gowlan.
The afternoon was more or less his own. He had a chat with Preston, Jack Preston the landlord of the Fountain… nice fella Jack was. Then he strolled down to Markey’s and played a couple of games of snooker. Tracy was not there, funny Tracy not being there, but never mind, Tracy’s three quid was safe and sound in Joe’s inside pocket.
After the snooker Joe rolled over to Young Curley’s gymnasium. Joe was a regular patron of Young Curley—a fella couldn’t do nothing if he wasn’t fit! Couldn’t enjoy himself neither! Now could he? A little of everything in its right place, thought Joe blandly, remembering eleven o’clock and Minnie.
In the gym Joe stripped his beefy twelve stone, did a turn on the bars, shadow boxed, then sparred three rounds easy with Curley himself. He sweated beautifully, then got into the bath, soaked long and hot. After that a needle shower and a hard rub down. Curley didn’t rub him hard enough.
“Harder, man, harder,” Joe urged, “what d’ye think I pay you for?” He was the boss, wasn’t he? and he had to take it out of Curley somehow. Curley had caught him too loud a wallop on the ear that last third round. Pink and glowing, Joe slid off the table like a big smooth seal. He padded to his cubicle, dressed carefully, threw Curley half a crown and sauntered out.
Five o’clock—just right for the office. On the way back to the Square he bought a late special, inspected the stop-press with a confident untroubled eye. As he had expected, Hydrangea nowhere, Fulbrook fourth in a field of six, Sweet Orb also ran. Joe gave no sign, only the mugs did that, perhaps there was a shade more swagger in his walk as he crossed the street and let himself into the office.
At his desk Joe went through the day’s accounts, picked up the telephone and rang Tynecastle.
“Hello! Dick Jobey there? Hello… what?… Mr. Jobey left early… oh, all right, I’ll ring again in the morning.”
So Dick had left early; well, no wonder, thought Joe pleasantly, Dick couldn’t have had none too good a day. He rose, whistling, straightening his tie. Then the door opened and Dick Jobey walked into the room.
“Why, he-lo, Dick, this is great…. I didn’t expect you here…”
“Shut up, Gowlan. And sit down.” Quiet and unsmiling, Dick Jobey indicated the chair.
Joe’s jaw dropped:
“But, Dick, ole man…” Then Joe went a sickly green. Behind Dick Jobey, young Tracy came in, and behind Tracy an extremely large red-faced man with shoulders like the side of a house and a hard unpleasant eye. The large man shut the door and leant carefully against it. Young Tracy, looking a little less like a mug, put a woodbine in his mouth and gazed without pity upon Joe.
“Gowlan,” Jobey said, “you’re a dirty rotten rigger.”
“What!” Joe gathered himself together, made an agonised effort to carry off a bluff. “Half a chance, Dick. What are you talking about? I’ve just rung you up at Tynecastle a minute ago trying to get you to tell you I’d forgotten to put through Hydrangea. His bet…” He indicated Tracy and went on with growing indignation, “Honest to God, Dick, I did forget and I rang you up the minute I remembered.”
“Shut up, Gowlan. It isn’t only to-day you’ve cribbed me. For a month Tracy has been punting with you. He’s lost thirty-five pounds and I haven’t had a penny of it.”
“What!” roared Joe. “He says that, does he, the dirty liar. Don’t you believe him, Dick. It’s a blasted lie. My word’s as good as his…”
“Shut up, Gowlan,” Jobey said for the third time, almost wearily. “Tracy’s with me. He works a month on all my branches like he’s done with you. What kind of a leg do you take me for? D’you think I don’t check up on everything? Everything, you fool! I know you’ve been cribbing me. You’ve had a good job, and a good chance. But now you’re out, see, out on your neck, you low-down dirty rigger!”
All up, thought Joe. Rage burst over him. He blustered.
“Look out who you’re calling a rigger. I could have you up for that… I…” He choked, for two pins he’d have taken a crack at Jobey, but there were three of them, curse it, three of them. And besides, he didn’t care, he was well in over the business, yes, he was quids in. Then he went absolutely cold. Jobey, turning aside with a gesture of distaste, remarked:
“Go through him, Jim.”
Jim removed himself from the door, came forward hard eye and all as if he meant to go through the wall. Oh, God! thought Joe, he’s going to scrounge my dough. A sudden fury burst over him. I’ll be damned, he flamed, I’ll be damned if I let them. He set himself in a crouch and took a vicious crack at Jim’s jaw. The blow landed but the jaw was cast iron. Jim lowered his bullet head and rushed in.
For three minutes the office rocked under the riot of the scrap. But it was no use. Joe was giving away two stone, at the end of it he took the floor with a terrific bump. He lay prone, Jim sitting on his chest. No use… no use at all… I’m giving him two stone… he had to let Jim go through him: five-pound notes and the mottled bank-book were placed upon the desk.
As Dick Jobey delicately pocketed the notes and lifted the bank-book Joe picked himself off the floor and began to blubber.
“For Gord’s sake, Mr. Jobey, sir. It’s my own money, my own savings…”
Jobey looked at his watch, quickly took up the ’phone, called the manager of the bank. Blubbering, Joe listened dazedly.
“I’m sorry to trouble you after hours but this is most important. Mr. Gowlan wants to cash a cheque most urgently. It’s Jobey of Tynecastle speaking, yes, Mr. Dick Jobey… would you as a special favour to me oblige Mr. Gowlan. Thank you, yes, right away, I’m extremely obliged to you.”
“I won’t go,” shrieked Joe. “I’ll be damned if I go.”
“I give you one minute to make up your mind,” Jobey said sadly. “If you don’t go I’ll call up the police.”
Joe went. The silent procession of four marched to the bank, and as silently marched back to the office.
“Hand it over,” Jobey said.
“For the love of Gord,” Joe howled, “some of it’s my own money.”
“Hand it over,” Jobey said. Jim stood there, ready.
O Christ, thought Joe, he’ll only bounce me again. He handed it over, all of it, in twenties, fives and sovereigns, all of his lovely money, his lovely two hundred pounds, all that he had…
“For Gord’s sake, Mr. Jobey,” he implored abjectly.
On his way to the door Dick Jobey paused. A look of contempt came into his face. He picked a single sovereign from the money in his pocket, flung it at Joe.
“Here,” he said. “Buy yourself a hat.” And with Tracy and Jim he went out.
For ten minutes Joe sat rocking himself in a passion of misery, tears running down his cheeks. Then he rose and picked up the sovereign. A perfect fury possessed him. He kicked at a chair, kicked and kicked at it. He began to wreck the office. He wrecked the office thoroughly, viciously. It was all second-hand cheap furniture and very little of it. What there was he battered to matchwood. He spat upon the floor. He cursed Jobey, cursed and cursed him. He took a blue pencil and wrote big on the wall, Jobey is a dirty bastard. He wrote further fierce, unutterable obscenities. Then he sat down on the window-sill and counted his money. With the pound and some change in his pocket he had exactly thirty shillings. Thirty shillings. Thirty pieces of silver!
He banged out of the ruined office, went straight to the Fountain. He put ten shillings in his waistcoat pocket. With the rest he got drunk. He sat drinking, until half-past ten, all by himself. At half-past ten he was broodingly, rampantly drunk. He rose and swayed over to the Picturedrome.
At eleven Minnie came out, blasé, yellow-haired, narrow-chested
, sporting her gold-crowned tooth and all. There was no doubt about it, Minnie was a tart.
Joe took Minnie in, swaying gently, looking her up and down.
“Come on, Minnie,” he said thickly. “I’ve got your winnings here. Ten bob. Nothing to what I’ll get you tomorrow.”
“Oh,” said Minnie in a disillusioned voice. “You all want the same thing.”
“Come on,” said Joe.
Minnie came on. Joe didn’t buy himself a hat that night. But because of that night he bought several later on.
TWENTY
The trees of the Avenue stood silent in the teeming rain, their smoke-grimed branches dripping water, vague dismal shapes, like mourning women, lining the Avenue in the dank twilight, weeping. But David, walking quickly up the wet pathway, paid no attention to the weeping trees. His head was bent, his expression concentrated and fixed. Under the stress of some positive emotion, he entered the grounds of the Law, rang the bell and waited. In a moment the door was opened, not by Ann, the maid, but by Hilda Barras, and at the sight of him she flushed unexpectedly.
“You’re early!” she exclaimed, controlling herself immediately. “Much too early. Arthur’s with father in the study.”
He entered the hall and took off his wet coat.
“I came early because I wanted to see your father.”
“Father?” For all her assumption of irony she observed his face intently. “You sound serious.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, quite painfully serious.”
He felt the sarcasm in her voice but he did not answer. Somehow he liked Hilda, her uncompromising rudeness was at least sincere. A pause followed. Though clearly she was curious to know what was in his mind she did not press him further. Indifferently she remarked: