by Gerald Kersh
He was a bookmaker, a shrewd, hard man – also shapeless of face – who owned greyhounds, promoted fights, and knew what was going on in the world. He walked with a deep stoop and a heavy limp, in a Napoleonic attitude. His right hand under his waistcoat and his left hand in the small of his back seemed to be holding down some tremendous pressure of inside information. His eyes bulged with inside information; and you felt that if you could take a screwdriver and prize open his lips you might receive such an outburst of inside information that you would never have to do another day’s honest work as long as you lived.
This Saturday afternoon, excited by Middleton’s good fortune, Mrs. Gibson, dressed in her brightest summer clothes, had left the house earlier than usual. Talking of Middleton’s inheritance, she did not lower her voice, for this was something to tell the world.
It was an extraordinary thing, she said, but ladies and gentlemen who stayed with her seemed always to have remarkably good luck. There was Miss Stern, a dressmaker, forty if she was a day and absolutely nothing to look at, who married an immensely wealthy manufacturer of copper cooking pots who lived in the City – an Italian it was true, but a perfect gentleman and enormously wealthy. There was a man – just an ordinary gentleman – who had not had a job for six months: he had not been in her house three weeks before his mother died and left him a house and five hundred pounds insurance. She wished, she said, that she had a pound note for every tenant that had had good luck in her house. And now there was the case of Mr. Middleton: a steady young gentleman, a decent young gentleman, a hard-working, conscientious, quiet, respectably married, straight-as-a-die young gentleman. Not a gentleman to push himself forward in the world, but a gentleman to the backbone. The moment she set eyes on him she knew that he was not one of the common herd. He had been living in her house nearly five years, and when it came to the rent she could say with her hand on her heart that he had never been a minute overdue. He had married, although he could ill afford to do so, a perfect lady, and moved to the two little communicating rooms, unfurnished, on the fourth floor. Reluctant as she had been to let her rooms unfurnished (since it was almost impossible to get an unfurnished tenant out) some little voice had whispered to her: Mrs. Gibson, this young gentleman is not one of the common herd. Some people might say that she was gifted with second sight: she did not know. However, to cut a long story short, this very morning Mr. Middleton had inherited a hundred thousand pounds.
Jack Duck said: “A hundred thousand pounds is a lot of money.”
“Hell of a lot,” said Joe Gutkes, stiff-faced like a ventriloquist, scarcely moving his lips.
One of Mrs. Gibson’s respectable friends shook her head and said: “Some people have all the luck, Mrs. Gibson.”
“Well, Mrs. Midge, if anyone deserves it it’s my Mr. Middleton, and I was the first to tell him so.”
Half a dozen men and women nodded and murmured, and big Jack Duck, avoiding the eye of his wife, said: “Have a glass of port in your Guinness, Mrs. Gibson.” He was always pleased by good news, especially this kind of good news. He loved a stroke of luck. So did Joe Gutkes, the gambler, who had had a bad day on Friday. He said to himself: It only goes to show you anything can happen, and said aloud: “All right, Jack. I’ll do this. Make it drinks all round, Jack, will you?”
“Yes, Mr. Gutkes, with pleasure, Mr. Gutkes,” said Mrs. Duck, elbowing her husband aside and wagging a finger at the barman. So, although Jack Duck had meant to say: “No, that’s all right, this is on the house,” the bookmaker paid nineteen shillings for a round of drinks for everyone in the saloon bar. “Here’s luck,” he said, drinking.
“Here’s luck,” said all the company. They were pleased. Mr. Middleton’s luck had brought them luck – an extra, unexpected drink. Even in the grave – even in Wheeler Square – hope was not lost! No uncle lived for ever. What happened to one might happen to another.
Then Trew pulled open the saloon bar door. He bowed low, shouting: “Make way for the millionaire!” – and Louisa came in, nervously fumbling at her lower lip, followed by Middleton, who looked at his boots and blushed darkly.
“That’s him!” said Mrs. Gibson in a penetrating whisper; and there was a chorus of astonished comment:
“ – Who would think so to look at him?”
“ – You’d never dream, would you?”
“ – It only goes to show, doesn’t it?”
“ – To look at him you’d say he didn’t have a hundred thousand farthings, let alone pounds.”
“ – Ah, but you see, you never can tell. I know a man who goes about (if the ladies will excuse the expression) with his shirt hanging out of his trousers, and he owns rows and rows of houses.”
“ – Appearances are deceptive, aren’t they?”
A quick, bright-eyed little woman, much admired for her shrewdness, said very quickly, and in one breath: “After all ask yourself a question it stands to reason doesn’t it if the young man came into all this money this morning he couldn’t be expected to turn up this afternoon in a tailormade suit of clothes driving a Rolls-Royce car – wait a bit and you’ll see him parading about like a tailor’s dummy and treating you like the dirt under his feet and paying no more attention to you than the flies on the wall.”
“ – Ah yes, Mrs. Bird, money often spoils people.”
“ – It can be more of a curse than a blessing, it’s true, ma’am.”
The humorist of the respectable corner of the saloon bar said: “Without wishing to be blasphemous, I wouldn’t mind if somebody went and cursed me with a hundred thousand pounds.”
Meanwhile Jack Duck was looking at Middleton with profound interest. He remembered Middleton, now – a quiet young fellow who used to come in on Saturday evening, never alone, always with Mr. Trew. He never drank more than four half-pints of mild ale; never spent more than two or three shillings; would strip at about one hundred and fifty pounds – a nice, ordinary, steady little fellow, whose weekly shilling was worth more, in the long run, than So-and-So’s unreliable pound note. Now, Jack Duck looked at Middleton with awe. Here was he, Jack Duck, who had spilt his blood, broken his bones, lost his eyesight and his looks; broken an ear-drum, swallowed his teeth, fractured his wrists, and lived the life of an ascetic; keeping away from liquor, rich food, women, and night life between desperate fights, for thirty-five years. All he had was a pub. And here was a mere boy, with the best part of his life before him, into whose lap the gods had dropped a hundred thousand pounds. Jack Duck thought of himself when he was only sixteen, and remembered bloody, pitiless battles fought for five shillings. He remembered his first fight, which had got him two shillings and a damaged nose. (He had given the two shillings to his mother, who took in washing.) Remembering all this, he was sad – sorry for his dead self. But this sadness passed before he was properly aware of it, and then, he felt an inexplicable tenderness for this fortunate young man who would never know how it feels to look with satisfaction from the reflection of a broken face in a cracked mirror to two silver coins in the palm of a hand that ached so abominably and was so badly swollen that you had to screw it into your trousers pocket when you put the money away. Jack Duck felt that lofty pity which is like love, for this nice little fellow who could not fight his way out of a paper-bag; this meek, mild City clerk who, even if he inherited a hundred million pounds, was not made to know the joy of combat, the glory of battle against heavy odds, and the delight of honourable, unpredicted victory.
Offering his immense broken-and-mended hand, Jack Duck said: “Couldn’t be more pleased if it happened to me. You and your good lady, and the gentleman, have anything you fancy on the house. Would you like a bottle of wine? If so, say so – it’s on the house.”
Middleton could think of nothing to say; he could only smile. But Trew said: “John Chicken – I mean Sir Francis Drake – I mean Jack Duck. Oi! If you want to know the fact of the matter, my old pal Middy hasn’t got any money. He wasn’t in time for the lawyer, becaus
e the letter didn’t arrive until three o’clock; and the banks, as you know, close at twelve, and he doesn’t like to accept what he cannot return.”
“That’s all right,” said Jack Duck, “you don’t want to worry about that.”
“Oh, but——” said Middleton.
“Have this one on me,” said Jack Duck, “and if you’re short of a few pounds, well, have anything you like.”
“But you don’t know me, Mr. Duck,” said Middleton. At the word wine, catching Duck’s eye and understanding his nod and gesture, the barman had brought a bottle of mysteriously labelled champagne. At a nod and a wink he opened it. The cork bounced off the ceiling, and rolled to where Mrs. Gibson’s party sat. The bright-eyed woman picked it up, and keeps it for a lucky mascot to this day. A small, furtive man whose name no one knew sidled up to Middleton and said: “Want something for the two-thirty? May I be struck down dead this minute, something on the job, honest-to-God on the job for the two-thirty, Epsom. Put your shirt on Little Sneeze, by Big Draught, out of Wisecrack. Is that worth a tosheroon? It’s on the job, I give you my God’s honour!”
“Tosheroon?” said Middleton, vaguely.
“Half a crown,” said the furtive man, quickly. “Little Sneeze, two-thirty. I’m giving it to you, see? It’s a gift, see? Little Sneeze, running in the two-thirty. Isn’t that worth a tosheroon?”
Then Jack Duck saw him and said: “You get out of here, I’m warning you – I don’t want you in my house.”
The little man ran away. Joe Gutkes said, ventriloquially: “A man in your position doesn’t want to mix up with that class of person – eh, Jack?”
Duck shook his head solemnly. Mrs. Gibson, who had heard the pop of the champagne-cork, came over to reiterate congratulations, and accepted a glass of wine. Trew said: “Do you know what, ma’am, Middy here has been chasing you up and down the house to try and borrow a few shillings?”
Mrs. Gibson was embarrassed. She said: “Why, as a matter of fact I never keep much money in the house. I bank – I bank,” she repeated, not without pride, “on Friday. I bank on Friday. Whatever I can do, of course, I will under the circumstances. But I have banked.”
Joe Gutkes said: “You’re well off now. You know me, don’t you? Joe Gutkes? Straight-As-A-Ruler Joe Gutkes. You know my office, Mr. Middleton?”
“Well . . .”
“Ninety-nine Jacobean Place. Turf Commission Agent. Ante-post, starting price, anything you like. Everyone knows me. My name’s Joe Gutkes. Now that you’ve come into your money, you’ll want a bit of a flutter, Mr. . . . what did you say your name was . . . ?”
“Middleton. I’m afraid I haven’t any money yet. Perhaps later. You understand, I can’t get any money until everything is confirmed, and——”
“Your credit’s good,” said Gutkes, “as good as gold. What d’you fancy?”
“Ted, please – don’t!” said Louisa, “don’t be silly!”
“What’s the matter with you, Louie dear?” asked Middleton, sharply.
“I don’t know, Ted, darling, but I feel that this is all a dream. . . . Anyway, don’t you think it would be just as well to wait till Tuesday? After all, we’ve got . . . we can . . . after all, it couldn’t hurt to wait till Tuesday, Ted, and then . . . You get so excited!”
Middleton said: “I beg your pardon, Louie dear, I do not get excited.” Turning to Gutkes he said: “I would like to put some money on Little Sneeze in the two-thirty.”
“Little Sneeze?” said Joe Gutkes, “did you say Little Sneeze?”
“Er . . . yes please.”
Trew said: “Little Sneeze please! – Atishoo! – Oi!” A sycophantic barfly giggled, hoping for a drink, but no one else seemed to hear. Everyone was staring at Middleton. He did not feel Louisa’s urgent fingers at his sleeve when Joe Gutkes asked: “How much do you want, Mr. Middleton?”
Now, the bad champagne and the good news seemed to rush together in Middleton’s head, and explode. He was surprised to hear his voice saying firmly: “Ten pounds!”
“Oh Ted, for goodness’ sake! You mean shillings!” said Louisa.
“You’re on,” said Joe Gutkes, making a note in a leather-covered note-book. “A tenner to win, Little Sneeze for the two-thirty, Monday. Just write your name here, do you mind?” As soon as Middleton had written his precise signature under the note, Gutkes slapped the book shut, slipped it into his pocket, and said: “You’re on at fifty to one. It’s a long shot, but you can afford it. I’m a fool to myself to take a bet like that from a man starting a run of luck like yours, but my name’s Joe Gutkes, and chance it! Have a drink.”
“Well, really, really and truly, I think it’s my turn,” said Middleton, “only I must cash a cheque.”
At this point Louisa heard one sporting character whispering to another:
“Blind O’Reilly! Little Sneeze! She started in the two-thirty at Doncaster the other day and finished second in the three-forty-five.”
She said, desperately: “Teddy, Teddykins – do listen——”
But Middleton was not listening, because Jack Duck was saying: “That’s all right, I’ll do it. Tell me what you want.” He said it heartily and openly, because his wife, who disapproved of cashing cheques, was in the kitchen, helping the cook to fry sausages and cut sandwiches for the Saturday evening rush.
While Middleton hesitated, Trew said: “He’s all right, Billy Partridge . . . I mean, Tommy Turkey . . . I mean, Jack Duck – Oi! Show him the letter Middy, old man!”
“I should have been only too delighted if I had not already banked,” said Mrs. Gibson.
As Middleton’s hand went automatically to his breast pocket, Jack Duck stopped him and said: “Oh, that’s all right. How much do you want?” – and pulled out of his hip pocket a wallet fat with the takings of the past four days.
Still Middleton hesitated, and Louisa’s agonised glance went unseen, while Trew, still fighting for a laugh, said: “Listen Sammy Sparrow . . . Robin Redbreast . . . Goosy Gander . . . Jack Duck – Oi!” Duck growled a perfunctory ha-ha-ha. “ – Work it out for yourself. Say you came into a hundred thousand quid on August Bank Holiday? Put yourself in my friend’s unfortunate position. No banks open till Tuesday. No banks open till Tuesday. Why you open the till – see?” When no one laughed Trew went on: “That one was a bit subtle. Anyway, Middy and his lady wife want to make whoopee. Middy’s got a cheque book, and it’s good as gold. Empty the till, until Tuesday. Un-till the till, see?”
This witticism, also, glanced off Jack Duck’s skull. He simply said: “That’s all right. What do you want within reason?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Middleton. “I really don’t know . . .”
“A tenner?” suggested Duck.
Middleton stared. Trew said: “Don’t be silly, what’s the use of a tenner? Make it twenty pounds!”
Jack Duck said: “All right, if you like. But make it snappy, will you?” Then he counted out twenty one-pound notes and rolled them into a fat oval, which he thrust into Middleton’s outside breast pocket, saying: “There’s twenty. Make the cheque out to Cash.”
So Middleton, in a daze, filled in an open cheque for twenty pounds; which Jack Duck folded, as soon as the ink was dry. He intended to put it in his wallet, but before he had time to do so Mrs. Duck, with a dish of ruddy brown sausages, returned to the bar, followed by the cook, who carried two great trays of assorted sandwiches. Jack Duck knew what would happen if his wife saw him taking out his wallet; there would be a scene; she would show him up in public, discredit him, make him look foolish. Therefore, he slipped Middleton’s cheque into a waistcoat pocket. Then Middleton ordered another bottle of sweet champagne, and paid for it with one of Jack Duck’s own pound notes.
As he took his change – sixpence – Louisa whispered: “Oh Ted, Ted, why did you do it? Why couldn’t we wait till Tuesday? What difference would another day or two make?”
At this Middleton experienced, for a second or two, a stra
nge and awful sinking of the heart. His stomach shrank, his entrails writhed, and his heart contracted as his blood, on the instant, froze and stopped. He had only a few shillings in the bank – scarcely sufficient to keep his account open; and he had cashed a cheque for twenty pounds. If, by some unimaginable quirk of circumstances, Pismire had made a mistake, he was ruined, ruined for ever; lost; utterly cast away.
He went to the room behind the door marked Gentlemen, took out the letter, and read it over again twice. The sweet, highly gaseous champagne made him hiccup; and somehow with that little eructation doubt disappeared. He read the letter once again, put it back in his pocket, returned to Louisa, and said firmly but tenderly: “Louie dear, be reasonable. This is a hundred per cent all right. People like that don’t go writing letters like this just for the sake of writing them. Why should they? How could Pismire’s know about Uncle Joe in Australia – let alone his full name and address? Honestly, Louie, you’ve got to be reasonable.”
“I suppose so,” said Louie, “but – twenty pounds!”
Middleton laughed, and said: “You wait till Tuesday morning and you’ll see.”
“If only we could have waited till Tuesday morning!” said Louisa.
Middleton pressed his lips together and said nothing; and then she saw that he was angry. She said: “Oh, I’m sorry, Ted. Only it did seem sort of too good to be true. I didn’t mean . . . I mean, I am sorry if . . . I don’t know anything about these lawyers. You know how ignorant I am. I’m sure it’s all right. I’m sorry, Ted.”
“I may be silly, but I’m not altogether a fool,” said Middleton.
“I said I was sorry, Ted,” said Louisa, piteously.
Middleton smiled again. “We’re going to have the time of our lives,” he said. “We’re going to celebrate. Dinner in the West End . . . night clubs——”
Trew, who had at last told a funny story, and was well satisfied, came and slapped Middleton on the shoulder and shouted: “Break it up, you two! Look at ’em, like a pair of budgerigars in a gilded cage! I tell you what, Middy, if you lend me a couple of pounds I’ll buy you both a drink.”