The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  Rory closed her rent book, handed it to her, looked at her straight in the eye, then turned and walked away. He did not bother knocking at the door next to hers for he believed what she had said, they were all away on a spending spree. It was odd, she was the only good payer in the street; she’d always had a clear rent book; but of the lot of them, scum Irish they might be, he preferred any one of them to Mrs Fawcett.

  Pilbey Street was bad but Saltbank Row was worse. Here it was the stench that got him. The dry middens at the back of the Row, dry being a mere courtesy title, seeped away under the stone floors of the two-roomed cottages, and the dirt in front of the cottages was always wet to the feet. In winter the stench was bad enough but in summer it was unbearable. Why the Town Corporation did not condemn the place he didn’t know. Vested interests he supposed; in any case anything was good enough for the Irish immigrants, and they didn’t seem to mind, for as it was well known they had been used to sleeping among the pigs and the chickens in their tiny hovel huts over in Ireland.

  Yet there were Irish in the town among Palmer’s men whom he had heard were buying their own houses. That had come from old Kean himself, and the old boy didn’t like it.

  His own father had worked in Palmer’s for years, but there was no sign of him being able to buy his own house. Likely because he didn’t want to; his father spent as he went, he ate well and drank as much as he could hold almost every day in the week, because his body was so dried up with the heat from the furnaces.

  Drinking was one thing he didn’t blame his father for, but he did blame him for his carry-on with her . . . Lizzie. He supposed it was by way of compensation that he’d had him sent to the penny school but he didn’t thank him for that either, for he hadn’t attended long enough to take in much beyond reading, writing and reckoning up. When funds were low the last thing to be considered was the penny fee. And he wouldn’t go to school without it. Nor would his father have his name put down on the parish list so that he could send him free—not him.

  Anyway, his reading and writing had enabled him finally to become a rent collector with a wage of fifteen shillings a week. He was told from all quarters that he was damned lucky to be in such a job. Fifteen shillings for neither bending his back nor soiling his hands. And his employer, more than others, emphasized this statement.

  Mr Kean owned about half the cottages in Saltbank Row, and the rent of each was two shillings a week, but when he reached the end of the Row all he had in the back section of his leather bag was twenty-five shillings and sixpence.

  It was just turned twelve o’clock when he reached the main street and joined the stream of men pouring out of Palmer’s and the various side streets which led to different yards on the river. They were like streams of black lava joining the main flow, faces grey, froth-specked with their sweat. He was carried along in the throng until he reached the church bank gain by which time the blackness had dwindled into idividual pockets of men.

  He reckoned he should be back at the office by one o’clock. He never carried a watch, not on his rounds, because it could be nicked in the time he blinked an eyelid. A gang of lads supposedly playing Tiggy could rough you up. He had seen it done. But he told himself as he paused for a moment on the Don bridge and looked down at the narrow mud-walled banks of the river that there was no immediate hurry today, for old Kean was off on one of his duty trips to Hexham to see his old father. When this happened the day’s takings were locked up until Monday. Saturdays takings didn’t amount to very much, not on his part anyway. John George took more, for he did the Tyne Dock area and the better part of Stanhope Road.

  He was getting a bit worried about John George. There was something on his mind; he supposed it was that damned ranter’s lass he had taken up with. Only last night he had told him to think hard about this business, for being her father’s daughter, she might turn out to be a chip off the old block and be ‘God-mad’ like the rest of them.

  The whole of Shields was becoming ‘God-mad’; there were chapels springing up all over the place and the more of them there were the greater the outcry against drink and gambling. And them that made the fuss, what were they? Bloody hypocrites half of them. Oh, he knew a thing or two about some of them. That’s why he had warned John George.

  As he walked on into Tyne Dock he forgot about John George and his troubles for his mind was taken up with the evening’s prospects. He had heard tell of a square-head, a Swede who lived down Corstorphine Town way. He was known as Fair Square; he did summer trips there and back to Norway and Sweden, but in the winter he stayed put somewhere along the waterfront and ran a school, so he understood, and not just an ordinary one, a big one, for captains and such. But as little Joe, the tout, had said, they didn’t often let foreigners in . . . That was funny that was, a Swede calling an Englishman a foreigner, and in his own town at that. Anyway, little Joe had promised to work him in somewhere.

  He felt a stir of excitement in his stomach at the thought of getting set-in in a big school; none of your tanner pitch and tosses or find the lady, but banker with a kitty up to twenty pounds a go. By, that was talking. Twenty pounds a go. Once in there it wouldn’t be long afore he could set up house—he and Janie, setting up house. He wanted to get married, he ached for Janie. And that was the right word, ached. At night he would toss and turn until he would have to get up and put the soles of his feet on the ice-cold square of lino that stood between the beds.

  He’d see her the morrow. Just to be with her lifted him out of the doldrums; just to look at her pulled at his heart, ’cos she was bonny, beautiful. And he wasn’t spending the whole afternoon the morrow playing cards for monkey nuts. Huh! He wondered why he let himself in for it Sunday after Sunday. No, hail, rain or shine they’d go out up the lanes, and he’d settle things in his own way. Aye he would.

  ‘Rory! Rory!’

  He turned swiftly and looked up the dock bank to see John George pushing his way through a press of men towards him, and when he came up Rory stared at him saying, ‘You’re late, aren’t you? You’re generally done around twelve.’

  ‘I know, but there was an accident back there at the Boldon Lane toll-gate. I helped to sort the carts out. A young lad got crushed. Toll’s finished next year they say, an’ a good thing an’ all.’

  ‘Getting into a throng with money in your bag, you must be mad . . . And where did you get that?’

  Rory was now looking John George over from head to foot. ‘You knock somebody down?’

  Stroking the lapels of a thick brown overcoat that, although a little short, fitted his thin body, John George said, ‘I picked it up last Saturday in Newcastle, in the market.’

  ‘What did you give for it?’

  ‘Half a dollar.’

  ‘Well you weren’t robbed, it’s good material. You should have got yourself some boots while you were on.’ He glanced down at the cracked toecaps. ‘It’s a wonder the old fellow hasn’t spotted them and pulled you up. You know what he is for appearances.’

  ‘I’m going to see about a pair the day when I’m up there.’

  ‘You’re going to Newcastle again?’

  ‘Aye.’ John George now turned his head and smiled at Rory. ‘I’m meeting her on the three o’clock train an’ I’m going to show her round. Look’—he thrust his hand into the overcoat pocket, then brought out a small box wrapped in tissue paper—’I bought her this for Christmas. What do you think of it?’

  When Rory took the lid off the box and looked at the heart-shaped locket and chain he stared at it for some seconds before turning to John George again and asking quietly, ‘What did you give for it?’

  ‘Not . . . not what it’s worth, it’s second-hand. It’s a good one.’

  ‘What did you give for it?’

  ‘Seven and six.’

  ‘Seven and six! Are you mad? How can you afford seven and six? You tell me that your Aunt Meg needs every penny to keep the house goin’ and three bob’s as much as you can keep back.’

 
‘Well, it’s . . . it’s true. But . . . but I worked out a system.’

  ‘You worked out a system, you!’ Rory screwed up his face. ‘You worked out a system! On what? Tell me on what?’

  ‘Aw, not now, man, not now. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you after . . . later on. I wanted to have a word with you about something else . . . You see I’m thinking of moving, trying to get a better job. I could never hope to get Maggie away on the wage I’ve got and having to see to them at home and . . .’

  ‘Where could you get a better job than what you’ve got?’

  ‘There’s places in Newcastle.’

  ‘Aye, I know there’s places in Newcastle, but them chaps don’t get even as much as we do. There’s no trade unions yelling for us. I’m not satisfied, but I know damn well that if I want more money I won’t get it at rent clerking. Look, are you in some kind of fix?’

  ‘No, no.’ John George shook his head too vigorously and Rory, eyeing him from the side, shook his head also. They walked on in silence, taking short cuts until they came to the market, then they wound their way between the conglomeration of stalls, turned down a narrow side lane known as Tangard Street, and past what appeared to be the window of an empty shop, except that the bottom half, which was painted black, had written across it: Septimus Kean, Estate Agent, Valuer, and Rent Collector. Next to the window was a heavy door with a brass knob that had never seen polish, and above it a keyhole.

  As John George was about to insert his key into the lock the door was pulled open from inside and they were both confronted by Mr Kean himself.

  ‘Oh! . . . Oh! Mr Kean. We thought you were away.’

  The small, heavy-jowled man looked at Rory and barked, ‘Evidently. Do you know what time it is?’ He pulled out a watch, snapped open the case and turned the face towards Rory. Ten minutes past one. When the cat’s away the mice can play.’

  ‘But we finish at one.’ Rory’s voice was harsh, the muscles of his neck were standing out and his face was flushed with sudden temper.

  ‘Be careful, Connor, be careful. Mind who you’re speaking to. You know what happens to cheeky individuals; there’s never an empty place that cannot be filled. I know that you’re finished at one, and damned lucky you are to be finished at one, but you should have been back here before one and your book settled, and then you could have been finished at one . . . And what’s the matter with you?’ He was now glaring at John George. ‘You sick or something?’

  John George gulped, shook his head, and remained standing where he was on the threshold of the door.

  And this caused Mr Kean to yell, ‘Well, come in, man! What’s come over you? Close the door before we’re all blown out. And let me have your books; I want to get away.’

  With this, Mr Kean turned about and went through a door into another room. The door was half glass, but it was clear glass, clear in order that the master could look through it at any time and see that his two clerks weren’t idling at their desks.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Rory had taken hold of John George’s shoulder. ‘You look like death, what is it?’

  John George gulped twice in his throat before he whispered, ‘Lend . . . lend me ten bob.’

  ‘Lend you ten bob?’

  ‘Aye. Look, just for now, I’ll have it for you Monday mornin’. Just . . . just lend it me. Aw, Rory, lend it me. For God’s sake, lend it me.’

  Rory looked towards the glass door and as he put his hand into his pocket, he hissed, ‘You were paid last night.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but I’ll explain, I’ll explain in a minute or two.’ The hand he held out was trembling and when Rory put the gold half sovereign on to the palm John George’s fingers pressed over it tightly for a moment before swiftly dropping it into the leather bag which he still held in his hand.

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  They exchanged glances before John George turned away and almost stumbled across the room and into his master’s office.

  Rory remained gazing at the half open door . . . He was on the fiddle. The damn fool was on the fiddle. It was that lass. God, if he hadn’t been here and old Kean had found him ten shillings short!

  Mr Kean’s voice came bawling out of the room again, saying, ‘What’s the matter with you, Armstrong? You look as if you’re going to throw up.’ Then John George’s voice, thin and trembling, ‘Bit of a chill, sir. Got a cold I think.’

  There was a pause, then Mr Kean’s observation: ‘That coat’s new, isn’t it? You shouldn’t feel cold in that. About time you did smarten yourself up. Bad impression to go around the doors looking like a rag man.’ Another pause before his voice again rasped, ‘Mrs Arnold, she’s paid nothing off the back for four weeks. Why haven’t you seen to it?’

  ‘She’s been bad. She . . . she took to her bed a few weeks ago. But she says she’ll clear it up soon because her girl’s got set on across the water at Haggie’s . . . the Ropery you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know the Ropery. And I know the type that works there. She’ll likely drink her pay before she gets back across the water. She’s got others working, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she’s got a lad down the pit. But . . . but he’s only a nipper, he’s not getting more than tenpence a day. She’s . . . she’s had hard times since her man went.’

  ‘That’s neither my business nor yours, I don’t want the family history, I only want the rent and the back rent. Now you see to it. You’re getting slack, Armstrong. I’ve noticed it of late.’

  There followed another silence before John George returned to the outer office, his face looking bleak, his eyes wide and in their depth a misery that caused Rory to turn away, pick up his bag and go into the other room.

  When he had placed the money from the bag on the table, Mr Kean separated each single coin with his forefinger, then after counting them he raised his eyes without lifting his head and said, ‘You mean to tell me this is the result of a morning’s work?’

  ‘It was Saltbank Row and Pilbey Street.’

  ‘I know damned well it was Saltbank Row and Pilbey Street, it’s always Saltbank Row and Pilbey Street on a Saturday, but what I’m saying to you is, do you mean to tell me that’s all you got out of them?’

  Rory moved one lip over the other before replying, It’s always the same near Christmas.’

  ‘Look!’ The thick neck was thrust forward, then the head went back on the shoulders and Mr Kean directed an enraged stare on to Rory’s grim face as he cried, ‘One gives me family histories, the other festival dates as excuses. Now look, I’m telling you they’re not good enough, neither one nor the other, Christmas or no Christmas. If that sum’—he now dug his finger on to one coin after another—’if it isn’t doubled at the next collection then there’ll be a lot of barrows needed to shift their muck. You tell them that from me. And that’s final.’ Again he stabbed the coins. ‘Double that amount or it’s the bums for the lot of ’em.’

  When Rory turned abruptly from the table Mr Kean barked at him, ‘Answer me when I’m speaking to you!’

  Rory stopped, but it was a few seconds before he turned to face Mr Kean again, and then he said slowly, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Seconds again passed before Mr Kean said, ‘There’s going to be changes here, Connor,’ and again Rory said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get yourself out.’

  The buttons on Rory’s coat strained as he drew in a deep breath before turning round and leaving the room, closing the door after him.

  John George was standing by his narrow, high desk. A little colour had returned to his face and he was about to speak when the outer door opened and they both looked towards it and at Miss Charlotte Kean.

  Charlotte was Kean’s only child but she bore no resemblance to him, being tall, extremely tall for a woman, all of five foot eight and thin with it. Moreover, she had what was commonly called a neb on her. Her nose was large; her mouth, too, was large but in proportion to her face. Her eyes were a greeny grey and her hair was black. She w
as an ugly young woman yet in some strange way she had just missed being beautiful for each feature taken by itself was good even though, together, one cancelled another out. Her features gave the impression of strength, even of masculinity. It was understood in the office that she knew as much about the business as did her father, yet she rarely came here. Rory hadn’t seen her but half a dozen times in four years, and each appearance had given him material for jokes in the kitchen, especially at the Sunday gatherings.

  He had from time to time openly teased John George about her. John George had said he felt sorry for her, because a young woman like her had little chance of being married. His words had proved true, for here she was at twenty-eight and still on the shelf.

  But there was one thing his master’s daughter possessed that he couldn’t make game of, in fact it had the power to make him feel ill at ease, and that was her voice. There was no hint of the Tyneside twang about it. This he understood had come about by her being sent away to one of those posh schools when she was no more than ten, from which she hadn’t come back to Shields for good until she was turned seventeen.

  She gave them no greeting—one didn’t greet clerks —but stared at Rory before demanding briefly, ‘My father in?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Rory inclined his head towards the door.

  She stood for a moment longer looking from one to the other. Then her eyes resting once more on Rory, she surveyed him from head to toe, as he said bitterly afterwards, ‘Like some bloody buyer at a livestock show.’ But he wasn’t going to be intimidated by any look she could cast over him, and so he returned it. His eyes ranged from her fur-trimmed hat down over her grey velour coat with its brown fur collar, right to her feet encased in narrow-toed brown kid boots. He had noticed her feet before. They were so narrow he wondered how she balanced on them, how she got boots to fit them. But when you had money you could be fitted from top to toe and inside an’ all, but he’d like to bet with that face her habit shirts would be made of calico, unbleached at that, no lace camisoles for her. Anyway, she had nothing to push in them.