The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  He followed her into a room which by its appearance was a kitchen and, after closing the door, she said, ‘Stay a minute’; then left him. A few minutes later she returned, accompanied by a man. He was a middle-aged half-caste, an Arab one, he surmised. It was his hair and his nostrils which indicated his origin. He looked Rory up and down, then said in a thick Geordie accent that was at variance with his appearance, ‘Little Joe said you wanted a set-in. That right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ve got the ready?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Show us.’

  Rory stared back into the dull eyes; then slowly he lifted up the tail of his coat, put his hand in his inside pocket and brought out a handful of coins, among which were a number of sovereigns and half- sovereigns. Without speaking he thrust his hand almost into the other man’s chest.

  The man looked down on it, nodded and said briefly ‘Aye.’ Then turning about, he said, ‘Come on.’

  As they passed from the kitchen into the narrow passage the man said over his shoulder, ‘You’ll be expected to stand your turn with the cans. Little Joe tell you?’

  Little Joe hadn’t told him but he said, ‘I’ll stand me turn.’

  The man now led the way into another room, and Rory saw at once that it was used as a storage place for some commodity that was packed in wooden boxes. A number of such were arrayed along one wall. The only window in the place was boarded up. There was an old-fashioned stove at one side of the room packed high with blazing coals, and the room was lit by two bracket gas lamps. There were six men in the room besides Rory’s companion and himself: four of them were in a game at the table, the other two were looking on. The players didn’t look up but the two spectators turned towards Rory and the half-caste with a jerk of his head said, ‘This’s who I was tellin’ you about. Connor—’ he turned to Rory—’What’s your first name?’

  ‘Rory.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Ror-ry.’

  ‘Funny name. Haven’t heard that afore.’

  The two spectators at the table nodded towards Rory and he nodded back at them. Then the man with arm outstretched named the players one after the other for Rory’s benefit.

  Rory didn’t take much heed to the names until the word Pittie was repeated twice. Dan Pittie and Sam Pittie. The two brothers almost simultaneously glanced up at him, nodded, then turned their attention to the game again.

  Rory, standing awkwardly to the side of the fireplace, looked from one to the other of the men, then brought his attention back to the two Pitties. They looked like twins. They were bullet-headed men, heavy-shouldered but short. These must be the fellows, together with a third one, whom Jimmy said had started the keel business from nothing. They looked a tough pair, different from their partners at the table, who didn’t look river-front types; the elder of the two could have been Mr Kean; he wasn’t unlike him, and was dressed in much the same fashion.

  Well, he had certainly moved up one from Corstorphine Town, because, for a start, they were playing Twenty-Ones, but as yet he didn’t know whether he liked the promotion or not; he certainly didn’t like the half-caste. But he wasn’t here to like or dislike any of them, he was here to double the money in his pocket and then see that he got safely outside with it. On the last thought he looked from the half-caste to the Pittie brothers again and thought it would take him to keep his wits about him. Aye . . . aye, it would that.

  5

  ‘You’re tellin’ me she’s in the family way?’

  ‘Don’t put it like that, man.’

  ‘How do you expect me to put it? You bloody fool you, how did you manage it? Where? On the ferry or in the train? . . . All right, all right.’ He thrust John George’s raised arm aside. ‘But I mean just what I say, for you’ve seen her for an hour or so a week, so you’ve told me, when you’ve taken her around Newcastle making a tour of ancient buildings. From the Central Station into Jesmond Dene, there doesn’t seem to be one you’ve missed, so that’s why I ask you . . . Aw, man . . .’

  They were standing on a piece of open land. A building was being erected to one side of it while at the other old houses were being knocked down. There was a thin drizzle of rain falling, the whole scene was dismal and it matched John George’s dejected appearance. His thin shoulders were hunched, his head hung down, his gaze was directed towards the leather bag in his hand but without seeing it. He mumbled now, ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry, I’ll manage. I’m sorry I asked you; you’ll want everything you can lay hands on to get the yard, I know.’

  ‘It isn’t that. You can have the two pounds, but what good’s that going to do you in this fix, I ask you. It’s a drop in the ocean and what’ll happen when she tells her folks?’

  John George raised his eyes and looked up into the grey sky. ‘God! . . I just don’t know. He’ll be for murdering her. He’s an awful man from what I can gather. I want to get her out of there afore he finds out.’

  ‘How far is she?’

  ‘Over . . . over three months.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be long then will it afore he twigs something?’

  Rory shook his head, then put his hand into his back pocket, pulled out a small bag and extracted from it two sovereigns, and as he did so his teeth ground tightly together. This was putting him in a fix, he’d had just five pounds left to make a start the night, and it could be a big night, now he was left with only three.

  He hadn’t won anything that first Saturday night down in the cellar but he hadn’t lost either, he had broken even. And the following week he had just managed to clear three pounds ten; the week after he was nine pounds up at one o’clock in the morning, but by the time he left it had been reduced to four pounds, and even then they hadn’t liked it. No, none of them had liked it, the Pittie brothers least of all.

  Last week when he had cleared six he said he was calling it a day and, aiming to be jocular, had added, and a night. It was the elder of the Pittie brothers who had looked at him and said, ‘No, not yet, lad.’ But he had risen to his feet, gathered his winnings up and stared back at the other man as he replied, grimly, ‘Aye, right now, lad. Nobody’s going to tell me when I come or go. I’ll be along next week and you can have your own back then, but I’m off now.’

  There had followed an odd silence in the room, it was a kind of rustling silence as one man after the other at the table moved in his seat. ‘So long,’ he had said, and not until he was up the steps and into the street did he breathe freely. For a moment he had thought they were going to do him. He had decided then that that was the last time he would go there.

  Three times this week he had tried to find little Joe but with no success. He was keeping out of his way apparently, so there was nothing for it if he wanted a game but to show up in the cellar again the night.

  He never went with less than five pounds on him and he’d had a job to scrape that up today because during the week he had, by putting twelve pounds ten down, cleared half the cost of the boat yard, and signed an agreement that the other seventeen pounds ten was to be paid within six weeks, and he knew, his luck holding out and as long as he didn’t get into a crooked game, he would clear that. One thing about them in the cellar, they played a straight game. Anyway, they had so far.

  But if he went in with only three and lost that in a run, well then, the sparks would fly. He’d have to put his thinking cap on. Oh, this bloody fool of a fellow.

  As he handed the two sovereigns to John George and received his muttered thanks he asked himself where he could lay his hands on a couple of quid. It was no good asking any of them back in the house. His dad usually blew half his wages before he got home; by the time he had cleared the slate for the drinks he had run up during the week Ruth was lucky if there was ten shillings left on the mantelpiece for her. There was Janie; she had a bit saved but he doubted if it would be as much as two pounds. Anyway, he wouldn’t be able to see her until the morrow and that would be too late. Oh, he’d like to take hi
s hand and knock some damn sense into John George Armstrong.

  They were walking on now, cutting through the side streets towards the market and the office, and they didn’t exchange a word. When they reached the office door they cast a glance at each other out of habit as if to say, Now for it once again, but when the door didn’t move under Rory’s push he shook it, then, looking at John George, said, That’s funny.’

  ‘Use your key. Aw, here’s mine.’

  John George pushed the key into the lock and they went into the office and looked about them. The door to the far room was closed but on the front of the first desk was pinned a notice and they both bent down and read it. There was no heading, it just said, ‘Been called away, my father has died. Lock up takings. My daughter will collect on Monday.’ There was no signature.

  They straightened up and looked at each other; then Rory jerked his head as he said, ‘Well, this’s one blessin’ in disguise, for I’ve had the worst morning in years. He’d have gone through the roof.’

  ‘Funny that,’ John George smiled weakly; ‘my takings are up the day, over four pounds. About fifteen of them paid something off the back and there wasn’t one closed door.’

  ‘That’s a record.’

  ‘Aye.’ John George now went towards the inner office, saying, ‘I hope he hasn’t forgot to leave the key for the box.’

  Standing behind Mr Kean’s desk and, having opened the top drawer on the right-hand side, John George put his hand into the back of it and withdrew a key; then going to an iron box safe that was screwed down on to a bench table in the corner of the room he unlocked it. He now took out the money from his bag, put the sovereigns into piles of five and placed them in a neat row on the top shelf with the smaller change in front of them, and after placing his book to the side of the compartment he stepped back and let Rory put his takings on the bottom shelf.

  As John George locked the door he remarked, ‘One day he’ll get a proper safe.’

  ‘It would be a waste of money, it’s never in there long enough for anybody to get at it.’

  ‘It’ll lie in there over the week-end, and has done afore.’

  ‘Well, that’s his look-out. Come on.’

  John George now replaced the key in the back of the drawer; then they both left, locking the outer door behind them.

  As they walked together towards Laygate, Rory said stiffly, ‘What you going to do about this other business, have you got anything in mind?’

  ‘Aye. Aye, I have. I’m going to ask her the day. I’m going to ask her to just walk out and come to our place. She can stay hidden up there until we can get married in the registry office.’

  ‘Registry office?’

  ‘Aye, registry office. It’s just as bindin’ as any place else.’

  ‘It isn’t the same.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to do for us.’

  ‘Aw, man.’ Rory shook his head slowly. ‘You let people walk over you; you’re so bloomin’ soft.’

  ‘I’m as God made me, we can’t help being what we are.’

  ‘You can help being a bloody fool, you’re not a bairn.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect me to do, leave her?’

  ‘You needn’t shout unless you want the whole street to know.’

  They walked on in silence until simultaneously they both stopped at the place where their roads divided.

  ‘See you Monday then.’ Rory’s tone was kindly now and John George, looking at him, said, ‘Aye, see you Monday. And thanks Rory. I’ll pay you back, I promise I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of that, you always have.’

  ‘Aw . . . I wish, I wish I was like you, Rory. You’re right, I’m too soft to clag holes with, no gumption. I can never say no.’

  It was on the tip of Rory’s tongue to come back with the retort, ‘And neither can your lass apparently.’ Janie had said no, and she’d kept both feet on the ground when she said it an’ all. But what he said and generously was, ‘People like you for what you are. You’re a good bloke.’ He made a small movement with his fist. ‘I’ll tell you something. You’re better liked than me, especially up in our house. It’s John George this, an’ John George that.’

  ‘Aw, go on, man, stop pulling me leg. But it’s nice of you to say it nevertheless, and as I said—’ he patted his pocket—I won’t forget this.’

  ‘That’s all right, man. So long, and good luck.’

  ‘So long . . . so long, Rory. And thanks. Thanks again.’

  They went their ways, neither dreaming he would never see the other again.

  When Rory went into the cellar that same evening he had eight pounds in his pocket.

  The Pittie brothers were already at the table, but the two men partnering them were unknown to Rory until he realized that one of them was the third Pittie brother. He was a man almost a head taller than the other two. His nose was flattened and looked boneless. This was the one who was good with his fists, so he had heard, but by the look of him he wasn’t all that good for his face looked like a battered pluck. The fourth man looked not much bigger than little Joe and he had a foxy look, but he was well put on. His suit, made of some kind of tweed, looked quite fancy, as did his pearl-buttoned waistcoat. During the course of conversation later in the evening he discovered that he was from across the water in North Shields and was manager of a blacking factory.

  Rory kicked his heels for almost an hour before he got set-in at the table, for after the game they spent quite some time drinking beer and eating meat sandwiches. Although he always stood his share in buying the beer he drank little of it and tonight less than usual, for he wanted to keep his wits about him. Some part of him was worried at the presence of the third Pittie brother, it was creating a small niggling fear at the back of his mind.

  The big Pittie was dealer. He shuffled the cards in a slow ponderous way until Rory wanted to say, ‘Get on with it’; then of a sudden he spoke. ‘You aimin’ to buy old Kilpatrick’s yard I hear?’

  Rory was startled, and he must have shown it for the big fellow jerked his chin upwards as he said, ‘Oh, you can’t keep nowt secret on the waterfront; there’s more than scum comes in on the tide . . . Your young ’un works at Baker’s, don’t he?’

  ‘Aye. Yes, he works at Baker’s.’

  ‘What does he expect to do at Kilpatrick’s, build a bloody battleship?’

  The three brothers now let out a combined bellow and the thin man in the fancy waistcoat laughed with them, although it was evident he didn’t know what all this was about.

  Rory’s lower jaw moved from one side to the other before he said, ‘He’s going to build scullers and small keel-like boats.’

  ‘Keel-like boats. Huh!’ It was the youngest of the Pittie’s speaking now. ‘Where’s he gona put them?’

  ‘Where they belong, on the river.’

  ‘By God! he’ll be lucky, you can hardly get a plank atween the boats now. And what’s he gona do with the keel-like boats when he gets them on the water, eh?’

  ‘Same as you, work them, or sell them.’

  As the three pairs of eyes became fixed on him he told himself to go steady, these fellows meant business, they weren’t here the night only for the game. He kept his gaze steady on them as he said, ‘Well now, since you know what I have in mind, are we going to play?’

  The big fellow returned to his shuffling. Then he dealt. When Rory picked up his cards he thought, Bad start, good finish.

  And so it would seem. He lost the first game, won the next two, lost the next one, then won three in a row. By one o’clock in the morning he had a small pile of sovereigns and a larger pile of silver to his hand. Between then and two o’clock the pile went down a little before starting again to increase steadily.

  At the end of a game when the man in the fancy waistcoat had no money in front of him he said he must be going. He had, he said, lost enough for one night and what was more he’d have to find somebody to scull him across the river. And at this time of
the morning whoever he found would certainly make him stump up, and what he had left, he thought, was just about enough to carry him over.

  When Rory, too, also voiced that he must be on his way there were loud, even angry cries from the table.

  ‘Aw, no, no, lad,’ said the big fellow. ‘Fair’s fair. You’ve taken all our bloody money so give us a chance to get a bit of it back, eh? We’ve to get across the river an’ all.’ There was laughter at this, but it was without mirth.

  And so another game started, and long before it finished the uneasy sickly feeling in the pit of Rory’s stomach had grown into what he hated to admit was actual fear.

  Another hour passed and it was towards the end of a game when things were once again going in Rory’s favour that the youngest Pittie brother began speaking of Jimmy as if he were continuing the conversation that had centred around him earlier in the play.

  ‘Your young ’un’s bandy,’ he said. ‘Bandy Connor they call him along the front . . . Saw him from the boat t’other day. Drive a horse and cart through his legs you could.’ He now punched his brother in the side of the chest and the brother guffawed: ‘Aye, his mother must have had him astride a donkey.’

  Any reference to the shape of Jimmy’s legs had always maddened Rory; he had fought more fights on Jimmy’s account than he had on his own. But now, although there was a rage rising in him that for the moment combated his fear, he warned himself to go steady, for they were up to something. They were like three bull terriers out to bait a bull. He was no bull, but they were bull terriers all right.

  The stories of their past doings flicked across the surface of his mind and increased his rising apprehension, yet did not subdue his rage, even while the cautionary voice kept saying, ‘Careful, careful, let them get on with it. Get yourself outside, let them get on with it.’

  When he made no reply to the taunt, one after another, the three brothers laid down their cards and looked at him, and he at them. Then slowly he placed his cards side by side on the table.

  The three Pitties and the half-caste stared at his cards and they did not lift their eyes when his hand went out and drew the money from the centre of the table towards him. Not until he pushed his chair back and got to his feet did one of them speak. It was the youngest brother. ‘You goin’ then?’ he said.