The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I . . . I can’t.’

  ‘We’d take the ferry up to Newcastle an’ then the train. It . . . it might do you good, I mean the Journey.’

  ‘I can’t; don’t keep on.’

  She looked at him for a moment before she said, ‘You don’t want to see him?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t go there.’

  ‘But why, Rory? He’s . . . he’s your friend. And if you had seen him in the court that day, why . . .’

  Again he was shaking his head. His eyes, screwed up tightly now, were lost in the discoloured puffed flesh.

  She sat back and stared at him in deep sadness. She couldn’t understand it. She knew he wasn’t himself yet, but that he wouldn’t make an effort to go and see John George, and him shut up in that place . . . well, she just couldn’t understand it.

  When he looked at her again and saw the expression on her face, he said through clenched teeth, ‘Don’t keep on, Janie. I’m sorry but . . . but I can’t. You know I’ve always had a horror of them places, You know how I can’t stand being shut in, the doors and things. I’d be feared of making a fool of meself. You know?’

  The last two words were a plea and although in a small way she understood his fear of being shut in, she thought that he might have tried to overcome it for this once, just to see John George and ease his plight.

  She said softly, ‘Somebody should go; he’s got nobody, nobody in the world.’

  He muttered something now and she said, ‘What?’

  ‘You go.’

  ‘Me! On me own, all that way? I’ve never been in a train in me life, and never on the ferry alone, I haven’t.’

  ‘Take one of them with you.’ He motioned his head towards the scullery. And now she nodded at him and said, ‘Aye, yes, I could do that. I’ll ask them.’ She stared at him a full minute before she rose from the chair and went into the scullery.

  Both Lizzie and Ruth turned towards her and waited for her to speak. She looked from one to the other and said, ‘He won’t, I mean he can’t come up to Durham with me to see John George, he doesn’t feel up to it . . . not yet. If it had been later. But . . . but it’s early days you know.’ She nodded at them, then added, ‘Would one of you?’

  Ruth looked at her sadly and said, ‘I couldn’t, lass, I couldn’t leave the house an’ him an’ them all to see to. Now Lizzie here—’

  ‘What! me? God Almighty! Ruth, me go to Durham! I’ve never been as far as Shields Market in ten years. As for going on a train I wouldn’t trust me life in one of ’em. And another thing, lass.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I haven’t got the proper clothes for a journey.’

  ‘They’re all right, Lizzie, the ones you’ve got. There’s your good shawl. You could put it round your shoulders. An’ Ruth would lend you her bonnet, wouldn’t you, Ruth?’

  ‘Oh, she could have me bonnet, and me coat an’ all, but it wouldn’t fit her. But go on, it’ll do you good.’ She was nodding at Lizzie now. ‘You’ve hardly been across the doors except to the hospital—’ she paused but didn’t add, ‘since you came from over the water’ but said ‘in years. It’s an awful place to have to be goin’ to but the journey would be like a holiday for you.’

  ‘I’d like to see John George.’ Lizzie s voice was quiet now. ‘Poor lad. A fool to himself, always was. He used to slip me a copper on a Sunday even though I knew he hadn’t two pennies to rub against one another. And I didn’t want to take it, but if I didn’t he’d leave it there.’ She pointed to the corner of the little window-sill. ‘He’d drop it in the tin pot. The Sunday there wasn’t tuppence in there I knew that his funds were low indeed. Aye, lass, I’ll come along o’ you. I’ll likely look a sketch an’ put you to shame, but if you don’t mind, I don’t, lass.’

  Janie now laughed as she put out her hand towards Lizzie and said, ‘I wouldn’t mind bein’ seen with you in your shift, Lizzie,’ and Ruth said, ‘Oh! Janie, Janie,’ and Lizzie said, ‘You’re a good lass, Janie. You’ve got what money can’t buy, a heart. Aye, you have that.’

  It took some minutes before Janie could speak to John George. It was Lizzie who spoke first. ‘Hello there, lad,’ she said, and he answered, ‘Hello, Lizzie. Oh hello, Lizzie,’ in just such a tone as he would have used when holding out his hands towards her. But there was the grid between them.

  ‘Hello, Janie.’

  There was a great hard lump in her throat. The tears were blinding her but through them the blurred outline of his haggard features tore at her heart. ‘How . . . how are you, John George?’

  ‘Well . . . well, you know, Janie, not too bad, not too bad. Rough with the smooth, Janie, you know. Rough with the smooth. How . . . how is everybody back there?’

  ‘All right. All right, John George. Rory, he . . . he couldn’t make it, John George, he’s still shaky on his legs after the knockin’ about, like they told you. Eeh! he was knocked about, we never thought he’d live. He would have been here else. He’ll come later, next time.’

  John George made no reply to Janie’s mumbled discourse but he looked towards Lizzie and she, nodding at him, added, ‘Aye, he’ll come along later. He sent his regards.’

  ‘Did he?’ He was addressing Janie again.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What did he say, Janie?’

  ‘What was that, John George?’

  He leant farther towards the grid. ‘I said what did Rory say?’

  ‘Oh, well.’ She sniffed, then wiped her eyes with her handkerchief before mumbling, ‘He said to keep your pecker up an’ . . . an’ everything would work out once you get back.’

  ‘He said that?’ He was holding her gaze and she didn’t reply immediately, so that when she did say ‘Aye,’ it carried no conviction to him.

  ‘We’ve brought you a fadge of new bread an’ odds an’ ends.’ Lizzie now pointed to the parcel and he said, ‘Oh, ta, Lizzie. It’s kind of you; you’re always kind.’

  ‘Ah, lad, talkin’ of being kind, that’s what’s put you here the day, being kind. Aw, lad.’

  They both looked at the bent head now; then when it jerked up sharply they were startled by the vehemence of his next words. ‘I didn’t take five pounds, I didn’t! Believe me. Will you believe me?’ He was staring now at Janie. ‘I did take the ten bob. As I said, I’d done it afore but managed to put it back on the Monday morning, you know after going to the pawn.’ He glanced towards Lizzie now as if she would understand the latter bit. Then looking at Janie again, he said, ‘Tell him, will you? Say to him, John George said he didn’t take the five pounds. Will you, Janie?’

  It was some seconds before she answered, ‘Aye. Yes, I will. Don’t upset yourself, John George. Yes, I will, an’ he’ll believe you. Rory’ll believe you.’

  His eyes were staring into hers and his lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he brought out, ‘Did you go and see Maggie, Janie?’

  Janie, flustered now, said, ‘Why, no; I couldn’t, John George, ’cos you didn’t tell me where she lived.’ Just as he put his doubled fist to his brow and bowed his head a bell rang, and as if he had been progged by something sharp he rose quickly to his feet, then gabbled, ‘Horsley Terrace . . . twenty-four. Go, will you Janie?’

  ‘Yes, John George. Yes, John George.’ They were both on their feet now.

  ‘Ta, thanks. Thank you both. I’ll never forget you. Will you come again? . . . Come again, will you?’

  They watched him form into a line with the others before they turned away.

  Outside the gates they didn’t look at each other or speak, and when Lizzie, after crossing the road, leaned against the wall of a cottage and buried her face in her hands Janie, crying again, put her arms about her and having turned her from the wall, led her along the street and into the town. And still neither of them spoke.

  PART TWO

  Miss Kean

  1

  Rory stood before the desk and looked down at Charlotte Kean and said, ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father.’

  ‘It’s a severe c
hill, but he’ll soon be about again. As I told you, you are to take Armstrong’s place and you will naturally receive the same wage as he was getting . . . You don’t look fully recovered yourself, Mr Connor. Are you feeling quite well?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, miss, I’m quite all right.’

  ‘I think you had better sit down.’ She pointed with an imperious finger towards a chair, and he looked at her in surprise for a moment before taking the seat and muttering, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘As I told you, we took on a new man.’

  He noticed that she said ‘we’ as if she, too, were running the business.

  ‘He was the best of those who applied; with so many people out of work in the town you would have thought there would have been a better selection. If it had been for the working-class trades I suppose we would have been swamped.’

  He was surprised to know that rent collecting didn’t come under the heading of working-class trade, yet on the other hand he knew that if they had been living in the town, in either Tyne Dock or Shields, he wouldn’t have been able to hob-nob with neighbours such as the Learys or the Waggetts; the distinction between the white collar and the muffler was sharply defined in the towns.

  ‘My father suggests that you take over the Shields area completely. Mr Taylor can do the Jarrow district, particularly the Saturday morning collection.’ She smiled thinly at him now. ‘As he says, it’s a shame to waste a good man there . . . He has a high opinion of your expertise, Mr Connor.’

  Well, this was news to him. Shock upon shock. If things had been different he would have been roaring inside, and later he would have told John George and . . . Like a steel trap a shutter came down on his thinking and he forced himself to say, ‘That’s very nice to know, miss.’

  She was still smiling at him, and as he looked at her he thought, as Lizzie had said, God! but she’s plain. It didn’t seem fair somehow that a woman looking like her should have been given all the chances. Education, money, the lot. Now if Janie had been to a fine school, and could have afforded to dress like this one did, well, there would’ve been no one to touch her.

  As he stared across the desk at the bowed head and the thin moving hand—she was writing out his district—he commented to himself that everything she had on matched, from her fancy hat that was a dull red colour to the stiff ribboned bow on the neck of her dress. Her green coat was open and showed a woollen dress that took its tone from the hat, but had a row of green buttons down to her waist. He could see the bustle of the dress pushing out the deep pleats of the coat. It took money to dress in colours and style like that. The old man seemingly didn’t keep her short of cash.

  When she rose to her feet he stood up, and when she came round the desk she said, ‘I can leave everything in your hands then, Mr Connor?’ She handed him a sheet of paper.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘I’ve got to go now. Mr Taylor should be in at any moment.’ She turned the face of the fob watch that was pinned to the breast of her dress and looked at it. ‘It isn’t quite nine yet, make yourself known to him. And this evening, and until my father is fully recovered, I would like you to bring the takings to the house. You know where it is?’

  ‘Yes, I know where it is.’

  Yes, he knew where it was. He had caught a glimpse of it from the gates. He knew that it had been occupied by Kean’s father and his grandfather, but that’s all he knew about it, for he had never been asked to call there on any pretext. But what he did know was that all the Keans had been men who had made money and that the present one was a bully. More than once, when he had stood in this office and been spoken to like a dog, he’d had the desire to ram his fist into his employer’s podgy face.

  ‘Good morning then, Mr Connor.’

  ‘Good morning, miss.’

  He went before her and opened the outer door, then stood for a second watching her walking down the alley towards the street. She carried herself as straight as a soldier; her step was more of a march than a walk, and she swung her arms; she didn’t walk at all like women in her position usually did, or should.

  He closed the door, then looked around the office and through into the inner room. Then walking slowly into it, he sat in the chair behind the desk, cocked his head to the side and, speaking to an imaginary figure sitting opposite, he said, ‘Now, Mr Taylor, I will assign you to the Jarrow district.’ Oh yes, he would always speak civilly to subordinates because, after all, he was a subordinate himself once, wasn’t he? A mere rent collector. But now. He looked round the office. He was master of all he surveyed.

  Huh! This was the time to laugh, if only he had someone to laugh with.

  When he heard the outer door open he got quickly to his feet and went round the desk.

  He looked at the clean but shabbily dressed figure standing, hat in hand, before him, and he said quietly, ‘You, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The old man inclined his head, and Rory, now making a derogatory sound in his throat, said, ‘You needn’t sir me, Mr Taylor, I’m just like yourself, a roundsman. Me name’s Connor. The old man—Mr Kean—is in bed with a cold. His daughter’s just been along. She says you’re to take my district.’

  ‘Anything you say, Mr Connor. Anything you say.’

  God! had he sounded as servile as this when he was confronted by Kean? There should be a law of some kind against bringing men to their knees.

  As he stared at the old man it came to him that everything in his life had changed. And it was to go on changing. How, he didn’t know, he only knew that things would never again be as they were.

  It was half-past five when he made his way from the office to Birchingham House in Westoe, and it was raining, a fine chilling soaking rain.

  The house was not in what was usually called the village, nor did it stand among those that had sprung up to run parallel with that part of Shields that lay along the river, nor was it one of a small number that remained aloof in their vast grounds. But it was of that section the social standing of which was determined by its size, the number of servants it supported, and whether its owner hired or owned his carriages.

  And Birchingham House had another distinction. Although it stood in only two acres of ground it was situated on the side road that led off the main road to Harton and to two substantial estates, one belonging to a mine owner, the other to a gentleman who was known to own at least six iron ships that plied their trade from the Tyne.

  The histories of the houses of the notabilities of the town were known to the nobodies of the town; and the notabilities themselves formed a topic of gossip, not only in the bars that lined the river-front, but also in the superior clubs and societies that flourished in the town.

  But the situation of his master’s house or of his master himself had not up till this moment impressed Rory with any significance. Kean, to him, had been just a money-grabbing skinflint who owned rows of property, particularly in Jarrow, which should have been pulled down years ago, and streets in Shields that were fast dropping into decay for want of repair. Yet in this respect he admitted Kean was no worse than any of the landlords he represented.

  Now, as he neared the house in the dark and saw the front steps leading to it lighted by two bracket lamps, he stopped for a moment and peered at it through the rain. It was big. There were ten windows along the front of it alone. Moreover, it was three- storey. He couldn’t quite make out the top one, only that there was a gleam of glass up there. Likely attics. There was a carriage standing on the drive at the foot of the steps and he paused near it to look up at the driver sitting huddled deep in a cloaked coat. The man hadn’t noticed him; he seemed to be asleep.

  He hesitated. Should he go to the front door or the back door? Damn it all, why not the front! Why not!

  He went up the steps and pulled the bell.

  The door was answered by a maid. She was wearing a starched apron over a black alpaca dress. The bib of the apron had a wide, stiff frill that continued over the straps on her shoulders. She had a starched c
ap on her head and the strings from it looked as stiff as the cap itself and were tied under her chin in a bow. She was evidently flustered and said, ‘Yes, yes. Who is it?’

  ‘I’m Mr Connor. Miss Kean told me to come. I’ve brought the takings.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ She looked from one side to the other, then said, ‘Well, you’d better come in.’ And she stood aside and let him pass her into the small lobby, then opened another door into a hall, which he noted immediately was as big as the kitchen at home.

  ‘Stay there,’ she said, ‘an’ I’ll tell her, that’s if she can come, the master’s had a turn. They’ve had to send for the doctor again. He’s right bad.’ She nodded at him, then made for the stairs that led from the hallway in a half spiral and disappeared from view.

  He stood looking around him, frankly amazed at what he saw. To the right of the staircase was a side table with a lamp on it. He noted that it was oil, not gas. Yet they had gas outside. The soft light from it illuminated a large oil painting on the wall showing the head and shoulders of a man: he had a broad, flat face, and the high collar was wedged into the jowls below his chin; he had a white fringe of hair above his ears, the rest of his head was bald; his eyes were round and bright and seemed to be looking with stern condemnation at the visitor. Rory did not need to guess that this was an ancestor of Mr Kean, and also that the lamp was there as a sort of illuminated commemoration to do him honour.

  A cabinet stood against the wall at the far side of the stairs. He had never seen the like of it before, not even in a picture. It was glass-fronted and made of yellowish wood picked out in gold; the legs were spindly with fancy cross-bars connecting the four of them. It had two shelves. The top one held figures, some single, some in groups; the lower shelf had glass goblets standing on it. From what he could see at this distance they were etched with paintings.