The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  No. No. Never.

  She rose from the desk. She was a spinster and she’d remain a spinster. The wild fantastic dream she’d had was only that, a wild fantastic dream. She had humiliated herself because of her dream; she had been willing to be publicly humiliated because of her dream.

  She went from the office and upstairs to her room, the room that until a few weeks ago had been her father’s. It was the largest bedroom in the house and faced the garden and shortly after he died she had it completely redecorated and had made it her own. She knew that the servants had been slightly shocked by such seeming lack of respect for the dead but she didn’t care what servants thought, or anyone else for that matter.

  It was very odd, she mused, as she slowly took off her day clothes and got into a housegown, a new acquisition and another thing that had shocked the servants, for it wasn’t black or brown, or even grey, but a startling pink, and its material was velvet. Yes, it was very odd, but there was no one for whose opinion she cared one jot. And more sadly still, there was no one who cared one jot about what happened to her. She hadn’t a close relative left in the world, nor had she a close friend. There were those in the town who would claim her as a friend, more so now, but to her they were no more than acquaintances.

  She sat before the mirror and unpinned her hair and the two dark, shining plaits fell down over her shoulders and almost to her waist. As her fingers undid each twist the hair seemed to spring into a life of its own and when, taking a brush, she stroked it from the crown down to its ends it covered her like a cloak.

  The brush poised to the side of her face, she stared at herself in the mirror. It was a waste on her; it should have been doled out to some pretty woman and it would have made her beautiful, whereas on her head it only seemed to emphasize the plainness of her features. She leant forward and stared at her reflection. How was it that two eyes, a nose, and a mouth could transform one face into attractiveness while leaving another desolate of any appeal? She was not misshapen in any way, yet look at her. She dressed well, she had a taste for dress, she knew the right things to wear but the impression they afforded stopped at her neck. She had even resorted to the artifice of toilet powder, and in secret had applied rouge to her lips and cheeks with the result that she looked nothing better, she imagined, than a street woman.

  She rose and glanced towards the bed. Were she to go to bed now she wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t read in bed at all. This was the outcome, she supposed, of being taught to read while sitting in a straight-backed chair. Her father had enforced this rule and the teachers at the school to which her mother had sent her were of a like mind too. When she was young her idea of heaven had been to curl up on the rug before the fire and read a book, but when finally she had returned home from school she had found no pleasure in this form of relaxation.

  She decided to go down to the drawing-room and play the piano for a while. This often had the power to soothe her nerves. Then she would take a bath, after which she might get to sleep without thinking.

  It was as she was crossing the hall that she noticed the local paper neatly folded, together with a magazine, lying on a salver on the side table. She picked up both and went on into the drawing-room. But before laying them down she glanced at the news papers headlines: Shields Family Lost at Sea.

  ‘It is with deep regret that we hear of the terrible tragedy that has overtaken a Shields family on holiday on the coast of France. Mr Charles Buckham, his wife, three children and their nursemaid, Mrs Jane Connor, together with Mr Buckham’s brother are feared lost, after their yacht was caught in a great storm. Mrs Buckham’s body and that of one child were washed ashore, together with pieces of wreckage from the boat. There is little hope of any survivors . . .’

  Mrs Jane Connor, nursemaid.

  Mrs Jane Connor, nursemaid.

  He had said she was nursemaid to the Buckhams. Yes, yes, it was the Buckhams of Westoe. She knew him, Charles Buckham, and she had met his wife a number of times, and . . . and there couldn’t be two nursemaids by the name of Jane Connor.

  He hadn’t said his wife had gone away, but then she hadn’t spoken to him for weeks, not since he had startled her by saying he was married. She was sorry, very sorry . . .

  Was she?

  Of course she was, it was a terrible thing. Could she go to him now and tell him? What time was it? She swung round and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Quarter-to-nine. It was still light, yet she didn’t know exactly where the place was; but it was on the waterfront and would be dark by the time she got there.

  She found herself walking up and down the room. Her stomach was churning with excitement. She said again, ‘What a tragedy! A terrible tragedy. And those poor young children.’

  She suddenly stopped her pacing and, dropping into a chair, bent her body forward until her breasts were almost touching her knees. She mustn’t make herself ridiculous; nothing had altered, things stood as they had done a few minutes earlier.

  Slowly she drew herself up and, taking in deep draughts of air, said to herself, ‘You can call tomorrow morning. It will be quite in order then for you to go and offer your condolences. He’s in your employ and naturally you have his concern at heart. Go and have a bath now and go to bed; you can do nothing until tomorrow.’

  She had a bath and she went to bed, but it was almost dawn before she finally fell asleep. And she was still asleep when the maid came in with her early morning tea at eight o’clock.

  She hardly gave herself time to drink the tea before she was out of bed dressing, and at nine o’clock she left the house, presumably to go to an early service. She had informed Jessie that she wouldn’t need the carriage, it was a fine morning and she preferred to walk.

  The only answer Jessie could give to this was ‘Yes, miss,’ but the expression on her face told Charlotte that she considered that by breaking yet another rule she was letting the prestige of the family down; no one of any importance in this district went to church on foot.

  Because the occasion demanded sobriety she had dressed in the black outfit she had worn to her father’s funeral and so she wasn’t conspicuous as she made her way from the residential quarter of Westoe to the long district lining the waterfront. Yet she did not pass without notice for she was tall and slim and her walk was purposeful as if she knew where she was going. But on this occasion she didn’t, at least not precisely.

  Having almost reached the Lawe she stopped an old riverside man and asked him if he could direct her to Mr Connor’s boatyard.

  ‘Connor’s boatyard? Never knew no boatyard by that name along this stretch, ma’am. No Connor’s boatyard along here.’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s a small yard, I understand.’

  ‘Big or small, ma’am, none of that name.’

  ‘Mr Connor has only recently taken the yard over.’ Small yard, taken it over?’ The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin and said, ‘Oh aye, now I come to think of it, it’s old Barney Kilpatrick’s place. Oh aye, I heard tell of a young ’un startin’ up there. Takes some grit and guts to start on your own along this stretch. Well now, ma’am, you turn yourself round and go back yonder till you pass a space full of lumber, bits of boats . . . odds and ends. There’s cut at yon side atween a set of pailings, the gate Into Kilpatrick’s place is but a few steps down there.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome, ma’am. You’re welcome.’

  She walked swiftly back along the potholed road, followed the directions the old man had given her and within a few minutes found herself opposite a wooden gate in a high fence of black sleepers.

  The gate opened at a touch and she went through and stood for a moment looking at the ramshackle building before her. There were steps leading up to a door and, having mounted them, she knocked gently and waited. After a short interval she knocked again, harder now, and after knocking a third time she tried the handle and found the door locked.

  She descended the steps and looked a
bout her. There was evidence of a small boat being built. She walked into the slipway, then out again and stood looking up at the windows. She could see the place as a boatyard, even though it was very small, but as a residence, never. She gave a slight shudder. Being almost on the river’s edge it would be overrun with rats and so damp. And he lived here and had spoken of it with enthusiasm!

  Where was he now? Most likely at his parents’ house. Of course, that’s where he would be. Well, she couldn’t go there . . . or could she?

  ‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t.’

  She walked out of the yard, closing the gate behind her, and again she chastised herself, sternly now. ‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t. Please retain some sense of decorum.’

  But it was such a long time until tomorrow. Would he come to work? Well, the only thing she could do was to wait and see, and if he didn’t put in an appearance, then she would go to his home. It would seem quite in order to do so then.

  She walked slowly back through the town. People were making their way to the churches. There were a number of carriages in the market place adjacent to St. Hilda’s. She wondered for a moment whether she should go in there, then decided not to. What would she pray for? She mustn’t be a hypocrite. She’d always prided herself on being honest, at least to herself. She went to church, but she was no church-woman. She knew why more than half the congregation attended her own particular church. Their reasons were various, but had nothing to do with God and worship: to see and be seen; to make connections. It was an established fact that it did one no harm in the business world to belong to a congregation, especially if you paid substantially for your pew and had your name inscribed on a silver name-plate.

  In her loneliest moments she warned herself against cynicism knowing that if she didn’t want to lose those few people who termed themselves her friends she must keep her radical opinions to herself. But oh, she had thought so often how wonderful it would be, how comforting to have someone with whom she could talk plainly. A male. Oh, yes a male, someone like . . .

  When had she first thought of him in that way? All her life seemingly. Don’t be ridiculous. Well, four and a half years was a lifetime.

  Sunday was a long day, and on Monday morning she was awake early and dressed for outdoors by eight o’clock, and by a quarter to nine she was seated behind the desk in the inner office in Tangard Street.

  If he were coming to work he would come here to see to the men. If he didn’t put in an appearance, well she must see to them, and once they were settled she would go on to Simonside and offer her condolences . . .

  He came into the office at ten minutes to nine and she was shocked at the sight of him, and sad, truly sad; yet at the same time envious of a woman who, by her going, could pile the years almost overnight on a man.

  She rose swiftly from the chair, then came round the desk and stood in front of him, saying, and with sincere feeling, ‘I’m so sorry. Now you shouldn’t have come, I didn’t expect you. You . . . you must go home and stay there as long as you feel it is necessary; there’s no hurry, I can see to things . . .’

  She watched him wet his lips before saying in a voice so unlike his own in that it was quiet, like that of a sick man bereft of strength, ‘I’d . . . I’d much rather be at work, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well—’ she shook her head slowly—’it’s as you wish. But . . . but you don’t look well. And . . . and haven’t you got . . . ? Well, aren’t there things you must see to officially?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We . . . I went on Saturday. The police said they’d let me know if they heard anything further. Mr . . . Mr Buckham’s father has gone over, I’m to see him when he comes back.’

  ‘Oh.’ She stared into his face. It was grey, lifeless. She realized as she looked at him that his appeal did not come from his looks at all, as one might imagine, as she herself had imagined years ago, but from the vitality within, from the bumptiousness and the arrogance that was part of his nature. At the moment there was no life either in his face or in his body. But, of course, it was to be understood this was only temporary; he was under shock, he would revive . . . she would see that he revived. The decision he had taken to come straight to work was the best possible thing he could have done.

  She said now, ‘Then I can leave you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She picked up her bag and gloves from the desk, and turning to him again, she said, ‘If you wish you may send Mr Taylor with the collection.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He inclined his head towards her.

  ‘Are you staying with your parents?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, ‘I’ve been with them over the weekend but I’m going back to the boatyard.’

  She said with some concern now, ‘Do you think it wise for you to be alone at this time?’

  ‘My brother will be with me.’

  ‘Oh.’ She stared at him; then again she said, ‘I’m deeply sorry.’

  He made no reply but turned from her and she had to stop herself from going to him for she imagined he was about to cry, and if she were to see him cry . . . She turned hastily and went out.

  Alone now he stood staring down at the desk as if he had never seen it before, as if he were surprised to find it there; then going behind it, he sat down and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped it quickly round his face before blowing his nose. He had said he’d be better at work. He’d never be better anywhere, anytime, but being here was better than remaining in the kitchen. He’d go mad if he had to listen to any more talk of Janie. Since Saturday night they had talked about her, wailed about her, cried about her, and he too had cried and wailed, but inside. To them it was as if she were lying in the coffin in the corner of the room. They had drunk their beer and had their tots of whisky as if they were holding a wake. They had sat up all night, the Learys and her da and grannie, and his own father and Ruth and Jimmy . . . and her. Nellie had come and her husband with her. And that had been another thing that had nearly driven him mad, when Nellie announced through her tears that she was pregnant at last, and her, his big slob of a slavering mother, had cried, ‘That’s God’s way. That’s God’s way, when He shuts one door He opens another.’ Another day among them and he would have gone out of his mind.

  There was only one good thing that had come out of it, he and Jimmy were back where they were before. Nothing had been said but Jimmy hadn’t left his side since Saturday, not even during the night, the longest night of his life. All Saturday night he had sat by his side up in the loft, and last night too, and it was he who had said early this morning, ‘Let’s get back away home, eh?’ It was odd that Jimmy should think of the boatyard as home rather than the place in which he had been brought up. But Janie had made it home.

  He thought with shame and guilt of how he had begun to compare it with Charlotte Kean’s place. God, he wouldn’t swop it for a palace decked with diamonds at this moment if Janie was in it.

  Aw Janie. Janie. Oh! God, and they had parted like strangers. The last words he spoke to her were, ‘You are hard. I said it afore in this very house and I say it again, there’s a hard streak in you.’

  She had gazed at him and replied, ‘Aye, perhaps you’re right.’

  Then she was gone, and when the door closed on her he had beaten his fists against his head.

  Why the hell was he standing there! Why didn’t he go after her and drag her back by the scruff of the neck? He was her husband, wasn’t he? He had his rights—was he a man? No other bloody man in the town would have put up with what he had these past two weeks, they would have knocked the daylights out of her. Why was he standing here?

  Back in the cottages they referred to him, behind his back, as ‘the big fella,’ and he had come to think of himself, and not without pride as ‘a gambling man.’ But what in effect was he? He . . . he was nothing more than a nowt who couldn’t keep his wife, a nowt who had let a little chit of a lass best him. Had it happened to John George he would have said, ‘Well, what do
you expect?’

  . . . John George!

  This morning he had taken up a jug and hurled it almost at the same place at which he had thrown the ship’s wheel. It was because of him he was in this pickle.

  Janie! Janie! How am I to go on?

  There was a knock on the door and Mr Taylor entered and provided him with the answer . . . work. It was either that or the river.

  PART THREE

  The Bargain

  1

  In 1877 those who were enlightened by reading newspapers discussed among other things such topics as Disraeli proclaiming Queen Victoria Empress of India and seeing to it that she had the adulation of Indian princes and African chiefs. But for the ordinary man and woman in towns such as South Shields, there were other happenings that struck nearer home, very much nearer home.

  The sea which provided most of the inhabitants with a livelihood also created havoc and disaster. There was that awful night in December last year when three vessels were wrecked and the sea, still unsatisfied, had engulfed and destroyed another two later in the day, and all under the eyes of horrified townspeople who could only watch helplessly. Even though the Volunteer Life Brigade did heroic work, many lives were lost.

  Such tragedies had the power to unite the townspeople, at least for a time. Rich and poor alike mingled in their sorrow until the poor, once again forgetting their place in God’s scheme of things, protested against their lot. And how did they protest? They protested through societies called trade unions.