Later, she had remarked, ‘I think your mother is a gentle creature.’
His mother. That was one secret he had kept to himself. She knew everything about him but that, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that the slight, quiet, little woman, with a dignity that was all her own, was not his mother. His mother was the woman he had introduced to her by merely remarking, ‘This is Lizzie,’ and explaining later that she was his father’s cousin. Why was it that some things were impossible to admit to? He felt as guilty at being Lizzie’s son as if it were he himself who had perpetrated the sin of his conception.
Damn them! Let them get on with it. It was Jimmy he was worried about, and those bloody Pitties were beginning to scare him. Little fish protected by big fish!
He turned to her. ‘I’m goin’ down,’ he said.
‘All right.’ She rose from the couch. I’ll go with you.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s coming down whole water now.’
‘If you’re going down there tonight I’m going with you.’
He closed his eyes for a moment; he knew that tone. ‘Well, get your things on.’ His voice was almost a growl.
As she was walking towards the door, she said, ‘I’ll tell Stoddard.’
‘No, no.’ He came to her side. ‘You don’t want to get the carriage out at this time of night. And he’ll be settled down. I meant to walk.’
‘All right, we’ll walk.’
‘Oh, woman!’
‘Oh, man!’ She smiled at him and tweaked his nose, then left the room smiling.
Half an hour later they went up the steps and into the boathouse and startled Jimmy and Mr Richardson who were playing cards.
‘Oh, hello.’ Jimmy slid to his feet; then looking from one to the other, he asked, ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Not at our end; what about this end? What’s this I’m hearin’?’
‘Oh that.’ Jimmy nodded, then said, ‘Well, it’s done one thing.’ He was looking at Charlotte now. The river polis have been past here three times to my knowledge this afternoon. That’s . . . that’s with you going down there. Hardly seen them afore. That should warn the bug . . . beggars off for a bit.’
‘Aye, for a bit.’ Rory pulled a chair towards Charlotte. She sat down, and what she said was, ‘Have you plenty to eat?’
‘Oh aye.’ Jimmy smiled at her. ‘Lizzie’s been down this afternoon an’ baked. She feeds me up as if I was carryin’ tw . . .’ He swallowed and the colour flushed up over his pale face as he amended Lizzie’s description of pregnancy, carrying twins for eighteen months, with ’cartin’ coals to Newcastle.’
As he looked at Charlotte he saw that her eyes were bright, twinkling. She had twigged what he was about to say. It was funny but he liked her, he liked her better every time he met her. He could see now what had got their Rory. When you got to know her you forgot she was nothing to look at. He had said so to Lizzie this very afternoon when she was on about Rory, but she had come back at him, saying, ‘You another one that’s got a short memory? I thought you used to think the world of Janie.’ Well, yes he had, but Janie was dead. And he had said that to her an’ all, but what had she come back again with, that the dead should live on in the memory. She was a hard nut was Lizzie, she didn’t give Rory any credit for making life easier for the lot of them. Three pounds every week he sent up there; they had never been so well off in all their lives. New clothes they had, new bedding, and they ate like fighting cocks. If Lizzie kept on, and his ma too didn’t really soften towards Charlotte—he wasn’t concerned about his da’s opinion—he’d give them the length of his tongue one of these days, he’d tell them straight out. ‘Well,’ he’d say, ‘if you think like you do, you shouldn’t be takin’ his money.’ Aye, he would, he’d say that. And what would they say? ‘It isn’t his money, it’s hers’ . . . Well, it didn’t matter whose it was, they were taking it and showing no gratitude. For himself he was grateful. By lad! he was grateful. Three boats he had, but one without a bottom to it.
He said to her, ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you, Jimmy. We . . . we just came to see that everything was all right.’ She smiled from him to Mr Richardson.
Mr Richardson was a burly man in his forties. He had worked in Baker’s yard alongside Jimmy but had gladly made the move to here when Rory offered him five shillings a week more than he was getting there. He was a married man with a family, so the arrangement of keeping Jimmy company at nights could not be a permanent one.
‘We’re grateful for you staying, Mr Richardson,’ she said.
‘Do anything I can, ma’am.’
‘Thank you. We won’t forget it, Mr Richardson.’
The man nodded and smiled widely. Then she rose to her feet and, looking at Rory, said, ‘Well now, are you satisfied?’
Before he could answer she turned her head towards Jimmy, saying, ‘The trouble with your brother, Jimmy, is he won’t recognize the fact that you are a young man and no longer an apprentice.’
Jimmy laughed back at her, saying, ‘Well, we’ll have to show him, won’t we? You tell him when you see him I’ll take him on any day in the week an’ knock the stuffin’ out of him. You tell him that, will you?’
Rory now thrust out his fist and punched Jimmy gently on the head, saying, ‘You’ve always been a daft lad; you always will be.’
‘Daft? Huh! Who’s daft comin’ down this end in the black dark an’ it pouring’. Don’t you think you’re askin’ for trouble yourself, walking along the dockside, an’ not alone either?’ He nodded towards Charlotte.
‘She came along to protect me. Can you imagine anybody tacklin’ me when she’s there?’ He now took hold of Charlotte’s arm and led her towards the door as she tut-tutted and cast a reproving glance up at him.
‘Keep that door bolted, mind.’
‘Aye. Don’t you worry.’ Jimmy smiled quietly at Rory.
The farewells over, they took the lantern and went down the steps and made their way through the stinging rain on to the road and along the waterfront, and as they hurried through what, even in daytime, was known to be an unsavoury thoroughfare Rory thought. He was right, I was crazy to let her come, and at this time of night.
And so he didn’t breathe easily until they emerged into the main street, and there she said to him, ‘Now you can relax.’
He did not reply, only heaved a telling sigh as he thought for the countless time, There’s no doubt about it, she’s remarkable.
His mind more at ease now with regard to Jimmy, he said, ‘There were two things you were going to tell me the night. Well, let’s have the second one now.’
‘No, not now; it will have to wait until we get out of this, the rain is choking me.’
‘Serves you right; you would have your own way.’
‘Far better have my own way than sit worrying until you returned.’
‘You’re a fool of a woman. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know that, I’ve known it now for five months and three days.’
‘Oh, Charlotte!’ He pressed her arm closer to his side.
She had taken a bath and was now dressed in a pale grey chiffon nightdress with matching negligee. It was night attire which one might have expected to see on a picture postcard such as sailors brought over from foreign countries, like France, on which were painted ladies in flowing robes, their voluptuousness alone signifying their lack of virtue.
He had now become used to seeing her dressed, or undressed, like this. His own night attire not only would have caused the women in the kitchen to throw their aprons over their heads, but would have raised the eyebrow of many a smart gentleman in the town, for his nightshirt was of a pale blue colour, the flannel being so fine as to be almost like cashmere.
Moreover, it had cuffs that turned back and were hemmed with fancy braid, as was the deep collar. It, and a dozen more like it, were one of the many presents she had given him. And to hide his embarrassment he had mad
e a great joke the first time he had worn one, but now he never even thought of his nightshirts, even when a fresh one was put out for him every other night.
As he pulled this one over his head he called to her, ‘I’m waiting.’
‘So am I.’
When her flat reply came back to him he bit on his lip, closed his eyes, tossed his head backwards and laughed silently. She was a star turn really. Who would have thought her like it?
He went from the dressing-room into the bedroom smiling. She wasn’t in bed but was sitting on the edge of it, and at this moment she looked ethereal in the soft glow of the lamplight. He had the idea that if he opened the windows the wind that was blowing in gusts around the house would waft her away. He sat down beside her on the bed and, adopting an attitude of patience, he crossed his slippered feet, crossed his arms and stared ahead.
‘Are you feeling strong?’
‘Strong? In what way?’ He turned his head sharply to look at her.
‘Oh, in all ways.’
‘Look, what is it?’ He twisted his body round until he was facing her. ‘Stop beating about the bush; what have you got up your sleeve now?’
She gave a little rippling laugh that might have issued from the lips of some dainty creature, then said, ‘Nothing up my sleeve. No, decidedly not up my sleeve; I happen to have become pregnant.’
‘Preg . . . pregnant?’
As his mouth fell into a gape she nodded at him and said, ‘Yes, you know, “A woman with child” is how the Bible puts it.’
He drew in a long breath that lifted his shoulders outward. She was pregnant, she was with child, as she had said. Well, well. He had the desire to laugh. He stopped himself. She was going to have a bairn. Charlotte was going to have a bairn. And he had given it to her . . . Well, what was surprising about that? With all that had happened these past months why should he be surprised, for if anyone had worked for a bairn she had? He would never forget the first night in this bed. He had thought to treat her tenderly because right up to the moment they had first stood outside that door there, she had given him the chance to take advantage of the agreement she had first suggested; in fact, she had stood blocking his way into the room as she said, ‘I won’t hold it against you. Believe me, I won’t hold it against you.’ And what had he done? He had put his hand behind her and turned the knob. And she had entered with her head down like some shy bride, and he had told himself again that it was as little as he could do to be kind to her, to ease her torment, and make her happy. And he had made her happy. Aye by God! he had made her happy. And himself too. She had been surprising enough as a companion, but as a wife she had enlightened him in ways that he had never thought possible, because she had loved him. Aye, it was she who had done the loving. Up till then he hadn’t been aware that he had never been loved. He had loved Janie. A better term for it would be, he had taken Janie. And she had let him, but she had never loved him in the way he was loved now. Perhaps it was his own fault that things had not worked out that way with Janie, it was the business of John George coming between them on that first night. He had known a few other women before Janie. On his first year of rent collecting there had been one in Jarrow—her man went to sea—but what she had wanted was comfort not love. Then another had been no better than she should be, she had given him what she would give anybody at a shilling a go.
No, he had never been loved until Charlotte loved him. It was amazing to him how or from where she had gained her knowledge, for one thing was certain, he was the first man she’d had in her life. Perhaps it was instinctive. Whatever it was, it was comforting. And now, now she was saying . . . ‘Huh! . . . Huh! . . . Huh!’
He was holding her tightly to him. They fell backwards on to the bed and he rolled her to and fro, and they laughed together; then, his mouth covering hers, he kissed her long and hard.
When finally he pulled her upright the ribbon had fallen from her hair and it was loose about her shoulders and he took a handful of the black silkiness and rubbed it up and down his cheek.
‘You’re pleased?’
‘Oh! Charlotte, what more can you give me?’
‘One every year until I grow fat. I’d love to grow fat.’
‘I don’t want you fat, I want you just as you are.’ And in this moment he was speaking the truth. He now took her face between his hands and watched her thin nostrils quiver. Her eyes were soft and full of love for him, and he said, ‘You’re the finest woman I’ve ever known, and ever will know.’
And she said, ‘I love you.’
He could not say, ‘And me you,’ but he took her in his arms and held her tightly.
PART FOUR
The Resurrection
1
The foreign-looking young woman handed her ticket to the ticket collector, stared at him for a moment, then passed through the barrier. She was the last of a dozen people to leave the platform and his look followed her. She was a foreigner. He could tell by her dress; she had strange-looking clogs on her feet and a black cloak hung from her shoulders right down to the top of them. She had a contraption on her head that was part hat, part shawl, with a fringe, and strings from it, like pieces of frayed twine, were knotted under her chin. Another odd thing about her was, although her skin was brown her hair was white and frizzy, like that of an old Negro’s, yet her face was that of a young woman. She reminded him of a man that used to live near him who had white hair and pink eyes. They said he was an albino. He had been an oddity.
When the young woman reached the main thoroughfare she seemed slightly bemused; the traffic was so thick, and the Saturday evening crowd were pushing and shoving. She stepped into the gutter and the mud went over the top of her clogs. She stared at one face after another as if she had never been in a crowd before, as if she had never seen people before.
She walked on like someone in a daze. She skirted the stalls in the market place and when she heard a boat horn hooting she stopped and looked down the narrow lane that led to the ferry, then she went on again.
She was half-way down the bank that dropped steeply to the river when again she stopped. And now she put her hand inside her cloak and pressed it against her ribs. Then she turned her head upwards and gazed into the fading light.
Two men paused in their walking and looked at her, and she brought her head down and stared back at them. And when they looked at each other in a questioning way she ran swiftly down the bank away from them, her clogs clip-clopping against the cobbles.
On the river-front now, she hurried in a purposeful way along it until she came to where had stood the square of waste land, and here she looked about her in some perplexity, for the ground was now railed in, its railings joining those which surrounded the boatyard. Her steps slowed as she approached the alleyway; the light was almost gone, and when she went to open the gate and found it locked, she rattled it, then knocked on it, waited a moment, and, now almost in a frenzy, took her fist and banged on it.
When there was still no reply she looked up and down the alleyway before hurrying towards the far end where it terminated at the river wall; and now she did what she had done a number of times before when Jimmy had bolted the gate from the inside, she gripped the last post of the fence where it hung out over the river and swung herself round it, and so entered the boatyard.
Now she stood perfectly still looking up towards the house. There was a light in the window of the long room. Again she put her hand inside her cloak and placed it over her ribs, then slowly she went towards the steps and mounted them. She didn’t open the door but knocked on it.
She heard the footsteps coming across the wooden floor towards it, but it didn’t open. A voice said, ‘Who’s there?’
She waited a second before answering, ‘Open the door, Jimmy.’
There was complete silence all about her now, no movement from inside the room. She said again, ‘Open the door, Jimmy, please. Please open the door.’
Again there was no answer. She heard the steps moving away fro
m the door. She turned her head and saw the curtains pulled to the side; she saw the outline of Jimmy’s white face pressed against the pane. She held out her hand towards it.
She didn’t hear the footsteps return to the door; nor was there any other sound, not even any movement from the river. It seemed to her that she was dead again. Her voice high now, beseeching, she called, ‘Jimmy! Jimmy, it’s me. Open the door. Please open the door.’
When at last the door opened it seemed it did so of its own accord; it swung wide and there was no one in the opening. She stepped over the threshold and looked along the room to where Jimmy was backing slowly along the side of the table towards its far end, and she stood, with her hand on the door and said, almost in a whimper, ‘Don’t be frightened, Jimmy, I’m . . . I’m not a ghost. It’s . . . it’s me, Janie. I . . . I’ve been bad. I . . . I wasn’t drowned.’ She closed the door, then leant her back against it and slowly slid down on to the floor and slumped on to her side.
Jimmy gazed at the crumpled figure but didn’t move. He had never been so terrified in all his life, he wanted to run, jump out of the window, get away from it . . . her. Yet . . . yet it was Janie’s voice, and she said she was Janie. That’s all he had to go on, for from what he could see of her, her skin was like an Arab’s and her hair was white. Janie had been bonny, and her skin was as fair as a peach and her hair brown, lovely brown.
When she moved and spoke again, he started.
‘Give me a drink, Jimmy, tea, anything.’
As if mesmerized now, he went to the hob and picked up the teapot that had been stewing there for the past hour, and with a hand that shook he filled a cup, spooned in some sugar, then slowly advanced towards her.
He watched her pulling herself to her feet, and as he stood with the cup in his hand, staring wildly at her, she passed him and went towards a chair, and after a moment she held out her hand and took the cup from him, and although the tea was scalding she gulped at it, then asked, ‘Where’s Rory?’
The Gambling Man Page 23