by Follett, Ken
“Oh, I don’t want to lose it as quick as I won it,” Joey said.
However, when the card school assembled in the barn half an hour later Joey and Johnny were there. The rest of the players were a mixture of Russian and Welsh.
They played a local version of poker called three-card brag. Lev liked it. After the initial three, no further cards were dealt or exchanged, so the game went fast. If a player raised the bet, the next man in the circle had to match the raise immediately—he could not stay in the game by betting the original stake—so the pot grew quickly. Betting continued until there were only two players left, at which point one of them could end the round by doubling the previous bet, which forced his opponent to show his cards. The best hand was three of a kind, known as a prial, and the highest of all was a prial of treys, three threes.
Lev had a natural instinct for odds and would usually have won at cards without cheating, but that was too slow.
The deal moved to the left every hand, so Lev could fix the cards only once in a while. However, there were a thousand ways to cheat, and Lev had devised a simple code that enabled Rhys to indicate when he had a good hand. Lev would then stay in the betting, regardless of what he was holding, to force the stakes up and enlarge the pot. Most of the time everyone else would drop out, and Lev would then lose to Rhys.
As the first hand was dealt, Lev decided this would be his last game. If he cleaned out the Ponti brothers he would probably be able to buy his ticket. Next Sunday Spirya would make inquiries to find out whether Lev was still running a card school. By then Lev wanted to be at sea.
Over the next two hours Lev watched Rhys’s winnings grow and told himself America was coming nearer with each penny. He did not usually like to clean anyone out, because he wanted them to come back next week. But today was the day to go for the jackpot.
As the afternoon began to darken outside he got the deal. He gave Joey Ponti three aces and Rhys three threes. In this game, threes beat aces. He gave himself a pair of kings, which justified him in betting high. He stayed in the betting until Joey was almost broke—he did not want to collect any IOUs. Joey used the last of his money to see Rhys’s hand. The expression on Joey’s face when Rhys showed a prial of treys was both comical and pitiful.
Rhys raked the money in. Lev stood up and said: “I’m cleaned out.” The game broke up and they all returned to the bar, where Rhys bought a round of drinks to soothe the feelings of the losers. The Ponti brothers reverted to drinking beer, and Joey said: “Ah, well, easy come, easy go, isn’t it?”
A few minutes later, Lev went back outside and Rhys followed. There was no toilet at the Two Crowns, so the men used the lane at the back of the barn. The only illumination came from a distant streetlight. Rhys quickly handed Lev his half of the winnings, partly in coins and partly in the new colored banknotes, green for a pound and brown for ten shillings.
Lev knew exactly what he was owed. Arithmetic came naturally to him, like figuring the odds at cards. He would count the money later, but he was sure Rhys would not cheat him. The man had tried, once. Lev had found his share to be five shillings short—an amount that a careless man might have overlooked. Lev had gone to Rhys’s house, stuck the barrel of his revolver into the man’s mouth, and cocked the hammer. Rhys had soiled himself in fear. After that the money had always been correct to a halfpenny.
Lev stuffed the money into his coat pocket and they returned to the bar.
As they walked in, Lev saw Spirya.
He had taken off his robes and put on the overcoat he had worn on the ship. He stood at the bar, not drinking, but talking earnestly to a small group of Russians, including some of the card school.
Momentarily, he met Lev’s eye.
Lev turned on his heel and went out, but he knew he was too late.
He walked quickly away, heading up the hill to Wellington Row. Spirya would betray him, he felt sure. Even now he might be explaining how Lev managed to cheat at cards and yet seem the loser. The men would be furious, and the Ponti brothers would want their money back.
As he approached his house, he saw a man coming the other way with a suitcase, and in the lamplight he recognized a young neighbor known as Billy-with-Jesus. “Aye, aye, Billy,” he said.
“Aye, aye, Grigori.”
The boy looked as if he was leaving town, and Lev was curious. “Off somewhere?”
“London.”
Lev’s interest quickened. “What train?”
“Six o’clock to Cardiff.” Passengers for London had to change trains at Cardiff.
“What is it now?”
“Twenty to.”
“So long, then.” Lev went into his house. He would catch the same train as Billy, he decided.
He turned on the electric light in the kitchen and lifted the flagstone. He took out his savings, the passport with his brother’s name and photograph, a box of brass bullets, and his gun, a Nagant M1895 he had won from an army captain in a card game. He checked the cylinder to make sure there was a live round in each chamber: used rounds were not automatically ejected, but had to be removed manually when reloading. He put the money, the passport, and the gun in the pockets of his coat.
Upstairs he found Grigori’s cardboard suitcase with the bullet hole. Into it he packed the ammunition plus his other shirt, his spare underwear, and two packs of cards.
He had no watch, but he calculated that five minutes had passed since he saw Billy. That gave him fifteen minutes to walk to the station, which was enough.
From the street outside he heard the voices of several men.
He did not want a confrontation. He was tough, but the miners were too. Even if he won the fight he would miss his train. He could use the gun, of course, but in this country the police were serious about catching murderers even when the victims were nobodies. At a minimum they would check passengers at the docks in Cardiff and make it difficult for him to buy a ticket. In every way it would be best if he could leave town without violence.
He went out of the back door and hurried along the lane, walking as quietly as he could in his heavy boots. The ground underfoot was muddy, as it almost always was in Wales, so fortunately his footsteps made little noise.
At the end of the lane he turned down an alley and emerged into the lights of the street. The toilets in the middle of the road shielded him from the view of anyone outside his house. He hurried away.
Two streets farther on he realized that his route took him past the Two Crowns. He stopped and thought for a moment. He knew the layout of the town, and the only alternative route would require him to double back. But the men whose voices he had heard might still be near his house.
He had to risk the Two Crowns. He turned down another alley and took the back lane that passed behind the pub.
As he approached the barn where they had played cards, he heard voices and glimpsed two or more men, dimly outlined by the streetlamp at the far end of the lane. He was running out of time, but all the same he stopped and waited for them to go back inside. He stood close to a high wooden fence to make himself less visible.
They seemed to take forever. “Come on,” he whispered. “Don’t you want to get back into the warm?” The rain dripped off his cap and down the back of his neck.
At last they went inside, and Lev emerged from the shadows and hurried forward. He passed the barn without incident, but as he drew away from it he heard more voices. He cursed. The customers had been drinking beer since midday, and by this time of the afternoon they needed frequent visits to the lane. He heard someone call after him: “Aye, aye, butty.” Their word for friend was “butty” or “butt.” Its use meant he had not been recognized.
He pretended not to hear, and walked on.
He could hear a murmured conversation. Most of the words were unintelligible, but he thought one man said: “Looks like a Russky.” Russian clothes were different from British, and Lev guessed they might be able to make out the cut of his coat and the shape of his cap by the lig
ht of the streetlamp, which he was quickly approaching. However, the call of nature was usually urgent for men coming out of a pub, and he thought they would not follow him before they had relieved themselves.
He turned down the next alley and disappeared from their view. Unfortunately, he doubted whether he had gone from their minds. Spirya must by now have told his story, and someone would soon realize the significance of a man in Russian clothes walking toward the town center with a suitcase in his hand.
He had to be on that train.
He broke into a run.
The railway line lay in the cleft of the valley, so the way to the station was all downhill. Lev ran easily, taking long strides. He could see, over the rooftops, the lights of the station and, as he came closer, the smoke from the funnel of a train standing at the platform.
He ran across the square and into the booking hall. The hands of the big clock stood at one minute to six. He hurried to the ticket window and fished money from his pocket. “Ticket, please,” he said.
“Where would you like to go this evening?” the clerk said pleasantly.
Lev pointed urgently to the platform. “That train by there!”
“This train calls at Aberdare, Pontypridd—”
“Cardiff!” Lev glanced up and saw the minute hand click through its last segment and stop, trembling slightly, at the o’clock position.
“Single, or return?” said the clerk unhurriedly.
“Single, quickly!”
Lev heard the whistle. Desperately, he looked through the coins in his hand. He knew the fare—he had been to Cardiff twice in the last six months—and he put money on the counter.
The train began to move.
The clerk gave him his ticket.
Lev grabbed it and turned away.
“Don’t forget your change!” said the clerk.
Lev strode the few paces to the barrier. “Ticket, please,” said the collector, even though he had just watched Lev buy it.
Looking past the barrier, Lev saw the train gathering speed.
The collector punched his ticket and said: “Don’t you want your change?”
The door of the booking hall burst open and the Ponti brothers rushed in. “There you are!” Joey cried, and he rushed at Lev.
Lev surprised him by stepping toward him and punching him directly in the face. Joey was stopped in his tracks. Johnny crashed into his older brother’s back, and both fell to their knees.
Lev snatched his ticket from the collector and ran onto the platform. The train was moving quite fast. He ran alongside it for a moment. Suddenly a door opened, and Lev saw the friendly face of Billy-with-Jesus.
Billy shouted: “Jump!”
Lev leaped for the train and got one foot on the step. Billy grabbed his arm. They teetered for a moment as Lev tried desperately to haul himself aboard. Then Billy gave a heave and pulled Lev inside.
He sank gratefully into a seat.
Billy pulled the door shut and sat opposite him.
“Thank you,” Lev said.
“You cut it fine,” Billy said.
“I made it, though,” said Lev with a grin. “That’s all that counts.”
{ III }
At Paddington Station next morning, Billy asked for directions to Aldgate. A friendly Londoner gave him a rapid stream of detailed instructions, every word of which he found completely incomprehensible. He thanked the man and walked out of the station.
He had never been to London but he knew that Paddington was in the west and poor people lived in the east, so he walked toward the midmorning sun. The city was even bigger than he had imagined, a great deal busier and more confusing than Cardiff, but he relished it: the noise, the rushing traffic, the crowds, and most of all the shops. He had not known there were so many shops in the world. How much was spent in London’s shops every day? he wondered. It must be thousands of pounds—maybe millions.
He felt a sense of freedom that was quite heady. No one here knew him. In Aberowen, or even on his occasional trips to Cardiff, he was always liable to be observed by friends or relations. In London he might walk along a street holding hands with a pretty girl and his parents would never find out. He had no intention of doing so, but the thought that he could—and the fact that there were so many pretty well-dressed girls walking around—was intoxicating.
After a while he saw a bus with “Aldgate” written on its front, and he jumped aboard. Ethel’s letter had mentioned Aldgate.
When he decoded her letter he had been very worried. Of course he could not discuss it with his parents. He had waited until they left for the evening service at the Bethesda Chapel—which he no longer attended—then he had written a note.
Dear Mam,
I am worried about our Eth and have gone to find her. Sorry to sneak off but I don’t want a row.
Your loving son,
Billy
As it was Sunday, he was already bathed and shaved and dressed in his best clothes. His suit was a shabby hand-me-down from his father, but he had a clean white shirt and a black knitted tie. He had dozed in the waiting room at Cardiff station and caught the milk train in the early hours of Monday morning.
The bus conductor alerted him when they reached Aldgate, and he got off. It was a poor neighborhood, with crumbling slum houses, street stalls selling secondhand clothes, and barefoot children playing in noisome stairwells. He did not know where Ethel lived—her letter had not given an address. His only clue was I work twelve hours a day in Mannie Litov’s sweatshop.
He looked forward to giving Eth all the news from Aberowen. She would know from the newspapers that the widows’ strike had failed. Billy seethed when he thought of it. The bosses were able to behave outrageously because they held all the cards. They owned the mines and the houses, and they acted as if they owned the people. Because of various complex franchise rules, most miners did not have the vote, so Aberowen’s member of Parliament was a Conservative who invariably sided with the company. Tommy Griffiths’s father said nothing would ever change without a revolution like the one they had had in France. Billy’s da said they needed a Labour government. Billy did not know who was right.
He went up to a friendly-looking young man and said: “Do you know the way to Mannie Litov’s place?”
The man replied in a language that sounded like Russian.
He tried again, and this time got an English speaker who had never heard of Mannie Litov. Aldgate was not like Aberowen, where everyone on the street would know the way to every place of business in town. Had he come this far—and spent all that money on his train ticket—for nothing?
He was not yet ready to give up. He scanned the busy street for British-looking people who seemed to be about some kind of business, carrying tools or pushing carts. He questioned five more people without success, then came across a window cleaner with a ladder.
“Mannie Litov’s?” the man repeated. He managed to say “Litov” without pronouncing the letter t, instead making a noise in his throat like a small cough. “Clouvin fectry?”
“Pardon me,” Billy said politely. “What was that again?”
“Clouvin fectry. Plice where vey mikes clouvin—jickits an trahsies an at.”
“Um . . . probably, yes,” Billy said, feeling desperate.
The window cleaner nodded. “Strite on, quote of a ma, do a rye, Ark Rav Rahd.”
“Straight on?” Billy replied. “Quarter of a mile?”
“Ass it, ven do a rye.”
“Turn right?”
“Ark Rav Rahd.”
“Ark Rav Road?”
“Carn miss it.”
The street name turned out to be Oak Grove Road. It had no grove of anything, let alone oaks. It was a narrow, winding lane of dilapidated brick buildings busy with people, horses, and handcarts. Two more inquiries brought Billy to a house squashed between the Dog and Duck pub and a boarded-up shop called Lippmann’s. The front door stood open. Billy climbed the stairs to the top floor, where he found hims
elf in a room with about twenty women sewing British army uniforms.
They continued working, operating their treadles, taking no apparent notice of him, until eventually one said: “Come in, love, we won’t eat you—although, come to think of it, I might try a little taste.” They all cackled with laughter.
“I’m looking for Ethel Williams,” he said.
“She’s not here,” the woman said.
“Why not?” he said anxiously. “Is she ill?”
“What business is it of yours?” The woman got up from her machine. “I’m Mildred—who are you?”
Billy stared at her. She was pretty even though she had buckteeth. She wore bright red lipstick, and fair curls poked out from under her hat. She was wrapped in a thick, shapeless gray coat but, despite that, he could see the sway of her hips as she walked toward him. He was too taken with her to speak.
She said: “You’re not the bastard who put her up the duff then scarpered, are you?”
Billy found his voice. “I’m her brother.”
“Oh!” she said. “Fucking hell, are you Billy?”
Billy’s jaw dropped. He had never heard a woman use that word.
She scrutinized him with a fearless gaze. “You are her brother, I can see it, though you look older than sixteen.” Her tone softened in a way that made him feel warm inside. “You’ve got the same dark eyes and curly hair.”
“Where can I find her?” he said.
She gave him a challenging look. “I happen to know that she doesn’t want her family to find out where she’s living.”
“She’s scared of my father,” Billy said. “But she wrote me a letter. I was worried about her so I came up on the train.”
“All the way from that dump in Wales where she’s from?”
“It’s not a dump,” Billy said indignantly. Then he shrugged and said: “Well, it is, really, I suppose.”
“I love your accent,” Mildred said. “To me it’s like hearing someone sing.”
“Do you know where she lives?”