The Guardian of Secrets and Her Deathly Pact

by Jana Petken

  “No … tea,” Joseph said, waving his hands in the air laughably. “Quick as you can.”

  Joseph watched his money leave the centre of the table to join Gates’s pile. He wondered for the second time that evening if his tactics had been all wrong. It wasn’t like him to miss a card, a look, a smile, or a grimace on an opponent’s face, no matter how subtle. He should have seen something, anything. The cards were going against him in every hand. Even the law of averages had pitted against him.

  Joseph took a sip of tea out of the cup John Stein had given him and asked if he could have another note of credit.

  “Just one more … please, boys,” he said pitifully.

  “Don’t you think you’d better call it quits?” David Stern asked him. “It was explained to you earlier that only one IOU would be granted. There is no shame in losing, Joseph. It happens to us all at one time or another.”

  “I know it does. I’m not stupid! I’m the best bloody poker player in England – I’m Joseph fucking Dobbs!” Joseph told him, swaying in his chair. “I’m tired … but I’ll be the one to say when I’m finished, not you … Anyway I’ve got a couple of items in my pocket worth a lot of money … and I can put them on the table right now.”

  Arty Weisman told him, “We don’t deal in items. That isn’t the way things work around here. It has to be cash or nothing in these types of games; otherwise, the paperwork starts to get a bit messy.”

  “Paperwork?” Joseph slurred back. “What fucking paperwork …? It’s only a game of fucking cards, you know … Anyway, John told me that jewellery was accepted. Didn’t you, John?”

  “That’s right,” John told Arty. “I did. Look, boys, let’s not be hasty here. There might be a way we can sort this out.” John turned to Joseph, still swaying gently in his chair.

  “Joseph, we need both. We will allow you to sign for some more money, but only if you put the items you talked about on the table as a guarantee. Is everyone agreed?”

  All except for Joseph nodded in agreement.

  “Do you agree to this, Joseph?”

  “Maybe,” Joseph said, looking at the four men in turn. “If you let me sign for two hundred more. And if I lose, I pay it back to you, John. You do have two hundred pounds to give me, don’t you?”

  John nodded.

  “You give it to me, and you’ll get it all back before I leave You can keep the items as a guarantee. ....I feel a...winning streak coming on

  Joseph was sweating badly, and his neatly combed hair now looked like a poodle’s coat. His pupils were dilated, and his hands waved in the air, searching for the items. “I know!” he said absently. “They’re in my fucking pocket.”

  He giggled to himself and put his hands behind him, looking for his bulging jacket pocket. Eventually, he swayed to the right, twisting his body, and found himself on the floor, looking up at the four faces staring down at him.

  “Oops! What an arsehole I am.” He giggled again.

  John Stein was the first on his feet. He cursed himself silently, wishing he hadn’t given Joseph so much laudanum. He’d clearly had more than enough. “Are you all right?” he asked him.

  Joseph staggered to his feet, reached for his pocket, and pulled out a small brown paper bag. “I am now.”

  John held his breath. Joseph, do it, do it! he was screaming inside his head. Joseph placed the watch and ring in the centre of the table, and John eyed them greedily.

  “Very nice … Where did you buy the watch? It’s quite unusual,” he said, addressing Joseph, who was once again seated.

  “Oh, I’ve had it for years … Belonged to my father … and the ring.”

  “PM,” Arty Weisman said with a laugh as he held the ring up to the light. “Not prime minister?”

  “No, you bloody smart-arse. They’re my father’s initials.”

  “All right,” John said, satisfied, “these and two hundred pounds. Agreed?”

  “Yes, agreed,” Mathew Gates said.

  “I’m not happy about this,” Arty Weisman told Joseph. “I didn’t expect this sort of carry-on at a game of this calibre. You’re drunk, falling off chairs, talking rubbish most of the time … John, where did you find this clown?”

  Joseph spat, “Never you fucking mind where he found me! Do you agree or not?”

  Arty Weisman nodded his head.

  Joseph sucked in his breath and let out an audible sigh of relief as the money was handed to him. He smiled, signed the IOU, slapped his cheeks with his hands to wake himself up, and then wrung his hands together in greedy anticipation. “Right, boys, I’m back in the game, and this time I won’t be making the same mistakes.”

  Joseph’s hands trembled as he picked up the cards that Arty Weisman dealt him. He knew he was taking the biggest gamble of his life, and for only the second time in his life, he prayed to God for a bit of luck.

  It wasn’t long before he had nothing left except for a few pounds on the table and some pennies in his pocket. For four hands, he knew he had mastered the others in a way that had left them in awe of his skill, albeit grudgingly. Joseph listened to his own voices. One told him to quit while he still had enough money for the train ride home, whilst the other screamed at him to carry on and try for the rest of the money still on the table: You can do this, Joseph! You’re Joseph Dobbs, and you can do this! He fingered his few remaining pounds and reached into his pockets for the coins; he had nothing to lose now and everything to win.

  Joseph’s dream of walking out of that small room a rich man was shattered just as the first light of the new day streamed through a chink in the curtains. For the first time in his life, he blamed the whisky bottle for his demise. He’d drunk himself into a stupor before and during the most important poker game he had ever been involved in. The amber liquid he loved so much had destroyed him and had left him with nothing but a hazy recollection of four other players who had always been one step ahead of him. He was exhausted and bewildered after losing five hands in succession, and as he sat with his head in his hands, he wondered how the unthinkable could have happened.

  His head was pounding and his mouth bone dry, making it difficult for him to swallow or speak, and when he tried to stand up, the room spun round in front of his eyes. He held on to the arm of the chair, attempting to un-perch his jacket.

  “What the fuck was in that whisky, fucking dynamite!” he slurred into nothingness.

  Still swaying from side to side, holding on to the arm of his chair, he finally managed to put on his jacket.

  “Give me something for the train?” he begged John.

  John nodded and gave him five shillings. “We’ll be seeing you soon,” he said.

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt you will,” Joseph said, looking even more comical as he tried in vain to strike a match for a cigarette that hung precariously out of the side of his mouth.

  “Joseph, you’re calling it a night?” Arty Weisman asked innocently.

  “What the fuck does it look like to you? I can’t very well play with tiddlywinks now, can I?”

  Mathew Gates said, “It’s been a pleasure, Joseph. Be seeing you soon.”

  John Stein added sternly, “Joseph, you have one week to get the five hundred pounds you owe me. Don’t forget that.”

  “What about my stuff, the watch and ring? What about them?”

  “If you pay up on time, you will get them back. Goodbye, Joseph.”

  Joseph was dismissed, and he stumbled blindly down the stairs and into the deserted streets below. He cried like a baby and shook his head from side to side, trying to clear away the fog in front of his eyes.

  “Christ almighty, what have I done? Fuck it!” he said repeatedly. “I’m finished. I’m fucking finished!”

  When Joseph left, the four men passed round the whisky bottle and congratulated themselves on a good night’s work. They laughed at the prepared royal flush being passed under the table as John distracted Joseph, drowsy from too much whisky and laudanum. They mimicked each other as they
re-enacted scenes from the evening and complimented each other’s dramatic prowess, but when the men had finished counting the money, the atmosphere changed. John picked up two bundles of notes held together with a rubber band.

  “For my mother and my cousin Celia: poetic justice, don’t you think?”

  “Thank God for laudanum,” Arty said, raising his glass.

  David Stern said, “John, if all you wanted was the five hundred pounds, why did you take the man’s watch and ring? For what purpose?”

  “A good purpose.” John smiled.

  “Well, are you going to tell us?”

  John finished his whisky and put his glass on the table, looked at all three men in turn, and grinned boyishly. “I’m going to collect something else from Mr Dobbs, and when I do, my task will be complete. That’s part two of the plan … Anybody in?”

  Chapter 21

  Joseph woke up in his own bed after a restless sleep and immediately relived the events of the night before. He’d arrived back at the farm just after midday and had gone straight to bed, fully clothed and desperate to block out his misery. He sat on the edge of the chair now with his wedding suit hanging crumpled on his hunched shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair while resting his elbows on his knees.

  At that moment, the enormity of his loss hit him, and he gave way to grief, anger, and frustration in a torrent of waves. He grieved for the huge amount of money he’d lost. He was angry at the embarrassment and humiliation he’d had to endure because of it, and his frustration stemmed from his belief that he had been so close to winning and didn’t. He cursed loudly, and his screaming and weeping were surpassed only by the sound of objects and furniture being thrown around the room. Mirrors were broken. The bedroom window was smashed as a chair made contact with it and flew through it. He ripped off his suit, shirt, and tie and threw them out the window, now devoid of glass, and watched them land on top of the broken chair on the ground below.

  Later, when there was nothing left to throw and no words left to shout, the sounds from Joseph’s mouth became more like the howling despair of a wounded animal begging for mercy from hunters. He crouched down in the corner of the room, naked except for his socks hanging limply over the edge of his toes, and it finally hit him. In the last week, he had lost just over eight hundred pounds, which was more money than he had ever seen. He could have made a good profit if only he’d kept the hop garden going. Maybe he should have paid the workers? He should have kept the bulls for a rainy day; he’d practically given them away. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. He’d made big mistakes, and they would haunt him forever. The hops had failed miserably and would take years to come back. The bank would refuse him more money, and his herd of cattle without the prize bulls would not bring in much more than the price of a pint of fucking milk!

  Through misty eyes, he staggered to the kitchen and opened a bottle of whisky. His first thought was that John Stein would come for his money in a week, Simon Ayres was due a visit, and if he showed his face in town, he’d be pestered by the people he owed money to. He had to get out before it was too late. He would pack up and leave one night when everyone slept, taking everything he could carry with him.

  Chapter 22

  Celia and Mr Ayres found a spot by the railings on the top deck just in time to see the ropes being thrown onto the bow of the great two-funnelled vessel. Celia waved goodbye to her aunt, still on the dockside, whilst Peter slept peacefully inside her new coat, warm and snug, totally oblivious of the momentous voyage he was undertaking.

  Simon Ayres had decided to accompany Celia at the last minute, and she held on to his hand now as the ship moved away from the jetty. A jumble of emotions rocked her. She wanted to cry with relief, with sadness, and with the painful farewells; instead, she checked herself, gripped Mr Ayres’s hand even tighter, and prayed for a better future.

  Her eyes squinted against the mist of sea spray as she watched the coastline of England grow smaller and smaller, and soon it was nothing more than a speck on the horizon. She found it difficult to breathe in the fierce, biting wind, but she also found it exhilarating and lifted her face to meet it. A mixture of thoughts and fear of the unknown converged in her mind once again, but this time she couldn’t brush them aside. Her first thought was whether she would ever see Mrs Baxter again. She was an old woman, and Celia had wanted to look after her in her old age. Would she ever go back to the house she was born in, or had her good memories been so utterly destroyed that she would never be able to go back there? Would her aunt come to see her in Spain? Would Joseph Dobbs, who had so ably destroyed everything in her life, haunt her forever? Would she die a broken woman?

  She shivered with cold and fear – fear for a future unknown and fear for a past still unresolved. This was all so different from the life she’d envisaged as a bride. As a foolish young girl, she had thought it was all so simple. To love and be loved had been her only desire. To be the mother of a child who would grow strong in that love had been her only ambition. Peter, still sleeping, was not that child of love, but she would shower her heart on him until the day she died. He would never know hatred or revenge. His father was dead now, dead to her, and he would be nothing more than just a name to Peter in his growing years. She would stop crying now and embrace this great unknown. She was the daughter of a gentleman and the niece of a powerful woman. Celia Merrill, widow, was going to a new life in Spain.

  “So this is Celia,” George Rawlings, the ship’s owner, said.

  “It certainly is,” Simon told him with pride.

  “I hope your cabin is all right, Celia. We’re not used to such delicate passengers, so if there’s anything you need, anything at all, just ask and it’s yours, pet.”

  Celia smiled. “Thank you so much for your generous hospitality, sir.”

  Celia sat down at the long mahogany dining table. Mr Rawlings was definitely not what she’d expected, she thought, watching him pour the wine. He was a large man both in height and in the size of his girth. He had the longest, bushiest whiskers she had ever seen, and they completely camouflaged his mouth so that when he spoke, it was impossible to see his lips move, but when he laughed, his whole body shook. He had a genuine contented laugh that was infectious. She listened to him talk in his strange accent that seemed to join all the words together without a break in between. She remembered that when he was saying goodbye to his wife at the docks, she, Celia, had barely understood him. “Yulbealreet, pet,” he’d said to his tearful wife. That apparently meant something like ‘You will be all right, my love’. Celia hid a smile. Mr Ayres had translated for her earlier, when he’d noticed a confused look on her face.

  “Mr Rawlings is from Newcastle, dear,” he had told her. “His speech takes a bit of getting used to, but I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it before we reach Spain.”

  Celia also had the impression that for all his apparent wealth and business prowess, Mr Rawlings seemed to be a man with an unusually gentle and unpretentious temperament. He enjoyed her questions. She asked about his family, and he gave such a glowing account of them that she was convinced that they, not his shipping empire, were his most treasured possessions. Pictures of his wife and children filled the walls of his stateroom. There were ten children altogether, all close in ages and looks, and she was secretly amazed that he’d managed to find the time to produce all of them.

  “So do you know much about Spain, pet?” George Rawlings asked her, ending her observations.

  “No, actually, I can’t say that I do, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit it. But in my defence, Mr Rawlings, I did recently take some books on the country from the library, and I’ve been learning the language, although I realise it will be a long time before I will ever be able to have a proper conversation with anyone I come across who doesn’t speak English.”

  George Rawlings smiled. “Well, Spain is a bit culturally and economically backward in comparison to England,” he told her. “Valencia is a wonderful city, full of history and mos
quitoes, the blasted things!”

  “Oh dear, are they dangerous?” Simon asked him with a panicked expression.

  “No, not as far as I know. They can give you a devil of a bite, though … Had one once and my hand blew uplike a balloon. They must like my blood.”

  “How awful, George,” Simon said.

  “Don’t worry, Simon, you’ll get used to them. They’re just part and parcel of foreign lands. Celia, I hope I haven’t scared you, pet.”

  Celia said, “No, not at all. Like you said, we will get used to them … and everything else that is different.”

  “You’ll appreciate the clean, fresh air of the mountains, Celia. It’ll do you and your boy a world of good after the smog of London; not so many mosquitoes there either.”

  “I hope not,” she told him, still worrying about Peter being bitten by mosquitoes.

  “Mr Rawlings? How far is the place we’re going to? From Valencia, I mean?”

  “Oh, I’d say the Martinéz estate is about a three-hour carriage ride. It’s south and inland of Valencia, you see, about twenty-five miles from the port. That’s about forty kilometres. You’ll enjoy the scenery on the way there, though. I’ve been all over the world, and nothing compares to the wild, rugged beauty of this particular part of the Mediterranean. It still takes my breath away, and I’ve been going there for years.”

  Celia found herself enjoying the company of the larger-than-life ship owner. He had a natural talent for creating not only ambiance but also audible pleasure.

  “Will it be very warm when we get there?” she asked him.

  Mr Rawlings dipped his bread into the remaining gravy from his stew. “Yes, pet, it’ll be a furnace, but most people stay indoors during the day and sit out at night. It’ll be like the mosquitoes. You’ll get used to the heat after a while. Be best not to let your baby boy out in it, though.”