The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  He turned on her. His voice low and angry, he said, ‘He didn’t take the rap for me, he took it for himself. He’d have been caught out sooner or later; he’d been at it for months.’

  ‘Aye, he might have, but only for a few shillings at a time not five pounds.’

  ‘No, not for a few shillings, a pound and more. I’d warned him.’

  ‘You warned him!’ Her voice was full of scorn. ‘But you went and did the same, and for no little sum either. It was for your five pounds he got put away for the year, not for the little bits.’

  ‘It wasn’t. I tell you it wasn’t’

  ‘Oh, shut up! Don’t try to stuff me like you’ve been doin’ yourself. That’s what you’ve been tellin’ yourself all along, isn’t it, to ease your conscience? But your conscience wouldn’t be eased, would it? Remember our first night in this place. You nearly knocked me through the wall ’cos I mentioned his name. I should have twigged then.’

  ‘Aye, yes, you should.’ His tone was flat now, weary-sounding. ‘And if you had, it would have been over and done with, I’d have gone through less.’

  ‘Gone through less! You talkin’ about goin’ through anything, what about John George?’

  ‘Damn John George!’ He was shouting now. ‘I tell you he would have gone along the line in any case.’

  ‘You’ll keep tellin’ yourself that till the day you die, yet you don’t believe it because the other night you promised to set him up when he came out. Eeh!—’ she now shook her head mockingly at him —’that was kind of you, wasn’t it? And I nearly went on me knees to you for it.’

  ‘Janie—’ he came towards her—’try to understand. You . . . you know how I feel about being locked in, and I was bad at the time. I was bad. God! I nearly died. And that was no make game, I couldn’t think clearly not for weeks after.’

  As his hand came out towards her she sprang back from it, saying, ‘Don’t touch me, Rory Connor. Don’t touch me, not until you get yourself down to that station and tell them the truth.’

  ‘What!’ The word carried a high surprised note of utter astonishment. ‘You’d have me go along the line now?’

  ‘Aye, I would, and be able to live with you when you came out. It isn’t the pinchin’ of the five pounds that worries me, an’ if nobody had suffered through it I would have said, “Good for you if you can get off with it,” but not now, not the way things are; not when that lad’s back there. And you know something? When I think of it he could have potched you, he could have said you were the only other one who had a key. He could have said you were a gambling man and would sell your own mother. Oh aye—’ she wagged her head now—’you would sell your real mother for less than five pounds any day in the week, wouldn’t you? Poor Lizzie . . .’

  The blow that caught her across the mouth sent her staggering, and at the same moment Jimmy came rushing down the ladder. Without a word he went to her where she was leaning against the chest-of-drawers, her back arched, her hand across her mouth, and he put his arm around her waist as he looked towards Rory and said, ‘You’ll regret that, our Rory. There’ll come a day when you’ll be sorry for that.’

  ‘You mind your own bloody business. And get out of this.’

  ‘I’ll not. I’ve heard enough to make me as sick as she is. I can’t believe it of you, I just can’t. And to John George of all people. He’d have laid down his life for you.’

  Rory turned from the pair and stumbled to the mantelpiece and, gripping its edge, he stared down into the banked-down fire. That he was more upset by Jimmy’s reactions than by Janie’s didn’t surprise him, for he knew he represented a sort of hero to his brother. He had never done one outstanding thing to deserve it but he had accepted his worship over the years, and found comfort in it, but now Jimmy had turned on him.

  God Almighty! why did everything happen to him at once? Her, yesterday, blaming him for being married, now this with Janie; and not only Janie, Jimmy. Yet he knew that if, come daylight, he took himself along to the polis station they’d both be with him every inch of the road. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t go and tell them the truth. Apart from his fear of imprisonment look what he stood to lose, his job; and not only that but the good name that would help him to get another. Never again would he be allowed to handle money once he had been along the line. And this place would go, Jimmy’s yard. Had he thought of that? He swung round now, crying at them, ‘All right, if I was to give meself up, what would happen? No more yard for you, Jimmy boy, your dream gone up in smoke. Did you think of that?’

  ‘No, but now you mention it, it wouldn’t be the end of me, I could always get me other job back. And I can always go home again. Don’t let that stop you. Don’t you try to use me in that way, our Rory.’

  ‘And her, what’s gona happen to her then?’ He was speaking of Janie as if she weren’t sitting by the table with her face buried in her hands, and Jimmy answered, ‘She won’t be any worse off than she was afore, she’s always got her place.’

  ‘Aw, to hell’s flames with the lot of you!’ He flung his arm wide as if sweeping them out of the room. ‘What do you know about anything? Own up and be a good boy and I’ll stand by you. You know nowt, the pair of you, the lot of you, you’re ignorant, you can’t see beyond your bloody noses. There’s swindlin’ going on every day. Respectable men, men looked up to in this town twisting with every breath. And you’d have me ruin meself for five pounds.’

  ‘It’s not the five . . .’

  ‘Be quiet, Jimmy! Be quiet!’ Janie’s voice was low. ‘You won’t get anywhere with him ’cos he’ll keep on about the five pounds, he’ll try to hoodwink you like he’s hoodwinked himself. Well—’ she rose from the table—’I know what I’m gona do.’ She walked slowly into the bedroom and they both gazed after her. When the door banged behind her Jimmy made for the ladder and without another word mounted it and disappeared through the trap door.

  Rory stared about the empty room for a moment, then turning towards the mantelshelf again he bowed his head on it and slowly beat his fist against the rough wall above it.

  6

  ‘Why, lass, it’s the chance in a lifetime. In a boat cruising? My! my! round France. By! the master’s brother must have plenty of money to own a boat like that.’

  ‘I think it’s his wife who has the money, he married a French lady.’

  ‘And you tell us it’s a sort of castle they live in?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what the missis says.’

  ‘We’ll miss you, lass.’ Lizzie sat back on her heels from where she had been kneeling sweeping the fallen cinders underneath the grate and she looked hard at Janie as she said, ‘I know it’s only for three weeks, but what puzzles me is him lettin’ you go at all. Didn’t he kick up a shindy?’

  Janie turned away and looked towards Ruth where she was coming out of the scullery carrying plates of thickly cut bread, and she answered, ‘Yes, a bit. But then he’s taken up with his new position an’ such, and . . . and often doesn’t get in till late.’

  ‘Aye.’ Lizzie pulled her bulk upright and bent to her sweeping once again. ‘His new position. By! he’s fallen on his feet if anybody has. It was a whole day’s blessin’ when old Kean died, you could say.’

  ‘You’re off first thing in the mornin’ then, lass?’

  Janie nodded towards Ruth and said, ‘Yes, we’ve got to be in Newcastle by eight o’clock; we’re goin’ up by carriage.’

  ‘Then all the way to London by train.’ Ruth shook her head, ‘It’s amazing, wonderful; the sights you’ll see. It would have been a great pity if you hadn’t taken the opportunity; such a thing as this only comes once in a lifetime . . . And you won’t stay for a bite to eat?’

  ‘I can’t, thanks all the same, there’s so much to do, to see to you know. And that reminds me. I needn’t ask you, need I, to see to me grannie?’

  ‘Aw, lass—’ Ruth pulled a face at her—’you know that goes without sayin’. At least you should.’

  ‘Aye
, I know. And thanks, thanks to both of you.’ She cast her glance between them, then looking at Lizzie, who had now risen to her feet, she said, ‘Well, I’d better say ta-rah,’ and the next moment she was hugging Lizzie, and Lizzie was holding her tight and saying brokenly, ‘Now don’t cry, there’s nowt to cry about, goin’ on a holiday . . . Don’t. Don’t lass.’

  ‘There, there.’ She was enfolded in Ruth’s arms now and Lizzie was patting her shoulder. Then swiftly pulling herself away from them, she grabbed up her bag from a chair and ran out of the cottage.

  It was Ruth who, having closed the door after her, came back to the centre of the room and looking at Lizzie said, ‘Well, what do you make of it?’

  ‘What can I make of it? There’s somethin’ wrong, and has been for weeks past, if you ask me. He’s hardly been across the door. And Jimmy, look what he was like the last time he was here, no high-falutin’ talk of boats and cargoes and contracts an’ such like.’

  Whatever it is, it doesn’t lie just atween the both of them, not when Jimmy’s concerned in it.’

  ‘No, you’re right there.’ Lizzie nodded. ‘And it couldn’t be just marriage rows. Jimmy would take those in his stride, havin’ been brought up on them.’ She smiled faintly. ‘No, whatever it is, it’s somethin’ big and bad. I’m worried.’

  ‘In a couple of days’ time we could take a walk down and tidy up and do a bit of baking and such like. What do you say, Lizzie?’

  ‘That’s a sensible idea. Aye, we could do that, and we might winkle out something while we’re there.’

  ‘It could be. It could be.’

  ‘Things are changin’, Ruth. Folks and places, everything.’

  Ruth came to her now and, tapping her arm gently, said, ‘Don’t worry about him, he’ll straighten things out. Whatever trouble there is he’ll straighten things out. He’s your own son, and being such he’s bound to be sensible at bottom.’

  ‘You’re a good woman, Ruth, none better.’

  They turned sadly away from each other now and went about their respective duties in the kitchen.

  Janie had been gone ten days and his world was empty. If she were to appear before him at this minute he would say to her, ‘All right, I’ll go, I’ll go now, as long as I know you’ll be here, the old Janie, waiting for me when I come out.’ His mind was like a battlefield, he was fighting love and hate, and recrimination and bitterness.

  The recrimination was mostly against his employer. He had seen her only twice in the past three weeks. He still took the takings to the house in the evenings but his orders were to leave them in the study and to call for the books the next morning.

  During their two meetings there had been no discussion about future plans of any kind. Her manner had been cool and formal, her tone one that he recalled from her visits to the office years ago. It was the one in which orders were issued and brooked no questions.

  But although in one breath he was telling himself that if Janie were here now he would do what she asked, in the next he was asking himself what was going to happen when she did return. After the night of the show-down she had slept up in the loft, and Jimmy had slept on a shaky-down in the kitchen. Would it go on like that until he gave in? He could have asserted his rights as many a man before him had done by well-directed blows, but the fact that he had hit her once was enough; that alone had created a barrier between them. She wasn’t the type of girl who would stand knocking about, she had too much spirit, and he was ashamed, deeply ashamed of having struck her. He had acted no better than his father whom, at bottom, he despised.

  It was Saturday again. He hated Saturdays, Sundays more so. He hadn’t gone up home since she had left, but they had been down here, at least Ruth and she had. They had cleaned up and cooked, and spoken to each other as if they were back in the kitchen. They hadn’t asked any questions regarding how he felt about her going away, which pointed more forcibly than words to the fact that they were aware that something was wrong.

  Then there was Jimmy. Jimmy was making him wild, sitting for hours at night scratching away with a pencil on bits of paper and never opening his mouth. He had turned on him the other night and cried, ‘If anyone’s to blame for this business it’s you. Who pestered me into buying this bloody ramshackle affair, eh? Who?’ and snatching up a miniature wooden ship’s wheel from the mantelshelf he had flung it against the far wall, where it had splintered into a dozen pieces, and Jimmy, after looking down on the fragments with a sort of tearful sadness, had gone up the ladder, leaving him to increased misery.

  He stood at the window now looking down on to the yard. The sun was glinting on the water; there were boats plying up and down the river; on the slipway Jimmy had set the keel of a new boat in the small stocks and he was working on it now. In the ordinary way he would have been down there helping him, they would have been exchanging jokes about what they would do when they had the monopoly of the river, or grinding their teeth at the Pitties and their tactics.

  As he looked down on Jimmy’s fair head, he was suddenly brought forward with a jerk, for there, coming round the side of the building, was Ruth and his da and Lizzie. It wasn’t the fact that they’d all turned up together to visit him, it was the expression on their faces that was riveting his attention for both Lizzie and Ruth were crying, openly crying as they talked rapidly to Jimmy, and his da was now holding out a paper to Jimmy. He watched Jimmy reading it, shake his head, then put his hand to his brow before turning and looking up at the window. Then they were all looking up at the window.

  He didn’t step back but stared down at them as they remained still, their postures seemingly frozen into a group of statuary. He noticed that Lizzie was wearing her old shawl, and old it was, green in parts. And Ruth too was in a shawl; she nearly always wore a bonnet. And they both still had their aprons on.

  He moved from the window and went to the door and, having opened it, looked down the steps at them. They came towards him. It was his father who mounted first, and he said to him, ‘What’s up?’ But Paddy didn’t answer, he just walked into the room, followed by Ruth and Lizzie and, lastly, Jimmy.

  Rory’s gaze travelled from one to the other, then came to rest on Jimmy who was gripping the paper with both hands and staring at him.

  He did not repeat his question to Jimmy, but took the paper from him and began to read.

  ‘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. Two other boats were wrecked at the same time, with a total loss of twenty-six lives. Mr Charles Buckham was a prominent member . . .’

  Someone must have brought a chair forward for him to sit on because when next he looked at them they were standing in a half-circle before him and they were all crying, even his da. His own eyes were dry; his whole body was dry, he was being shrivelled up; his mind had stopped working except for a section which oozed pain and ran like a burning acid down into his heart, and there it was etching out her name: Janie. Janie.

  ‘Janie. Janie’ he said the name aloud and turned and saw Lizzie lift up her white apron and fling it over her head, and when she began to moan like a banshee he made no protest because the sound was finding an echo within himself. ‘Janie. Janie. Aw, Janie, don’t go, Janie. Don’t be dead, Janie. Come back to me, Janie. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I’ll see about John George, honest to God I promise, now, right now. Oh, Janie.’

  ‘Give him a drop out of the bottle.’

  Paddy put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out a flat flask of whisky and, picking up a cup, he almost half-filled it. Then handing it to Rory, he said, ‘Get it down you, lad. Get it down you. You need to be fortified. God knows you
need to be fortified.’

  When Lizzie suddenly cried, ‘Why does God bring disasters like this to us? What have we ever done to Him?’ Paddy turned on her, hissing, ‘Whist! woman. It’s questions like that that bring on disasters.’

  Her wailing increased, and she cried, ‘It’s the third thing. I said there would be three, didn’t I? Didn’t I? An’ I told Andrews the polis when he brought the paper up, didn’t I, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh Janie, Janie. Come back, Janie. Just let me look on you once more.’ It was sayings like that that brought disaster his da had just said. He was ignorant. They were all ignorant. That’s what he had said to Janie, they were all ignorant. And he had compared their talk, their ways, and their dwelling, the dwelling that he had known since birth, with Charlotte Kean and her fine house. Yet their ignorance was a warm ignorance, it was something you didn’t have to live up to; pretence fell through it like water through a sieve. Their ignorance was a solid foundation on which he could lean. He was leaning against it now, his head tucked against warm, thick flesh, nor when he realized it was Lizzie’s flesh, his mother’s flesh, did he push it away. In this moment he needed ignorance, he needed love, he needed warmth, he needed so many things to make up for the loss of Janie.

  ‘Aw, Janie, Janie. I’m sorry, Janie. I’m sorry, Janie.’

  7

  Charlotte Kean did not read the paper until late on the Saturday evening. She had returned from Hexham about seven o’clock feeling tired, irritable and lonely. After a meal she had gone into the office with the intention of doing some work on the mass of papers that always awaited her on the desk, but after sitting down she stared in front of her for a moment before closing her eyes and letting her body slump into the depths of the leather chair.

  How much longer could she go on like this? She’d asked herself the same question numbers of times over the past weeks. There was a remedy, in fact two. But the cure offered by either Mr Henry Bolton or Mr George Pearson was worse, she imagined, than her present disease. Henry Bolton was forty-eight and a widower. George Pearson would never see fifty again. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that either of them had fallen in love with her. She would go as far as to say that they didn’t even like her, considering her ways too advanced by half, having heard her opinions from across a committee table. But since the death of both her father and her grandfather they had almost raced each other to the house.