A few minutes later Stoddard was opening the carriage door and pulling down the step, and when they alighted he said, ‘Twelve o’clock, sir?’
‘What? Oh. Oh yes; yes, thank you.’
‘Good night, sir.’
‘Good . . . Good night, Stoddard.’ He walked away, Jimmy by his side, but when the carriage had disappeared into the darkness he stopped under a street lamp and, peering down at Jimmy, said, ‘What, in the name of God, am I going to do in a case like this?’
‘I . . . I don’t know, Rory.’
They walked on again, automatically taking the direction towards the river and the boatyard, and they didn’t stop until they had actually entered the yard, and then Rory, standing still, looked up at the lighted window, then down on Jimmy, before turning about and walking towards the end of the jetty. And there he gripped the rail and leant over it and stared down into the dark, murky water.
Jimmy approached him slowly and stood by his side for a moment before saying, ‘You’ve got to get it over, man.’
Rory now pressed a finger and thumb on his eyeballs as if trying to blot out the nightmare. His whole being was in a state of panic. He knew he should be rushing up those steps back there, bursting open the door and crying, ‘Janie! Janie!’ but all he wanted to do was to turn and run back through the town and into Westoe and up that private road into his house, his house, and cry, ‘Charlotte! Charlotte!’
‘Come on, man.’
At the touch of Jimmy’s hand he turned about and went across the yard and up the steps. Jimmy had been behind him, but it was he who had to come to the fore and opened the door. Then Rory stepped into the room.
The woman was standing by the table. The lamplight was full on her. She was no more like the Janie he remembered than he himself was like Jimmy there. His heart leapt at the thought that it was a trick. Somebody imagined they were on to something and were codding him. They had heard he was in the money. He cast a quick glance in Jimmy’s direction as if to say, How could you be taken in? before moving slowly up the room towards the woman. When he was within a yard of her he stopped and the hope that had risen in him flowed away like liquid from a broken cask for they were Janie’s eyes he was looking into. They were the only recognizable things about her, her eyes. As Jimmy had said, her skin was like that of an Arab and her hair was the colour of driven snow, and curly, close-cropped, curly.
Janie, in her turn, was looking at him in much the same way, for he was no more the Rory that she had known than she was the Janie he had known. Before her stood a well-dressed gentleman, better dressed in fact than she had ever seen the master, for this man was stylish with it; even his face was different, even his skin was different, smooth, clean-shaven, showing no blue trace of stubble about his chin and cheeks and upper lip.
Her heart hardened further at the sight of him and at the fact that he didn’t put out a hand to touch her.
‘Janie.’
Aye, it’s me. And you’re over the moon to . . . to see me.’ There was a break in the last words.
‘I thought . . . we all thought . . .’
‘Aye, I know what you thought, but . . . but it isn’t all that long, it isn’t two years. You couldn’t wait, could you? But then you’re a gamblin’ man, you couldn’t miss a chance not even on a long shot.’
He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand, muttering now, ‘What can I say?’
‘I don’t know, but knowin’ you, you’ll have some excuse. Anyway, it’s paid off, hasn’t it? You always said you’d play your cards right one day.’ She turned her back on him and walked to the end of the table and sat down.
He now drew his hand down over his face, stretching the skin, and he looked at her sitting staring at him accusingly. Jimmy had said she had changed, and she had, and in all ways. She looked like some peasant woman who had lived in the wilds all her life. The dark skirt she was wearing was similar to that worn by the fishwives, only it looked as if she had never stepped out of it for years. Her blouse was of a coarse striped material and on her feet she had clogs. Why, she had never worn clogs even when she was a child and things were pretty tight. Her boots then, like his own, had been cobbled until they were nothing but patches, but she had never worn clogs.
Aw, poor Janie . . . Poor all of them . . . Poor Charlotte. Oh my God! Charlotte.
‘I’m sorry I came back.’ Her voice was high now. ‘I’ve upset your nice little life, haven’t I? But I am back, and alive, so what you going to do about it? You’ll have to tell her, won’t you? Your Miss Kean . . . My God! You marryin’ her of all people! Her! But then you’d do anything to make money, wouldn’t you?’
‘I didn’t marry her for . . .’ The words sprang out of his mouth of their own volition and he clenched his teeth and bowed his head, while he was aware that she had risen to her feet again.
Now she was nodding at him, her head swinging like that of a golliwog up and down, up and down, before she said, ‘Well, well! This is something to know. You didn’t marry her for her money. Huh! You’re tellin’ me you didn’t marry her for her money. So you married her because you wanted her? You wanted her, that lanky string of water, her that you used to make fun of?’
‘Shut up! My God! it’s as Jimmy said, you’re different, you’re changed. And yet not all that. No, not all that. Looking back, you had a hard streak in you; I sensed it years ago. And aye, it’s true what I said, I . . . I didn’t marry her for her money, but it’s also true that I didn’t marry her ’cos . . . ’cos I was in love with her.’ He swallowed deeply and turned his head to the side and, his voice a mutter now, he said, ‘She was lonely. I was lonely. That’s . . . that’s how it was.’
‘And how is it now?’
He couldn’t answer because it was wonderful now, or at least it had been.
‘You can’t say, can you? My God, it’s a pity I didn’t die. Aye, that’s what you’re thinkin’, isn’t it? Eeh! I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.’ She was holding her head in her hands now, her body rocking. Then of a sudden she stopped and glared at him as she said, ‘Well, she’ll have to be told, won’t she? She’ll have to be told that you can have only one wife.’
As he stared back at her he was repeating her words, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ for he couldn’t believe what he was recognizing at this moment, that it could be possible for a man to change in such a short time as two years and look at a woman he had once loved and say to himself, ‘Yes, only one wife, and it’s not going to be you, not if I can help it’—What was he thinking? What was he thinking?
He was trapped. Standing before him was his wife, his legal wife, and he’d have to tell Charlotte that his wife had come back and that she herself had no claim to him and the child in her couldn’t take his name. He couldn’t do it. What was more, he wouldn’t do it. He heard his voice saying now, clearly and firmly, ‘I can’t tell her.’
‘You what!’
‘I said I can’t tell her, she’s going to have a ch . . . bairn.’ He had almost said child, so much had even his vocabulary changed.
There was complete silence in the room, until Jimmy moved. He had been standing at the side of the fireplace and now his foot jerked and he kicked the brass fender, which caused them both to look towards him. And then she said, ‘Well, it’s going to be hard on her, isn’t it, bringing up a bairn without a father? But then, her way will be smoothed, money’s a great compensation. Oh yes, money’s a great compensation. You can make things happen when you’ve got money. I had four sovereigns. The mistress give them to me to buy presents for you all to bring home. I put them in me little bag, an’ you know me an’ me little bag. Whenever I changed I used to pin it under me skirt, and when they found me there was me little bag still pinned under me skirt. But I didn’t know anything about it until I got me memory back. Madame, the old woman I lived with, had taken it, but when I came to meself and wanted to come home and didn’t know how, the son put the bag into me hand. He was very hones
t, the son, and so I travelled in luxury all the way here. First, in the bottom of a cart with pigs; then for miles on foot, sleeping on the floors of mucky inns; then the boat; and lastly, the back end of the train, like a cattle-truck; and—’ and now she screamed at him—‘you’re no more sorry for me than you would be for a mangy dog lying in the gutter. The only thing you’re worried about is that I’ve come back and your grand life is to be brought to an end. Well, if you don’t tell her, I will; I’m not gona be pushed aside, I’m gona have me place.’
‘Janie. Janie.’ His voice was soft, pleading, and she stopped her ranting and stared at him, her face quivering but her eyes still dry. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll do what I think is right. In . . . in the end I’ll do what I think is right. But give me a little time, will you? A few days, time to sort things out, to . . . to get used to—’ He gulped in his throat. ‘You can have what money you want . . .’
‘I don’t want your money. Anyway, ’tisn’t your money, you’ve never worked for it, it’s her money.’
‘I do work for it, begod! and hard at that.’ His voice was loud now, harsh. ‘I work harder now than ever I’ve done in me life. And now I’m goin’ to tell you something, an’ it’s this. Don’t push me; don’t drive me too far. This . . . this has come as a surprise. Try to understand that, but remember I’m still Rory Connor and I won’t be pushed.’ He paused for a moment, then ended, ‘I’ll . . . I’ll be back the morrow night,’ and on this he swung round on his heel and went out.
Jimmy, casting a look at Janie, where she was standing now, her hands hanging limply by her side and her mouth open, turned and followed him. In the yard he saw the dim outline of Rory standing where he himself had stood earlier in the evening against the stanchion post, and he went up to him and put his hand on his arm, and held it for a moment before saying, ‘I’m sorry, Rory. I’m sorry to the heart of me, but . . . but you can’t blame her.’
‘What am I going to do, Jimmy?’ The question came out as a groan.
‘I don’t know, Rory. Honest to God, I don’t know. Charlotte ’ll be in a state. I’m sorry, I mean I’m sorry for Charlotte.’
‘I . . . I can’t leave her, I can’t leave Charlotte. There’s her condition and . . . Oh dear God! what am I goin’ to do? Look, Jimmy.’ He bent down to him. ‘Persuade her to stay here out of the way, don’t let her go up home. Look, give her this.’ He thrust his hand into an inner pocket and, pulling out a chamois leather bag, emptied a number of sovereigns on to Jimmy’s palm. ‘Make her get some decent clothes; she looks like something that’s just been dug up. I could never imagine her letting herself go like that, could you?’
‘No. No, Rory. I told you, she’s . . . she’s changed. She must have gone through it. You’ll have to remember that, she must have gone through it.’
‘Aye, and now she’s going to make us all go through it.’
As he moved across the yard Jimmy went with him, saying, ‘Where you makin’ for? Where were you going’?’
‘To a game.’
‘Game? Does Charlotte know?’
Rory stopped again and said quietly, ‘Aye, Charlotte knows and she doesn’t mind. As long as I’m happy, doing something that makes me happy, she doesn’t mind; all she minds is that she’ll ever lose me. Funny, isn’t it?’
They peered at each other through the darkness. ‘Where you goin’ now, back home?’
‘No, no, I’ll . . . I’ll have to go on to the game. They’re expecting me, and if I didn’t turn up something would be said. Anyway, I’ve got to think. I’m . . . I’m nearly out of me mind.’
Jimmy made no reply to this and Rory, touching him on the shoulder by way of farewell, went up the yard and out of the gate.
He did not go straight to Plynlimmon Way but walked for a good half-hour, and when at last he arrived at the house Frank Nickle greeted him with, ‘Well, Connor, we thought you weren’t coming, we’ve been waiting some—’ he drew from the pocket of his spotted grey waistcoat a gold lever watch attached to a chain across his chest—‘three quarters of an hour.’
‘I . . . I was held up.’
‘Are you all right? Are you unwell?’
‘Just . . . just a bit off colour.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’
‘No trouble.’
‘Then let us begin.’
Nickle’s tone was peremptory, it was putting him back into the servant class as far as he dared allow it. That the man hated him he was well aware, for he knew he was cornered, and had done since the night he came to dinner. But he also knew that he’d have to be careful of him in all ways. However, at this moment Nickle and his nefarious doings seemed of very minor importance.
They went into what was known as the smoking room. It was part office and part what could be considered a gentleman’s rest room, being furnished mostly with leather chairs, a desk, and a small square table, besides four single chairs.
The two men present were smoking cigars and they greeted Rory cordially, speaking generally, while Frank Nickle lifted a china centrepiece from the square table, laid it aside, then opened the top of the table which was cut in the shape of an envelope, each piece being covered with green baize. This done, they all took their seats around the table and Nickle, producing the cards from a hidden drawer underneath, the game began . . .
Three hours later Rory rose from the table almost twenty pounds poorer. At one time in the evening he had been thirty pounds to the good.
He left before the others, and at the door Frank Nickle, smiling his thin smile, said, ‘You weren’t your usual brilliant self tonight, Connor.’
‘No, I think I’m in for a cold.’
‘That’s a pity. Give my regards to your lady wife.’ The large pallid face now took on a slight sneer. ‘Tell her not to slap her little boy too hard for losing.’
He had the urge to lift his hand and punch the man on the mouth. But wait, he told himself, wait. Give him time, and he would do it, but in another way. He left without further words, went down the pathway through the iron gate and to the road where the carriage was waiting.
Nickle had suggested covertly that it was unwise to come by carriage, servants talked . . . ordinary servants, and to this Rory had replied that Stoddard was no ordinary servant, he was as loyal as Nickle’s own. And anyway, wasn’t he visiting the house for a ‘Gentlemen’s Evening’? They were common enough. How could one discuss the finer points of business if it weren’t for ‘Gentlemen’s Evenings’?
When he arrived home Charlotte was in bed, but she wasn’t asleep, and when, bending over her, he kissed her she pushed him slightly away from her, but holding him by the shoulders, she said, ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh, come, come, Rory, you . . . you looked strained. Something happened at Nickle’s?’
‘No.’ He pulled himself from her. ‘Only that I lost . . . twenty pounds.’
‘Oh!’ She lay back on her pillows. ‘Hurt pride. Twenty pounds, quite a sum. But still I suppose you must let them have their turn. If you won every time they would say you were cheating.’
‘Yes, yes.’ When he went into the adjoining room to undress she called to him anxiously, ‘There’s nothing else wrong, is there? I mean, he didn’t say anything, there wasn’t any unpleasantness?’
‘No, no; he wasn’t more unpleasant than usual. He was born unpleasant.’
‘Yes, yes, indeed.’
In bed he did not love her but he held her very tightly in his arms and muttered into her hair, ‘Oh, Charlotte. Charlotte.’
It was a long time before he went to sleep, but even then she was still awake, although she had pretended to be asleep for some time past. There was something wrong; she could sense it. By now she knew every shade of his mood and expression. Her love for him was so deep that she imagined herself buried inside him.
At four o’clock in the morning she was woken up by his screaming. He was having a nightmare, the first he had had since his marriage.
3
Three days passed before Charlotte tackled him openly and very forcibly. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Something is wrong. Now—’ she closed her eyes and lifted her hand upwards—‘it’s no use you telling me, Rory, that there’s nothing amiss. Please give me credit for being capable of using my eyes and my ears if not my other senses. There is something wrong, and I must know what it is. Rory, I must know what it is.’
When he didn’t answer but turned away and walked down the length of the drawing-room towards the window she said, ‘You’re going out again tonight; you have been out for the last two nights supposedly to see Jimmy. When I was passing that way today I called in . . .’
‘You what!’ He swung round and faced her.
She stared at him over the distance before rising to her feet and saying slowly, ‘I said I called in to see Jimmy. Why should that startle you? I have done that before, but what puzzled me today, and what’s puzzling me now, is that you are both reacting in the same way. I asked him if he was feeling unwell and he said, no. I asked him if there had been any more tampering with the boats, he said, no . . . Rory, come here.’
When he made no move towards her, she went swiftly up the room and, putting her arms about him, she demanded, ‘Look at me. Please, look at me,’ and when he lifted his head, she said, ‘Whatever it is, it cannot be so awful that you can’t tell me. And whatever it is, it’s leaving its mark on you, you look ill. Come.’ She drew him down the room and towards the fire, and when they were seated on the couch she said, softly now, ‘Tell me, Rory, please. Whatever it is, please tell me. You said once you would always speak the truth to me. Nothing must stand between us, Rory. Is it that man, John George? Is he blackmailing you? After all I did for him is he . . . ?’
‘Oh no! No! Oh God, I wish I could say he was, I wish that’s all it was, John George. John George wouldn’t blackmail anybody, not even to save his life. I know that, don’t I? . . . Charlotte—’ he now gathered her hands tightly between his own and held them against his breast—‘I’ve . . . I’ve wanted to say this to you for some time past, but . . . but I didn’t think I could convince you because, to tell you the truth, when . . . when all this first started between you and me, I never thought it would ever be possible, but Charlotte . . . Charlotte, my dear, I . . . I’ve grown to care for you, love you . . .’
The Gambling Man Page 25
