‘There’ll be a hell of a rumpus. As she said, we won’t be able to lift our heads up in the town . . . Should we leave?’
‘No, no, we won’t leave . . . we won’t leave. We married in good faith; she has no children by you, I’m to have your child. We are as it were the victims of circumstance.’
‘They won’t look at it that way. You know as well as I do what they’ll say. He’s on to a good thing, that’s what they’ll say. He’s not going to give all that up and go back to rent collectin’, or some such.’
‘Do you mind very much what they say?’
He thought for a moment before answering, ‘Yes, I do, because . . . because it won’t be true. I’m staying with you now for one reason only, although I can’t say I haven’t got used to all this—’ he spread his arms wide—‘but if I had retained any feeling for her, as it once was, say, this wouldn’t have mattered.’
‘I know that . . . Oh, why had this to happen? We were so happy, so content; there was only one thing missing in my life.’
‘One thing?’
‘Yes, and then you gave it to me earlier this evening . . . You said you loved me.’
‘Oh, Charlotte!’ He put his hand out and caught hers.
‘When do you think she’ll take proceedings?’
‘Tomorrow likely. The mood I left her in, she’ll waste no time. But you know something? In spite of all I know is going to happen, the scandal, the gossip, the papers, the lot: “Woman returns from the dead. Husband, married again, refuses to acknowledge her”—You can see them, can’t you, the headlines?— Well, in spite of it all, the moment I came back, the moment I stepped through the door and saw you sitting there I had the oddest feeling. It was strange, very strange. I can’t remember feeling anything like it before. It was a feeling . . . well, I can’t put a name to it, a sort of joy. No, no—’ he shook his head—I shouldn’t say joy . . . Certainty? No, I really can’t put a name to it, but I knew that everything was going to turn out all right. I thought, in a way it’s a good job it’s happened; well start a new life, you and me and him—or her.’ He placed his hand gently across the mound of her stomach, and she put her two hands on top of his and as she pressed them downwards she looked into his face and said, ‘I love you, I adore you. Blasphemy that, isn’t it? But to me you are my God.’
He now dropped on to his knees and, burying his face in her lap, murmured, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte, I’ll want no other but you ever, believe me . . .’
When there came the tap on the drawing-room door he turned round hastily and knelt before the fire and busied himself attending to it as Charlotte called, ‘Come in.’
Jessie closed the door softly behind her, came up the room, and, standing at the edge of the couch, she said, ‘There’s . . . there’s a man at the door, sir. He . . . he says he would like to speak to you.’
‘A man?’ Rory got to his feet thinking, My God she hasn’t lost much time. Did he give you his name?’
‘No, sir. He just said it was important, and . . . and he must speak with you. He’s a little man, very little, sir.’
A little man, very little. Who did he know who was very little? Only little Joe.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I’ve . . . I’ve left him in the lobby, sir. He’s . . . he’s a workman type.’
He looked down towards Charlotte. Then went swiftly past Jessie.
When he opened the hall door and looked into the lobby he was looking down on to little Joe.
‘Evenin’, Mr Connor.’
‘Hello, Joe. What’s brought you here?’ His voice was stiff.
‘Mr Connor, I’d . . . I’d like a word with you.’
‘I don’t need to be set-on any longer, Joe, you should know that.’ His tone held a slight bitterness.
‘Tisn’t about that, Mr Connor. I . . . I think you’d better hear me, and in private like; it’s . . . it’s important, very, I should say.’
Rory hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Come away in.’ He opened the door and let the little fellow pass him. He watched him as his eyes darted around the hall. Then he led the way to the office. Once there, he seated himself behind the desk and, motioning to a chair, said, ‘Sit yourself down,’ and when Joe was seated he said, ‘Well, let’s have it.’
‘I thought you should know, Mr Connor, but . . . but afore I tell you anythin’ I want you to believe that I wasn’t in on the other business when they done you over. They’re a dirty crew an’ they’ve got me where they want me, the Pitties an’ him—Nickle. But . . . but there’s some things I don’t stand for, and if they knew I was here the night me life wouldn’t be worth tuppence. But . . . but I thought you should know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Well.’ Joe stretched his feet downwards until his toes touched the carpet; then he leant forward towards the desk and, gripping it, he said under his breath, ‘They’re up to something. I just got wind of it a while ago. They’re gona get at you through your brother. I’ve . . . I’ve seen him. He’s not much bigger than me, and he’s got his own handicap, and . . . and I didn’t think it was fair ’cos of that, so I thought I’d come and tell you, ’cos you always played straight by me, never mean like some of them. And . . . and after that business when you didn’t drag me into it, and you could ’ave, oh aye, you could ’ave, I thought to meself, if ever . . .’
‘Get on with it, Joe. What are they up to?’ Joe now brought his hands from the table and, joining them together, he pressed them between his knees before he announced, ‘They’re gona burn you out.’
‘Burn me out? Here?’
‘Oh no, not here; they wouldn’t dare come up this way. No, the boatyard and the boathouse. Steve Mackin let it drop. They’d been to him for paraffin.’
‘What!’ Rory was on his feet and around the desk. ‘When?’
‘Oh, late on’s afternoon. I . . . I was payin’ him a bet and he said, “Poor little bastard.” ’ Joe now looked from one side to the other as if to apologize to someone for his language, then went on, ‘I said, “Who?’’ and he said, “Connor. Little bandy Connor. But what can you do against those three buggers?”
Rory was going towards the door now. ‘What time was this?’
‘Oh, an hour gone or more. I took a stroll by that way ’cos I thought if I saw him, I mean your brother, I would tip him off to keep clear like, but I saw big Pittie standing at the corner. He was talking to a fellow, just idling like, standing chattin’. But he doesn’t live down that end, and so I thought it wasn’t fair, Mr Connor, an’ so I came . . .’
They were in the hall now and the drawing-room door was opening.
‘What is it?’
‘I. . . I’ve got to go down to the boatyard. Nothing, nothing.’
Charlotte came up to him as he was taking his coat from the hall wardrobe and again she asked, ‘What is it?’ then added, ‘Oh, what is it now, Rory?’
‘Nothing.’ He turned to her, a faint smile on his face. This chap here, well—’ he thumbed towards Joe—‘he’s been kind enough to come and give me a warning. The Pitties mean business; I think they’re going to loosen the boats.’
‘Don’t go.’ Her voice was stiff now. ‘Don’t go, please. Let us go straight to the station; the police will deal with it.’
‘Now, now.’ He put his hands on her shoulder and turned her about, then led her towards and into the drawing-room. Once inside he closed the door, then whispered to her, ‘Now look, it’s nothing. All right, all right—’ he silenced her—‘I’ll get the police. I promise I’ll get the police.’
‘It’s dark; anything could happen; it’s dark.’
‘Look, nothing’s going to happen. Richardson’ll be there with him. He’s a tough fellow is Richardson. Now look, I’ve got to go. You stay where you are.’
‘No, let me come with you. Please let me . . .’
‘No. No. Now don’t you dare move out of here.’ He opened the door and called, ‘Jessie!’ and when the maid appeared he said, ‘Se
e that your mistress doesn’t leave the house until I get back. Now, that’s an order.’
The girl looked from one to the other, then said, ‘Yes, sir. Yes, sir.’
He turned again to Charlotte and, putting his hand out, he cupped her chin and squeezed it before hurrying towards the door, where little Joe was standing.
The little fellow cast a glance back towards Charlotte, touched his forelock and said, ‘Evenin’, ma’am,’ and she replied, ‘Good evening.’ Then he sidled out quickly after Rory.
They hadn’t reached the bottom of the steps before Charlotte’s voice came after them, crying, ‘Wait for the carriage!’
‘I don’t need the carriage. Go back inside. Do what you’re told.’ His voice trailed away as he hurried down the drive.
Once in the lane, he began to run and little Joe kept up with him, but by the time they had reached Westoe village the little fellow was lagging far behind.
Fire. It only needed a can of oil and a match and the whole place would go up like dried hay lit by lightning, and they mightn’t be able to get out in time. If Jimmy was up in the loft he could be choked with smoke. There were so many books and papers up there, and all that wood, oiled wood inside and out, and the tarred beams underneath in the covered slipway . . . He’d kill those Pitties; one or all of them he’d kill them. It had to come sooner or later; it was either them or him. If they hurt Jimmy . . . And she was there an’ all, Janie. To come back from the dead and then be burned alive. And that’s what could happen, if they’d both gone to bed. Those buggers! They were murderers, maniacs.
He was racing down the bank towards the market. Dark-clothed figures stopped and looked after him, then looked ahead to see if he was being chased.
It was as he turned into the Cut that he smelt the smoke, and then he looked up and saw the reflection of the flames. Like a wild horse he tore down to the waterfront and along it. But he was too late. He knew before he reached the crowd that he was too late.
The place was alive with people. He pushed and thrust and yelled to try to get through them. But they were packed tight and all staring upwards towards the flaming mass inside the railings.
Dashing back, he climbed the stout sleepers that he’d had put up to encase the spare land they had bought only a few months earlier. When he dropped on to the other side he saw men dragging a hawser from a river boat, and he ran, scrambling and falling over the debris, yelling, ‘Jimmy! Jimmy!’
He grabbed hold of a man’s arm. ‘Are they out?’
‘Who, mate?’
‘Me . . . me brother.’ He was looking wildly around him. ‘And . . . and Janie.’
‘There’s nobody in there, man. Anyway, look at it, nothin’ could live long in that, they’d be choked with the smoke afore now.’
‘ Jimmy! Jimmy!’
He was hanging over the rail yelling down into the wherries when a woman appeared. She swung round the end post from the passage and he stared into her face, made pink now by the reflection from the fire. ‘Janie!’ He gripped her arms. ‘Where’s . . . where’s Jimmy?’
‘Jimmy? I . . . I left him. I left him here, I’ve been up home.’
‘Oh my God!’
He turned now towards the house and gazed upwards. It looked like a huge torch. Flames were coming out of the two bottom windows but only smoke out of the upper one. As he stared there came the sound of breaking glass. It could have been caused by the heat but instinctively he swung round to Janie, and there flashed between them a knowing glance. Then she put her hand over her mouth as she cried, ‘God Almighty, Jimmy!’
He raced towards the steps, but as he attempted to mount them the heat beat him back. To the side of him two men were playing a hose that spurted intermittent water into one of the bottom windows. His hand was gripping the stanchion of the balustrade over which a sack was lying; it was the hessian hood that Jimmy wore when working in the rain. Tearing it from the railing he dashed towards the men and pulling the hose downwards he saturated the sack; then, throwing it over his head, he went up the steps again, and into the house.
Everything that was wood inside was alight. The floor felt like slippery wet mush beneath his feet. Blindly he flew over it and to the ladder. One side of it was already burning but he was up it in a second and had thrust the trap-door open.
The room was full of smoke, but through it he saw the glow of the burning bookcase at the far end. Coughing and choking he dropped flat on the floor and pulled himself towards the window, and there his groping hands touched the limp body, and it wasn’t until he went to drag it towards the trap door that he realized that both Jimmy’s hands and feet were bound. There was no time to unloosen them. So gripping him under the armpits, he pulled him backwards towards the trap-door, but there he had to pause and stuff the wet hessian into his mouth and squeeze the water down his throat to stop himself from choking.
To descend the ladder he had to get on to his knees, then hoist Jimmy’s slight body on to his shoulder. By now he wasn’t really conscious of his actions, one followed the other in automatic frenzy. Even the agony of gripping the burning rungs didn’t penetrate his mind.
The room now was one inferno of hissing flame and smoke; his coat was alight, as was Jimmy’s guernsey. Half-way along the room he felt the floor giving way, and as his feet sank he threw himself and his burden in the direction where he thought the door was. His lungs were bursting, his whole body seemed to be burning as furiously as the room.
One hand groping blindly, he felt for the opening, and found it. The steps were below. He let Jimmy slide to the ground. He was choking. He was choking. Dimly he was aware of yells and screams and at the same time he felt the whole building shudder. That was all he remembered.
He was alive when they raised the burning beam from him, then beat the fire out of his clothes.
When they carried him to where Jimmy was lying covered with coats, Janie stumbled by his side, and when she went to take his blackened hand, his skin came away on her palm.
As if totally unconscious of the turmoil in the yard she knelt between the two men with whom she had been brought up, and she groaned aloud.
Someone went to raise her up but she pushed the hands aside. The voices were floating over her: ‘We must get him to the hospital. Get a stretcher, a door, anything.’ Then there followed a period of time before a voice said, Here, Mrs Connor. He’s here, Mrs Connor,’ and she lifted her head to see a tall figure dropping on to her knees at the other side of the man who was her husband. She stared at the woman who was putting her arm under Rory’s shoulders and crying to him, such words, endearing words that she had never heard said aloud before. ‘Oh my darling, my darling, dearest, dearest. Oh Rory, Rory, my love, my love.’ Such private words all mixed up with moans.
Janie felt herself lifted aside, almost pushed aside by a policeman. He was directing the lifting of Jimmy on to a stretcher. When they went to take up Rory they had to loosen the woman’s hands from him, and she heard the voices again saying, ‘We must get him to hospital.’ And now the woman’s voice, ‘No, no, he must go home. Both of them, they must come home. I . . . I have the carriage.’
‘They’ll never get in a carriage, ma’am.’ It was a policeman speaking.
‘A cart then, a cart, anything. They must come home.’
There were more voices, more confusion, then a discussion between three uniformed men.
When they carried the two still forms out of the yard Janie followed them. They crossed the waste land to avoid the fire which was now merely a mass of blazing wood to where, on the road stood a flat coal cart that had been commandeered. She watched them putting the two stretchers on to it, and as it moved away she saw the woman walk closely by its side. Then the driver got down from a carriage that was standing by the kerb in the road and ran to her. She watched her shake her head at him, and he went back and mounted the carriage and drove it behind the cart. And Janie followed the carriage.
Even when it turned into the drive and up to
wards the house she followed it. She stopped only when it moved away to the side, past the cart and towards the stables. She watched the men who had accompanied the cart lifting the stretchers off it. She watched the servants running up and down the steps. Then everyone disappeared into the house, and for a few minutes she was standing alone looking at the lighted windows, until the coachman came racing down the steps, rushed into the yard, turned the carriage and put the horses into a gallop and went past her.
Then again she was alone for a time and she stood staring unblinking at the house. She did not move when the carter and three other men came down the steps and mounted the cart and rode away.
She did not know how long she stood there before she saw the carriage return and the doctor, carrying his leather bag, get out and hurry into the house, but she imagined that it was near on two hours before he came out of the house again.
As he went to get into the carriage she seemed to come out of a trance and, stumbling towards him, asked, ‘Please, please. How is he? How are they?’
The doctor looked her up and down, her odd hat, her cloak, her clogs. She looked like a field peasant from the last century, and not a peasant of this country either. He peered at her for a moment before he answered, ‘The young man will survive but Mr Connor is very ill, seriously so.’ He made an abrupt movement with his head, then stepped up into the carriage, and the driver, after giving her a hard stare, mounted the box, turned the carriage and was about to drive away when a servant came running down the steps, calling, ‘Will! Will!’ When the coachman pulled the horses up, the servant, gripping the side handle, looked up at him and said quickly, ‘The mistress, she says, you’re to go straight on after dropping the doctor and . . . and bring the master’s people. You know where.’
‘Aye. Aye.’ The coachman nodded and cracked his whip and the horses once again sped down the drive.
The servant now looked at the woman standing to the side of the balustrade. ‘Do you want something?’ she asked.
Janie shook her head.
The Gambling Man Page 27
