Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

Mr Nickle’s man said he would see what could be done. What he meant was he would look into Mr Connor’s mode of business. He did.

When next little Joe met Rory all he could say was, ‘I’ve got you set-in for a game in a place in Ocean Road, just near the Workhouse.’

‘Do you think you’ll make it the night, Rory?’ Jimmy asked under his breath as he stood near the door watching Rory pull on his overcoat.

‘I’ll have a damned good try, I can’t say better. It’s a new place; I’ll have to see how the land lies, won’t I?’

‘You’ll find yourself lying under the land if you’re not careful.’

Rory turned his dark gaze on to Lizzie where she sat at one side of a long mat frame jabbing a steel progger into the stretched hessian. He watched her thrust in a clipping of rag, pull it tightly down from underneath with her left hand, then jab the progger in again before he said, ‘You’d put the kibosh on God, you would.’

Ruth looked up from where she was sitting at the other side of the frame. In the lamplight her face appeared delicate and sad, and she shook her head at him, it was a gentle movement, before she said, ‘Just take care of yourself that’s all.’

‘I’ve always had to, haven’t I?’

‘Aw, there speaks the big fellow who brought himself up. Suckled yourself from your own breast you did.’

Rory now grabbed his hard hat which Jimmy was holding towards him, then wrenching open the door, he went out.

It was a fine night. The air was sharp, the black sky was high and star-filled. He could even make out the gate because of their brightness, and also with the help of the light from the Learys’ window. They never drew their blinds, the Learys.

He picked his way carefully down the narrow lane so that he shouldn’t splash his boots. He had also taken the precaution of bringing a piece of rag with him in order to wipe them before he should enter this new place because the houses in King Street and down Ocean Road were mostly decent places.

The rage that Lizzie always managed to evoke in him had subsided by the time he reached Leam Lane and entered the docks. And he decided that if there was a cab about he’d take a lift. But then it wasn’t very likely there’d be one around the docks, unless it was an empty one coming back from some place.

He didn’t find a cab, so he had to walk all the way down to Ocean Road, a good couple of miles.

Although the streets were full of people and the roads still packed with traffic, but mostly flat carts, drays and barrows now, he kept to the main thoroughfare because the bairns seemed to go mad on a Saturday night up the side streets, and in some parts lower down in the town one of their Saturday night games was to see which of them could knock your hat off with a handful of clarts. The devil’s own imps some of them were. Once he would have laughed at their antics, but not since the time he’d had a dead kitten slapped across his face.

The market place was like a beehive; the stalls illuminated with naphtha flares held every description of food, household goods, and clothing; the latter mostly second, third and fourth hand. The smells were mixed and pungent, and mostly strong, especially those emanating from the fish and meat stalls.

In King Street the gas lamps were ablaze. People stood under them in groups, while others gazed into the shop windows. Saturday night was a popular night for window-gazing and there was no hurry to buy even if you wanted to; the supplies never ran out and most of the shops were open until ten o’clock, some later.

He stopped within a few yards of his destination. He had come down here last night to make sure of the number. It was a corner house, not all that prosperous looking but not seedy. He stooped and rubbed his boots vigorously with the rag, then threw it into the gutter, after which he straightened his coat, tilted his hard hat slightly to the side, pulled at the false starched cuffs that were pinned to the ends of his blue-striped flannelette shirt sleeves, then, following little Joe’s directions, he went round the corner, down some area steps, and knocked on the door.

He was surprised when it was opened by a maid, a maid of all work by the look of her, but nevertheless a maid.

‘Aye?’ She peered up at him in the fluttering light from a naked gas jet attached to a bracket sticking out from the wall opposite the door, and in answer he said what Joe had told him to say. ‘Me name’s Connor. Little Joe sent me.’

‘Oh aye. Come in.’

He followed her into a room which by its appearance was a kitchen and, after closing the door, she said, ‘Stay a minute’; then left him. A few minutes later she returned, accompanied by a man. He was a middle-aged half-caste, an Arab one, he surmised. It was his hair and his nostrils which indicated his origin. He looked Rory up and down, then said in a thick Geordie accent that was at variance with his appearance, ‘Little Joe said you wanted a set-in. That right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’ve got the ready?’

‘Enough.’

‘Show us.’

Rory stared back into the dull eyes; then slowly he lifted up the tail of his coat, put his hand in his inside pocket and brought out a handful of coins, among which were a number of sovereigns and half- sovereigns. Without speaking he thrust his hand almost into the other man’s chest.

The man looked down on it, nodded and said briefly ‘Aye.’ Then turning about, he said, ‘Come on.’

As they passed from the kitchen into the narrow passage the man said over his shoulder, ‘You’ll be expected to stand your turn with the cans. Little Joe tell you?’

Little Joe hadn’t told him but he said, ‘I’ll stand me turn.’

The man now led the way into another room, and Rory saw at once that it was used as a storage place for some commodity that was packed in wooden boxes. A number of such were arrayed along one wall. The only window in the place was boarded up. There was an old-fashioned stove at one side of the room packed high with blazing coals, and the room was lit by two bracket gas lamps. There were six men in the room besides Rory’s companion and himself: four of them were in a game at the table, the other two were looking on. The players didn’t look up but the two spectators turned towards Rory and the half-caste with a jerk of his head said, ‘This’s who I was tellin’ you about. Connor—’ he turned to Rory—’What’s your first name?’

‘Rory.’

‘What!’

‘Ror-ry.’

‘Funny name. Haven’t heard that afore.’

The two spectators at the table nodded towards Rory and he nodded back at them. Then the man with arm outstretched named the players one after the other for Rory’s benefit.

Rory didn’t take much heed to the names until the word Pittie was repeated twice. Dan Pittie and Sam Pittie. The two brothers almost simultaneously glanced up at him, nodded, then turned their attention to the game again.

Rory, standing awkwardly to the side of the fireplace, looked from one to the other of the men, then brought his attention back to the two Pitties. They looked like twins. They were bullet-headed men, heavy-shouldered but short. These must be the fellows, together with a third one, whom Jimmy said had started the keel business from nothing. They looked a tough pair, different from their partners at the table, who didn’t look river-front types; the elder of the two could have been Mr Kean; he wasn’t unlike him, and was dressed in much the same fashion.

Well, he had certainly moved up one from Corstorphine Town, because, for a start, they were playing Twenty-Ones, but as yet he didn’t know whether he liked the promotion or not; he certainly didn’t like the half-caste. But he wasn’t here to like or dislike any of them, he was here to double the money in his pocket and then see that he got safely outside with it. On the last thought he looked from the half-caste to the Pittie brothers again and thought it would take him to keep his wits about him. Aye . . . aye, it would that.