Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

‘I’m as God made me, we can’t help being what we are.’

‘You can help being a bloody fool, you’re not a bairn.’

‘Well, what do you expect me to do, leave her?’

‘You needn’t shout unless you want the whole street to know.’

They walked on in silence until simultaneously they both stopped at the place where their roads divided.

‘See you Monday then.’ Rory’s tone was kindly now and John George, looking at him, said, ‘Aye, see you Monday. And thanks Rory. I’ll pay you back, I promise I’ll pay you back.’

‘I’m not afraid of that, you always have.’

‘Aw . . . I wish, I wish I was like you, Rory. You’re right, I’m too soft to clag holes with, no gumption. I can never say no.’

It was on the tip of Rory’s tongue to come back with the retort, ‘And neither can your lass apparently.’ Janie had said no, and she’d kept both feet on the ground when she said it an’ all. But what he said and generously was, ‘People like you for what you are. You’re a good bloke.’ He made a small movement with his fist. ‘I’ll tell you something. You’re better liked than me, especially up in our house. It’s John George this, an’ John George that.’

‘Aw, go on, man, stop pulling me leg. But it’s nice of you to say it nevertheless, and as I said—’ he patted his pocket—I won’t forget this.’

‘That’s all right, man. So long, and good luck.’

‘So long . . . so long, Rory. And thanks. Thanks again.’

They went their ways, neither dreaming he would never see the other again.

When Rory went into the cellar that same evening he had eight pounds in his pocket.

The Pittie brothers were already at the table, but the two men partnering them were unknown to Rory until he realized that one of them was the third Pittie brother. He was a man almost a head taller than the other two. His nose was flattened and looked boneless. This was the one who was good with his fists, so he had heard, but by the look of him he wasn’t all that good for his face looked like a battered pluck. The fourth man looked not much bigger than little Joe and he had a foxy look, but he was well put on. His suit, made of some kind of tweed, looked quite fancy, as did his pearl-buttoned waistcoat. During the course of conversation later in the evening he discovered that he was from across the water in North Shields and was manager of a blacking factory.

Rory kicked his heels for almost an hour before he got set-in at the table, for after the game they spent quite some time drinking beer and eating meat sandwiches. Although he always stood his share in buying the beer he drank little of it and tonight less than usual, for he wanted to keep his wits about him. Some part of him was worried at the presence of the third Pittie brother, it was creating a small niggling fear at the back of his mind.

The big Pittie was dealer. He shuffled the cards in a slow ponderous way until Rory wanted to say, ‘Get on with it’; then of a sudden he spoke. ‘You aimin’ to buy old Kilpatrick’s yard I hear?’

Rory was startled, and he must have shown it for the big fellow jerked his chin upwards as he said, ‘Oh, you can’t keep nowt secret on the waterfront; there’s more than scum comes in on the tide . . . Your young ’un works at Baker’s, don’t he?’

‘Aye. Yes, he works at Baker’s.’

‘What does he expect to do at Kilpatrick’s, build a bloody battleship?’

The three brothers now let out a combined bellow and the thin man in the fancy waistcoat laughed with them, although it was evident he didn’t know what all this was about.

Rory’s lower jaw moved from one side to the other before he said, ‘He’s going to build scullers and small keel-like boats.’

‘Keel-like boats. Huh!’ It was the youngest of the Pittie’s speaking now. ‘Where’s he gona put them?’

‘Where they belong, on the river.’

‘By God! he’ll be lucky, you can hardly get a plank atween the boats now. And what’s he gona do with the keel-like boats when he gets them on the water, eh?’

‘Same as you, work them, or sell them.’

As the three pairs of eyes became fixed on him he told himself to go steady, these fellows meant business, they weren’t here the night only for the game. He kept his gaze steady on them as he said, ‘Well now, since you know what I have in mind, are we going to play?’

The big fellow returned to his shuffling. Then he dealt. When Rory picked up his cards he thought, Bad start, good finish.

And so it would seem. He lost the first game, won the next two, lost the next one, then won three in a row. By one o’clock in the morning he had a small pile of sovereigns and a larger pile of silver to his hand. Between then and two o’clock the pile went down a little before starting again to increase steadily.

At the end of a game when the man in the fancy waistcoat had no money in front of him he said he must be going. He had, he said, lost enough for one night and what was more he’d have to find somebody to scull him across the river. And at this time of the morning whoever he found would certainly make him stump up, and what he had left, he thought, was just about enough to carry him over.

When Rory, too, also voiced that he must be on his way there were loud, even angry cries from the table.

‘Aw, no, no, lad,’ said the big fellow. ‘Fair’s fair. You’ve taken all our bloody money so give us a chance to get a bit of it back, eh? We’ve to get across the river an’ all.’ There was laughter at this, but it was without mirth.

And so another game started, and long before it finished the uneasy sickly feeling in the pit of Rory’s stomach had grown into what he hated to admit was actual fear.

Another hour passed and it was towards the end of a game when things were once again going in Rory’s favour that the youngest Pittie brother began speaking of Jimmy as if he were continuing the conversation that had centred around him earlier in the play.

‘Your young ’un’s bandy,’ he said. ‘Bandy Connor they call him along the front . . . Saw him from the boat t’other day. Drive a horse and cart through his legs you could.’ He now punched his brother in the side of the chest and the brother guffawed: ‘Aye, his mother must have had him astride a donkey.’

Any reference to the shape of Jimmy’s legs had always maddened Rory; he had fought more fights on Jimmy’s account than he had on his own. But now, although there was a rage rising in him that for the moment combated his fear, he warned himself to go steady, for they were up to something. They were like three bull terriers out to bait a bull. He was no bull, but they were bull terriers all right.

The stories of their past doings flicked across the surface of his mind and increased his rising apprehension, yet did not subdue his rage, even while the cautionary voice kept saying, ‘Careful, careful, let them get on with it. Get yourself outside, let them get on with it.’

When he made no reply to the taunt, one after another, the three brothers laid down their cards and looked at him, and he at them. Then slowly he placed his cards side by side on the table.

The three Pitties and the half-caste stared at his cards and they did not lift their eyes when his hand went out and drew the money from the centre of the table towards him. Not until he pushed his chair back and got to his feet did one of them speak. It was the youngest brother. ‘You goin’ then?’ he said.

‘Aye.’ Rory moved his head slowly downwards.

‘You’ve had a good night.’

‘You all had the same chance.’

‘I would argue about that.’

‘Would you?’

‘I think you had a trick or two up your sleeve.’

‘What! Then search me if you’ve got a mind.’