Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

‘It’s a severe chill, but he’ll soon be about again. As I told you, you are to take Armstrong’s place and you will naturally receive the same wage as he was getting . . . You don’t look fully recovered yourself, Mr Connor. Are you feeling quite well?’

‘Yes. Yes, miss, I’m quite all right.’

‘I think you had better sit down.’ She pointed with an imperious finger towards a chair, and he looked at her in surprise for a moment before taking the seat and muttering, ‘Thank you.’

‘As I told you, we took on a new man.’

He noticed that she said ‘we’ as if she, too, were running the business.

‘He was the best of those who applied; with so many people out of work in the town you would have thought there would have been a better selection. If it had been for the working-class trades I suppose we would have been swamped.’

He was surprised to know that rent collecting didn’t come under the heading of working-class trade, yet on the other hand he knew that if they had been living in the town, in either Tyne Dock or Shields, he wouldn’t have been able to hob-nob with neighbours such as the Learys or the Waggetts; the distinction between the white collar and the muffler was sharply defined in the towns.

‘My father suggests that you take over the Shields area completely. Mr Taylor can do the Jarrow district, particularly the Saturday morning collection.’ She smiled thinly at him now. ‘As he says, it’s a shame to waste a good man there . . . He has a high opinion of your expertise, Mr Connor.’

Well, this was news to him. Shock upon shock. If things had been different he would have been roaring inside, and later he would have told John George and . . . Like a steel trap a shutter came down on his thinking and he forced himself to say, ‘That’s very nice to know, miss.’

She was still smiling at him, and as he looked at her he thought, as Lizzie had said, God! but she’s plain. It didn’t seem fair somehow that a woman looking like her should have been given all the chances. Education, money, the lot. Now if Janie had been to a fine school, and could have afforded to dress like this one did, well, there would’ve been no one to touch her.

As he stared across the desk at the bowed head and the thin moving hand—she was writing out his district—he commented to himself that everything she had on matched, from her fancy hat that was a dull red colour to the stiff ribboned bow on the neck of her dress. Her green coat was open and showed a woollen dress that took its tone from the hat, but had a row of green buttons down to her waist. He could see the bustle of the dress pushing out the deep pleats of the coat. It took money to dress in colours and style like that. The old man seemingly didn’t keep her short of cash.

When she rose to her feet he stood up, and when she came round the desk she said, ‘I can leave everything in your hands then, Mr Connor?’ She handed him a sheet of paper.

‘Yes, miss.’

‘I’ve got to go now. Mr Taylor should be in at any moment.’ She turned the face of the fob watch that was pinned to the breast of her dress and looked at it. ‘It isn’t quite nine yet, make yourself known to him. And this evening, and until my father is fully recovered, I would like you to bring the takings to the house. You know where it is?’

‘Yes, I know where it is.’

Yes, he knew where it was. He had caught a glimpse of it from the gates. He knew that it had been occupied by Kean’s father and his grandfather, but that’s all he knew about it, for he had never been asked to call there on any pretext. But what he did know was that all the Keans had been men who had made money and that the present one was a bully. More than once, when he had stood in this office and been spoken to like a dog, he’d had the desire to ram his fist into his employer’s podgy face.

‘Good morning then, Mr Connor.’

‘Good morning, miss.’

He went before her and opened the outer door, then stood for a second watching her walking down the alley towards the street. She carried herself as straight as a soldier; her step was more of a march than a walk, and she swung her arms; she didn’t walk at all like women in her position usually did, or should.

He closed the door, then looked around the office and through into the inner room. Then walking slowly into it, he sat in the chair behind the desk, cocked his head to the side and, speaking to an imaginary figure sitting opposite, he said, ‘Now, Mr Taylor, I will assign you to the Jarrow district.’ Oh yes, he would always speak civilly to subordinates because, after all, he was a subordinate himself once, wasn’t he? A mere rent collector. But now. He looked round the office. He was master of all he surveyed.

Huh! This was the time to laugh, if only he had someone to laugh with.

When he heard the outer door open he got quickly to his feet and went round the desk.

He looked at the clean but shabbily dressed figure standing, hat in hand, before him, and he said quietly, ‘You, Mr Taylor?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The old man inclined his head, and Rory, now making a derogatory sound in his throat, said, ‘You needn’t sir me, Mr Taylor, I’m just like yourself, a roundsman. Me name’s Connor. The old man—Mr Kean—is in bed with a cold. His daughter’s just been along. She says you’re to take my district.’

‘Anything you say, Mr Connor. Anything you say.’

God! had he sounded as servile as this when he was confronted by Kean? There should be a law of some kind against bringing men to their knees.

As he stared at the old man it came to him that everything in his life had changed. And it was to go on changing. How, he didn’t know, he only knew that things would never again be as they were.

It was half-past five when he made his way from the office to Birchingham House in Westoe, and it was raining, a fine chilling soaking rain.

The house was not in what was usually called the village, nor did it stand among those that had sprung up to run parallel with that part of Shields that lay along the river, nor was it one of a small number that remained aloof in their vast grounds. But it was of that section the social standing of which was determined by its size, the number of servants it supported, and whether its owner hired or owned his carriages.

And Birchingham House had another distinction. Although it stood in only two acres of ground it was situated on the side road that led off the main road to Harton and to two substantial estates, one belonging to a mine owner, the other to a gentleman who was known to own at least six iron ships that plied their trade from the Tyne.

The histories of the houses of the notabilities of the town were known to the nobodies of the town; and the notabilities themselves formed a topic of gossip, not only in the bars that lined the river-front, but also in the superior clubs and societies that flourished in the town.

But the situation of his master’s house or of his master himself had not up till this moment impressed Rory with any significance. Kean, to him, had been just a money-grabbing skinflint who owned rows of property, particularly in Jarrow, which should have been pulled down years ago, and streets in Shields that were fast dropping into decay for want of repair. Yet in this respect he admitted Kean was no worse than any of the landlords he represented.

Now, as he neared the house in the dark and saw the front steps leading to it lighted by two bracket lamps, he stopped for a moment and peered at it through the rain. It was big. There were ten windows along the front of it alone. Moreover, it was three- storey. He couldn’t quite make out the top one, only that there was a gleam of glass up there. Likely attics. There was a carriage standing on the drive at the foot of the steps and he paused near it to look up at the driver sitting huddled deep in a cloaked coat. The man hadn’t noticed him; he seemed to be asleep.