Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

Later in the night when the light was out and he was asleep she lay still in his arms but wide awake. It hadn’t been like she had expected, not in any way. Perhaps she wasn’t goin’ to like that kind of thing after all. Her grannie said some didn’t, while others couldn’t get enough. Well she’d never be one of those, she was sure of that already. Perhaps it was spoiled for her when he threw her against the wall because she had mentioned John George.

It was most strange how he reacted now whenever John George’s name was mentioned. She could understand him not wanting to go to the prison, him having this feeling about being shut in, but she couldn’t work out in her own mind why he never spoke of John George. And when the name was mentioned by anybody else he would remain silent. But to act like he had done the night just because . . . Well, she was flabbergasted.

Her grannie, as part of the advice she had given her on marriage last Sunday, had said, ‘If he wants any funny business, out of the ordinary like, and some of them do, you never know till the door’s closed on you, you have none of it. An’ if he raises his hand to you, go for the poker. Always leave it handy. Start the way you mean to go on ’cos with the best of them, butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths afore they get you in that room. But once there, it’s like Adam and Eve racing around the Garden of Eden every night. An’ if you cross your fingers and say skinch, or in other words, hold your horses, lad, I’ve had enough, they bring the priest to you, an’ he reads the riot act. “Supply your man’s needs,” he says, “or it’s Hell fire and brimstone for you.” So off you gallop again, even when your belly’s hangin’ down to your knees.’

She had laughed at her grannie and with her grannie. She had put her arms around the old woman and they had rocked together until the tears had run down their faces, and the last words she had said to her were, ‘Don’t worry, Gran, nowt like that’ll happen to me. It’s Rory I’m marrying, and I know Rory. I should do, there’s only a thin wall divided us for years.’

But now they hadn’t been hours married afore he had tossed her against a wall, and tossed her he had because he had hurt her shoulder and it was still paining. Life was funny . . . odd.

Septimus Kean died, and Rory continued to take the day’s collections to the house for some four weeks after Mr Kean had been buried, and each time Miss Kean received him in what she called the office. But on this particular Friday night she met him in the hall and said to him, ‘Just leave the bag on the office table, Mr Connor, we’ll see to that later. By the way, are you in a hurry?’

He was in a hurry, he was in a hurry to get home to Janie, to sit before the fire and put his feet up and talk with Jimmy, and hear if he had managed to get an order, and to find out if any of the Pitties had been about again . . . The Pitties. He’d give his right arm, literally, if he could get his own back on the Pitties. There was a deep acid hate in him for the Pitties. And it would appear they hadn’t finished with him for they had been spying about the place. He knew that to get a start on the river Jimmy would have to take the droppings, but if it lay with the Pitties he wouldn’t get even the droppings. They were beasts, dangerous beasts. By God he’d give anything to get one over on them.

He answered her, ‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘There is something I wish to discuss with you. I’m about to have a cup of tea, would you care to join me?’

Old Kean’s daughter asking him to join her in a cup of tea! Well! Well! He could scarcely believe his ears. Things were looking up. By lad, they were.

In the hall she said to the maid, ‘Take Mr Connor’s coat and hat.’

Then he was following her to the end of the hall, and into a long room. There was a big fire blazing in the grate to the right of them. It was a fancy grate with a black iron basket. It had a marble mantelpiece with, at each end, an urn-shaped vase standing on it, and above the mantelpiece was another large oil painting of yet another past Kean.

At first glance the prominent colour of the room seemed to be brown. The couch drawn up before the fire and the two big side chairs were covered with a brown corded material. The furniture was a shining brown. There were three small tables with knick-knacks on them. A piece of furniture that looked like a sideboard but like no sideboard he’d ever seen before had silver candlesticks on it. The velvet curtains hanging at the windows were green with a brown bobble fringe and were supported from a cornice pole as thick as his upper arm.

‘Sit down, Mr Connor.’ She motioned him towards one of the big chairs and he sat down, then watched her pull a handbell to the side of the fireplace.

When the door opened she turned to the maid, not the same one who had opened the door to him, and said, ‘I’ll have tea now, Jessie; please bring two cups.’

The girl bent her knee, then went out. He noticed that although her tone was uppish, as always, she had said ‘Please.’

He watched her as she sat back in the corner of the couch. She made a movement with her legs and for a moment he thought that she was actually going to cross them. But what she did was cross her feet, and as she did so her black skirt rode above her ankles and he saw the bones pressing through what must have been silk stockings . . . She certainly looked after herself in the way of dress did this one. She was in mourning but her mourning was silk.

‘I will come to the point, Mr Connor. I have a proposition to make to you.’

‘A proposition?’ His eyes widened slightly.

‘I don’t know whether you are aware that property dealing was only one of my father’s interests.’ She did not wait for him to comment on this but went on, ‘Among other things, he had interests in a number of growing concerns and, since my grandfather died, other small businesses have come into the family. Do you know the Wrighton Tallow Works?’

‘I’ve heard of them.’

‘Well, my grandfather owned the works and naturally they fell to my father, and unfortunately, I say unfortunately, because of the loss of my father they are now my concern . . . How far have you advanced in book-keeping Mr Connor?’

‘Advanced?’ He blinked at her. ‘What . . . what do you rightly mean, miss?’

‘What I mean is, have you studied any further than that which is required to tot up rent accounts? Have you thought of your own advancement in this line, such as that of becoming a fully fledged clerk in a bank, or to a solicitor, say?’

‘No, miss.’ The answer was curt, his tone cold. ‘The opportunities didn’t provide themselves.’ He knew too late that he should have said present, not provide.

‘Opportunities are there for the taking, Mr Connor. This town offers great opportunities to those who are willing to take advantage of them. It isn’t only the shipyards and the boat builders and such who offer apprenticeships in particular crafts; there are the arts.’

The arts! He narrowed his eyes at her. What was she getting at? Was she having him on, trying to get a bit of amusement out of him? The arts! Why didn’t she come to the point?

She came to the point by saying, ‘I have in mind that I need a manager, Mr Connor, someone who is capable not only of taking charge of the property side of my affairs but who could assist me in the running of my other businesses. There are places that need to be visited, books to be gone over. Of course I have my accountant and my solicitor but these are there only for the final totalling at the year’s end, and for advice should I need it. But there is so much to be seen to in between times and my father used to attend to this side of affairs, for you know, if a warehouse or business is not visited regularly those in charge become slack.’ She stared at him without speaking for almost a full minute before saying, ‘Would you consider taking on this post if, and when, you became qualified to do so? You would, of course, need a little training.’