Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

His heart was thumping against his ribs causing his breath to catch in his throat. He couldn’t take it in. She was proposing that he should be her manager. He was peering at her through the narrow slits of his eyes now, he was puzzled. Why wasn’t she advertising for somebody right away if the burden of the businesses was so great on her?

As if she were reading his thoughts she said, ‘I have no doubt I could get someone to fill this post almost immediately, but then the person would be strange to me, and . . . and I don’t mix easily. What I mean is, I take a long time in getting to know people.’

They were staring at each other through the fading light, and in silence again. It was she who broke it, her voice low now, ordinary sounding, no uppishness to it. ‘I . . . I have known you for some time, Mr Connor, and have always thought that you should be capable of much better things than mere rent collecting.’

Before he could answer the door opened and the maid entered pushing a tea trolley.

When the trolley was by the side of the couch she looked at the maid and said, ‘I’ll see to it, Jessie. I’ll ring when I need you.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Again the dip of the knee.

‘Do you take sugar, Mr Connor?’

‘No. No, thank you.’

‘That is unusual; men usually like a lot of sugar.’

He watched her pour the weak-looking tea from a small silver teapot and add milk to it from a matching jug, and when a few minutes later he sipped at it he thought, My God! dish-water.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask what tea you preferred. You see, they’re so used to bringing me China; I’ll ring and get some . . .’

‘Oh no, please don’t. It’s nice, it’s only different. And’—he grinned now at her—’you can understand I’m not used to havin’ China tea.’

She actually laughed now, and he noticed that it changed her face and made her almost pleasant-looking, except that her nose remained just as sharp. ‘I hope it will be a taste you will learn to acquire in the future.’

He doubted it but he nodded at her, smiling in return.

He took the buttered scone she proffered him and found it good, and had another, and by the time he had eaten a cake that melted in his mouth he was laughing inside, thinking, By gum! they just want to see me now, all them in the kitchen. They just want to see me now. And wait till I tell Janie. My! who would believe it? She had asked if he was willing to learn to manage her affairs. God! just give him the chance. By lad! he had fallen on his feet at last. It wouldn’t matter now if the boatyard never made a go of it. But he hoped it would, for Jimmy’s sake. He mentioned the boatyard to her now. It was when she said, ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer, Mr Connor, you have a long walk home. But I will leave you to think over my proposition. Perhaps tomorrow evening you will tell me what you have decided. If your answer is favourable I can put you in touch with a man who would teach you book-keeping and the rudiments of management. And perhaps you could attend night school. But we can discuss that later.’

He rose to his feet, saying, ‘I’m not more than ten minutes’ hard tramp from my home now; I’m . . . I’m on the waterfront.’

She raised her eyebrows as she repeated, ‘The waterfront?’

‘Yes.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I became interested in a boatyard, a very small one mind.’ He smiled as he nodded at her. ‘A pocket handkerchief, some folks would call it, but nevertheless it’s big enough to make a keel and scullers and such like. There’s a house of sorts attached. I . . . I took it for my brother. He’s served his time in boat building, small boats that is, the same line, scullers, wherries and such, and it’s always been his dream to have a place of his own where he could build. So I heard of this concern. The man had died, and . . . and it was going reasonable, so I took a chance.’

Her face was stretching into a wide smile, her lips were apart showing a set of strong white teeth. ‘Well, well!’ She inclined her head towards him. ‘I wasn’t wrong, was I? You do have business acumen. Where is this place?’

‘Oh, it’s yon side of the mill dam. It’s so small you wouldn’t be able to see it, not among all the other yards along there. It used to belong to a Mr. Kilpatrick.’

‘Kilpatrick?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t recall hearing the name. But . . . but I’m very interested in your enterprise. I must come and see it some time.’

‘Yes, yes, do that.’

She walked with him to the door and although the maid was standing ready to open it she herself let him out, saying, ‘Good night, Mr Connor. We will reopen this subject tomorrow evening.’

‘Yes, as you say, miss. Good night.’

He was walking down the drive . . . no, marching down the drive.

‘We will reopen this subject tomorrow evening.’

Indeed, indeed, we will.

Would you believe it?

They said the age of miracles was past.

Would he go to night school?

He’d go to hell and sit on a hot gridiron to please her.

But on the road he slowed his pace and again asked himself why she had picked him. And he gave himself her own answer. She didn’t mix and it took her a long time to get to know people. Aye. Aye well, he could understand that. She wasn’t the kind that most people would take to. No looks and too smart up top for most men, he supposed, for he had the idea she’d be brainy. And that would apply to her effect on women an’ all.

Hip-hip-hooray! He wanted to throw his hat in the air. Things were happening. They were happening all the time. Janie! Here I come . . . A manager!

What wage would he get?

He’d have to leave that to her of course but he’d know the morrow night.

Janie left the Buckhams’ with the mistress’s words racing round in her mind. ‘Well, you have a month to think it over, Janie,’ she had said. It would be wonderful for you and it’ll only be for three weeks. And just think, in all your life you might never have the opportunity to go abroad again. And the children would love to have you with them, you know that.’

Yes, Janie knew that, but she also knew that she was being asked to go to keep the children out of the way and let the master and mistress enjoy their holiday in France.

She had said she would talk to her husband about it, but she already knew what his answer would be. He hated the idea of her being out every day and if it wasn’t that he had needed her wages he would have put his foot down before now. But with this new development and Miss Kean offering to make him manager, well, she knew that her days at the Buckhams’ were numbered; in fact, she could have given in her notice this morning.

There was something else on her mind. She had promised John George she would go and see that lass of his, but with one thing and another she had never had time. But tonight Rory would be late, for even now he’d be in Westoe clinching the matter, and so she told herself why not clear her conscience and go round and see that girl. She must be all of six months’ gone.

When she reached the end of the road she did not, automatically, turn right and cut down to the river but went into a jumble of side streets and towards Horsley Terrace.

They were, she considered, nice houses in the terrace, respectable. It was number twenty-four; it had three steps up to the front door and an iron railing cutting off four feet of garden. She went up the steps and rapped on the door with the knocker. When it was opened she stared at the young woman in front of her. She wasn’t pregnant. ‘Could . . . could I speak with Miss Maggie Ridley please?’

The young woman cast a quick glance over her shoulder, then stepped towards her, pulling the door half closed behind her.