Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

Rory was not unaware of Mr Dryden’s personal opinion of him. He gauged it in the condescending tone the old man used when speaking to him. But what did it matter, he could put up with that.

He was now receiving the handsome sum of twenty-five shillings a week, with the promise of it being raised when he should finally take over his duties. He’d had glimpses into what these would be during the past few days when he had seen the number of properties in Hexham and Gateshead, and the haberdashery and hatters shops that had been left by Grandfather Kean. All this besides the business old Kean himself had had on the side.

He became more and more amazed when he thought of what his late employer must have been worth. Yet never a night had he missed, winter or summer, coming to the office to pick up the takings, except when he was called away to visit his father. He had never, not to his knowledge, taken a holiday all the time he had been there, and yet he was rolling in money.

He wondered what she would be worth altogether. If she ever married, some man would come in for a packet. But apart from her not being the kind to take a man’s fancy he thought she was too independent to think that way. No one, he considered, could be as business-like as her without having the abilities of a man in her make-up . . .

It was Saturday morning and he had brought the takings from his two men—he thought of them as his now. She had allowed him to choose the-second man himself. This fellow was young and hadn’t done any rent collecting before but he had been to school continuously up till he was fourteen, and that was something to start on. Moreover, he was bright and eager and in need of work. He felt he had made a good choice. And he told her so. ‘Patterson’s doing well,’ he said. ‘Gettin’ round quickly. And so far he’s allowed nobody to take advantage of him, you know, soft-soap him.’

‘Good.’ She smiled at him from across the desk; then she said, ‘I would like you to accompany me to Hexham on Monday.’

‘Hexham?’ He moved his head downwards while keeping his eyes on her. ‘Very well.’ He sometimes omitted to say miss, but she had never pulled him up for it.

‘I think it’s time you saw the places you’re going to be responsible for.’

‘Aye, yes, of course.’ He’d have to stop himself saying aye.

‘By the way—’ she was still smiling at him—’I should like to come and see your boatyard. I’m very interested in it. I may be of some assistance in supplying freight—in a small way. Would this afternoon be convenient?’

He thought quickly. What was the place like, was it tidy? Was there any washing hanging about? No, Janie had cleared the ironing up last night and scrubbed out last thing.

He nodded at her, saying, ‘Yes, that’ll be all right with me. Me wife won’t be in because she works until four on a Saturday, she’s nursemaid at the Buckhams in Westoe, but you’ll be welcome to see . . .’

‘Your ! . . wife?’ The words came from deep within her chest and were separate as if they were strange and she had never spoken them before.

‘Yes. Yes, miss, me wife . . .’ His voice trailed off for he was amazed to see the colour flooding up over her face like a great blush.

‘I . . . I wasn’t aware that you were married, Mr Connor ! . . Since when?’

‘Well, well—’ he moved uneasily in the chair— ‘just recently, miss. I didn’t like to mention it to you at the time because the date was fixed for shortly after your father’s funeral. I couldn’t change it, but it didn’t seem proper to . . .’

Her eyes were shaded now as she looked down towards the desk and on to her hands which were lying flat on the blotter, one on each side of the ledger that he had placed before her. Her back was straight, her body looked rigid. She said coolly, ‘You should have informed me of your change of situation, Mr Connor.’

‘I . . . I didn’t think it was of any importance.’

‘No importance!’ She did not look at him, but now her eyes flicked over the table as if searching for some paper or other. ‘A married man cannot give the attention to business that the single man can, for instance, he hasn’t the time.’

‘Oh, I have all the time . . .’

‘Or the interest.’ She had raised her eyes to his now. The colour had seeped from her face leaving it moist and grey. This alters matters, Mr Connor.’

He stared at her, his voice gruff now as he said, ‘I don’t understand, I can’t see why.’

‘You can’t? Well then, if you can’t then I am mistaken in the intelligence I credited you with.’

His back was as straight as hers now, his face grim.

As she held his gaze he thought, No, no, I’d be barmy to think that. I haven’t got such a bloody big head on me as that. No I No! Yet it was pretty evident that the fact that he was married had upset her. She was likely one of these people who didn’t believe in marriage, there were such about; there was one lived in the end house down the lane. She dressed like a man and it was said that she handled a horse and a boat as well as any man, but she looked half man. This one didn’t. Although she had a business head on her shoulders she dressed very much as a woman of fashion might. He couldn’t make her out. No, by God! he couldn’t.

He said now, ‘I can assure you, miss, me being married won’t make any difference to my work. I’ll give you my time and loyalty . . .’

‘But as I have indicated, Mr Connor, only a certain amount of time and an equal amount of your loyalty . . . a married man has responsibilities. We can discuss the matter later. Mr Dryden has been paid in advance for your quarter’s tuition, you will continue to go to him. That’ll be all at present, Mr Connor. Good day.’

He rose stiffly from the chair. ‘Good day . . . miss.’

The maid let him out; she smiled at him broadly. ‘Good day, sir,’ she said.

He had acquired the title of sir since it was known Miss Kean was sending him for training to be her manager and there was a significant deference in the servants’ manners towards him now. She kept six altogether, with the gardener-cum-coachman. He answered her civilly, saying, ‘Good day,’ but as usual he did not address her by name. His position wasn’t such that he felt he could do so yet.

Out on the drive he walked slowly, and at one point he actually stopped and said to himself, No! No! And before he entered the main thoroughfare he again slowed his walk and exclaimed aloud now, ‘Don’t be a fool!’

He had no false modesty about his personal attraction. He knew that many a back door would have been left open for him if he had just raised an eyebrow or answered a gleam in a hungry woman’s eyes. He didn’t class himself as particularly handsome but was aware that he had something which was of greater appeal. If he had been asked to define it he would have found it impossible; he only knew that women were aware of him. And he had liked the knowledge, it gave him what he called a lift. But at the same time he knew there was but one woman for him.

But he couldn’t get away from the fact that she had done what she had for him because she thought he was single. Now the question was, why? Why?

Yet again he shook his head at himself and said no, no. Why, the woman must be worth a fortune, and although she was as plain as a pikestaff there were men in the town who, he thought, would more than likely overlook such a minor handicap in order to get their hands on what she owned. Doubtless, some were already trying, for twice of late there had been carriages on the drive and he had seen sombre-clothed gentlemen descending towards them as he approached the house. And he recalled now, they had looked at him pretty hard.

But coming to know her as he had done over the past weeks, he imagined she would have all her wits about her with regard to such suitors who would be only after the main chance. She was the kind of woman who would do the choosing rather than be chosen, and apart from her face she had a lot on her side to enable her to do the choosing . . . Had she been going to choose him?