Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

She was a funny character; he couldn’t get to the bottom of her. He had never known anyone in his life so knowledgeable or so self-possessed. But then, never in his life had he been in contact with women of her class.

‘You will stay for something to eat?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

‘Good.’ She smiled at him, put her hand to her hair and stroked it upwards and back from her forehead; then she said, ‘Don’t sit on the edge of that chair as if you were waiting to take off in a race.’

His jaw tightened, his pleasant expression vanished. This was the kind of thing that maddened him.

‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.’

Now she was sitting forward on the edge of the couch leaning towards him. ‘Please don’t be annoyed. I have the unfortunate habit of phrasing my requests in the manner of orders.’ She made a small deprecating movement with her head. ‘I . . . I must try to grow out of it. All I intended to say was, please relax, be comfortable . . . make yourself at home.’ The last words ended on a low note.

After a moment he slid slowly back into the chair and smiled ruefully at her.

Settling herself back once again on the couch, she stared at him before saying, still in a low tone, ‘I’m going to call you . . . No’—she lifted her hand—‘again my phrasing is wrong. What I mean to say is, may I call you by your Christian name?’

He did not answer but stared at her, unblinking.

She was looking down at her hands now where they were joined on her lap, her fingers making stroking movements between the knuckles. ‘You see, I . . . I want to talk to you this evening about . . . about something important, if you can afford me the time after dinner. Which reminds me. Would you mind ringing the bell, please?’

He rose slowly to his feet and pulled the bell by the side of the fireplace, and they didn’t speak until the maid appeared; then she said, ‘Mr Connor will be staying for dinner, Jessie. How long will it be?’

‘Well . . . well, it’s ready now, miss, but’—The girl cast a glance in Rory’s direction, then added, ‘Say five minutes’ time, miss?’

‘Very well, Jessie, thank you.’

When the door was closed on the maid, she said, I have never seen you smoke, do you smoke?’

‘Yes. I have a draw at nights.’

‘My father never smoked. I like the smell of tobacco. About . . . about your Christian name. What does the R stand for . . . Robert?’

‘No, Rory.’

‘Roar-y. What is it short for?’

‘Nothin’ that I know of. I was christened Rory.’

‘Roar-y.’ She mouthed the word, then said, ‘I like it. My name, as you know, is Charlotte. My father once said it was a very suitable name for me.’ Her head drooped again, ‘he was an unkind man, a nasty man, a mean nasty man.’

He could say nothing to this. He was so amazed at her frankness he just sat staring at her, until she said, ‘Would you care to go upstairs and wash?’ He blinked rapidly, swallowed, wetted his lips, and as he drew himself up from the chair answered, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

She did not rise from the couch but looked up at him. ‘The bathroom is the third door on the right of the landing.’

He inclined his head towards her, walked out of the drawing-room, across the hall and up the stairs. This was the first time he had been upstairs and he guessed it would be the last.

After closing the bathroom door behind him he stood looking about him in amazement. A full length iron bath stood on four ornamental legs. At one end of it were two shining brass taps, at the foot was a shelf and, on it, an array of coloured bottles and fancy boxes. To the left stood a wash basin, and to the left of that again a towel rack on which hung gleaming white towels. In the wall opposite the bath was a door, and when he slowly pushed this open he found he was looking down into a porcelain toilet, not a dry midden as outside the cottage, or a bucket in a lean-to on the waterfront, but something that looked too shiningly clean to be put to the use it was intended for.

A few minutes later as he stood washing his hands, not from any idea of hygiene, but simply because he wanted to see the bowl fill with water, he thought, I’m a blasted fool. That’s what I am, a blasted fool. I could use this every day. I could eat downstairs in that dining-room every day. I could sit in that drawing-room, aye, and smoke every day. And I could sleep up here in one of these rooms every . . . He did not finish the sentence but dried his hands, gave one last look around the bathroom, then went downstairs.

The meal was over and once again they were sitting in the drawing-room.

He had hardly opened his mouth from the moment he had entered the dining-room until he left it. Talk about arms and legs; he could have been a wood louse, and he felt sure he had appeared just about as much at home too at that table as one might have done. Nor had it helped matters that she had been quiet an’ all. She usually kept the conversation going, even giving herself the answers, and now here they were and the game had come to an end, the cards were face up.

He felt sorry. In so many different ways he felt sorry, but most of all he knew that at this moment he was feeling sorry for her because he could see from her face, and her attitude, that she, too, was in a bit of a spot, and he was wishing, sincerely wishing that it could have been possible for him to help her out of it, when she spoke.

Sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead as if she were concentrating on the picture of her grandfather above the mantelpiece, she said, I . . . I really don’t know how to begin, but this thing must be brought into the open. You . . . you are aware of that as much as I am, aren’t you?’ It was some seconds before she turned her head towards him, and now such were his feelings of pity that he couldn’t hold her gaze. He looked down on his hands, as she herself had done earlier and, like hers, his fingers rubbed against each other.

She was speaking again, softly now, her voice scarcely above a whisper. ‘I am putting you in a very embarrassing situation. I’m aware of that. Even if your feelings were such that you wanted to put a certain question to me, you wouldn’t under the circumstances have the courage to do so, but let me tell you one thing immediately. I know that you have no wish to put that question to me. If you agree to what I am going to ask of you, I won’t be under the illusion it is through any personal attraction, but that it will be for what my offer can bring to you in the way of advantages.’

His head was up now. ‘I don’t want advantages that way.’

‘Thank you at least for that.’ As she made a deep obeisance with her head towards him, he put in quickly, ‘Don’t get me wrong. What I meant was—’ He shook his head, bit hard down on his lip as he found it impossible to explain what he meant, and she said, ‘I know what you meant, but . . . but you haven’t yet heard my proposition.’

She turned her face away and once again stared at the picture as she went on, ‘Suppose I were to ask you to marry me, you would . . . you would, on the face of it I know, refuse, forgoing all the advantages that would go with such a suggestion, but suppose I were to say to you that this would be no ordinary marriage, that I . . . I would expect nothing from you that an ordinary wife would from her husband. You could have your own apartments, all I would ask for is . . . is your companionship, and your presence in this house, of which . . . of which you would be the master.’ She again turned her face towards him.

He was sitting bolt upright in the chair now; his eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open. He said under his breath, ‘That would be the poor end of the stick for you, wouldn’t it?’