Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

She’d tried to get him to church. He should attend for two reasons, she had laughingly said, in God’s cause, and the cause of business. But no, he had put his foot down firmly here. He couldn’t be that kind of a hypocrite. He had been brought up a Catholic and although he had never been through a church door for years, except when the banns were called and on the day he was married, he’d been born one and he would die one, he wasn’t going to become a turncoat.

He was happy as he had never expected to be happy again in his life. It was a different kind of happiness, a steady, settled sort of happiness; a happiness made up partly of material things, partly of gratitude, and . . . and something else. It wasn’t love, but at the same time it came into that category, yet he couldn’t put a name to it. But he liked her, he liked her a lot, and he admired her. Strangely, he had ceased to be sorry for her. He couldn’t imagine now why he’d ever been sorry for her. And strangely too, he was more at ease in her company than he had ever been with anyone in his own family, apart from Jimmy that was . . . He hadn’t always been at ease with Janie. It was funny that, but he hadn’t. No, he couldn’t put a name to the feeling he had for Charlotte, he only knew that he liked being with her and that this was the life for him. He had fallen on his feet and he meant to see that they carried him firmly into the future . . .

The meal over and in the drawing-room, she sat by his side on the couch and watched him begin the process of filling his pipe—This liberty had even shocked the servants. No gentleman smoked in a drawing-room, but there, the mistress allowed it—and now she said, ‘Well, I’m waiting. What have you discovered about Mr Nickle that has filled you with glee?’

‘Glee?’

‘Yes, glee. It’s been oozing out of you since you came in.’

‘He’s a good churchman, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, as churchmen go, he’s a good churchman.’

‘A highly respected member of the community.’ He pressed the tobacco down into the wide bowl of his red-wood pipe.

‘What is it?’ She put her hand out and slapped his knee playfully, and he looked at her steadily for a minute before he said flatly, ‘He’s a two-faced hypocrite.’

‘Oh, is that all? Well, he’s not alone in this town, is he?’

‘He runs a gaming house.’

Now she was startled. ‘Mr Nickle running a gaming house? You’re dreaming, Rory.’

‘Oh no. Oh no, Charlotte, Rory isn’t dreaming,’ he mimicked her. ‘Rory once tried to get into Mr Nickle’s gaming house, but he was politely warned off, then recommended to a house in King Street. And you know what happened to Rory in King Street, don’t you?’

‘You can’t mean it?’ Her face was straight and his also, and his tone was deep and bitter when he answered, ‘I do. And it’s not only gaming he’s interested in when he can frighten little Joe . . .’

‘Who’s little Joe?’

‘He’s a bookie’s runner, you know, one who goes round taking bets. But he’s many more things besides, some things that it would be dangerous to look into. Not that he could do much on his own. But those who hire him could, such as our Mr Nickle. You know—’ he now rose and went to the fire and lit a spill and after drawing on his pipe came back towards her, saying, ‘You know, I wouldn’t have told you. I mean I wouldn’t have given him away, only I met him the day across the water in Crawford’s. He was doing the same as I was, getting the lay of the land, seeing if the place was worth buying, and he talked loudly to Crawford for my benefit about the stupidity of competing against rope works just farther up the river, such as Haggie’s. And all the while he eyed me. Yet he ignored me, completely ignored me. Then Crawford, who’s as blunt as an old hammer, said, “Aw well, if that’s your opinion of the place you’re not interested, are you? So what about you, Mr Connor, you think the same?” “No,” I said, “I’m here to talk business.” And on that the old fellow turned his back on our Mr Nickle and walked with me into the office, leaving his highness black in the face. And that’s whyI’Pm oozing glee, as you call it, ’cos Crawford’s askin’ much less than we thought. I told him we weren’t thinking of rope, but a foundry, at least material from it to make household goods.’

‘Good. Good.’ She put her hand out towards him, and he held it and went on, ‘And later, I saw his highness in the hotel when I was having a meal, and again he cut me dead. Now I could’ve understood such an attitude from any number of men in this town, and took it, but not from him, not knowin’ what I know about him. Because it isn’t only gambling, it’s lasses.’

‘Lasses?’

‘Yes, there’s quite a number of lasses disappear now and again.’

‘Oh no! Rory, he . . . he wouldn’t’

‘He would, and he does. Little Joe, the fellow I mentioned, was very much afraid of our Mr Nickle, and a game on the side wouldn’t have caused him to sweat so much so that he got washed and cleaned up afore going to his back door. I’d never known little Joe so clean in his life as when I saw him that day, the day I found out about Nickle . . . Look.’ He tugged her towards him. ‘I’ve thought of something. Do you think you could invite him here to dinner?’

‘Invite him here?’

‘That’s what I said. Say your husband would very much like to meet him.’

‘But after he’s cut you, do you think . . . ?’

‘Aye. Aye, I do. Invite him in a way that he’ll think twice about refusing . . . Put that something in your voice . . . You can do it.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘Aye. Yes, if you like.’

She began to smile slowly, then she nodded at him. ‘Yes, I see your point. Yes, I’ll invite him. If I’m not mistaken I’ll be meeting him next week; he’s a member of the Church Council. We’ll likely be sitting side by side in the vestry. Yes—’ she laughed outright now—‘I’ll invite him here, and enjoy it . . . that’s if he accepts the invitation.’

‘He will, after you’ve put it over in your own way . . . Huh! it’s a funny life.’ He leant back in the couch and she twisted her body round and looked fully at him.

‘How are you finding it?’

‘Finding what?’

‘Life, this funny life.’

Taking the pipe from his mouth, he said, ‘I’m liking this life fine, Mrs Connor. I never dreamed I’d like it so well.’

‘I wish I were beautiful.’ Her voice was low, and he pulled her suddenly towards him and encircled her with his arm, saying, ‘You’ve got qualities that beat beauty any day in the week. You’re the best-dressed woman in the town, too. Moreover, you’ve got something up top.’

‘Something up top?’ Her face was partly smothered against his shoulder. ‘I’d willingly be an empty-headed simpering nincompoop if only I . . . I looked different.’

Quickly now he thrust her from him and said harshly and with sincerity, ‘Well, I can tell you this much, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are now, or at least I wouldn’t be sitting where I am now, if you were an empty-headed nincompoop.’

‘Oh, Rory.’ She flung herself against him as any young girl might, and he lay back holding her tightly to him.

Hardly a week passed but he had to reassure her with regard to her looks. It seemed that she was becoming more conscious of her plainness as time went on, and yet strangely, he himself was actually becoming less aware of her lack of beauty as the days passed; there were even times when her whole face took on an attractive quality. Then there was her voice. Her voice was beautiful. He never tired listening to it, even when she was in one of her haughty moods, which were becoming rarer.