Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

‘Who’s Henry?’

‘He was madame’s son. They’re all fisherfolk, she looked after me. Life was very hard for them all, so very hard, much . . . much harder than here.’ She looked slowly around the room. ‘I . . . I remember how I used to talk about guttin’ fish as being something lowly. I had to learn to gut fish. They all worked so hard from mornin’ till night. It was a case of fish or die. You don’t know.’ She shook her head in wide movements. ‘But they were kind and . . . and they were happy.’

Jimmy gulped. His mind was racing. This was Janie. It was Janie all right. Eeh! God, what would happen? Why couldn’t she have stayed where she was? What was he saying? He muttered now, ‘How did you get your memory back?’

It was through Henri, he couldn’t understand about me not wantin’ to learn to swim. The young ones swam, it was their one pleasure, and this day he . . . he came behind me and pushed me off the rock. It . . . it was as I hit the water it all came back. He was sorry, very sorry I mean that it had come back.’ She looked down towards the table and up again suddenly. ‘Where’s Rory? Is he up home?’

Jimmy turned from her. He was shaking his head wildly now. He lifted up the teapot from the hob, put it down again, then, swinging round towards her, he said, ‘You’ve . . . you’ve been away nearly . . . nearly two years, Janie, things’ve happened.’

She rose slowly to her feet. ‘What things? What kind of things?’

‘Well . . . well, this is goin’ to be another shock to you. I’m . . . I’m sorry, Janie. It wasn’t that he wasn’t cut up, he nearly went mad. And . . . and it was likely ’cos he was so lonely he did it, but—’ now his voice faded to a mere whisper, and he bowed his head before finishing, he got married again.’

She turned her ear slightly towards him as if she hadn’t heard aright; then her mouth opened and closed, but she didn’t speak. She sat down with a sudden plop, and once more she looked around the room. Then she asked simply, ‘Who to?’

Jimmy now put his hand across his mouth. He knew before he said the name that this would be even harder for her to understand.

‘ Who to? ’ She was shouting now, screaming at him.

If he had had any doubts before that this was Janie they were dispelled.

‘Miss . . . Miss Kean.’

‘ What !’ She was on her feet coming towards him, and he actually backed from her in fear.

‘You’re jokin’?’

‘No, no, I’m not, Janie. No.’ He stopped at the foot of the ladder and she stopped too. With one wild sweep she unhooked the clasp of her cloak and flung it aside, then she tore the bonnet from her head and flung it on to the cloak. And now she walked back to the table, and she leant over it as she cried, ‘Money! Money ! He married her for money. He couldn’t get it by gamin’, but he had to have it some way.’

‘No, no, it wasn’t like that . . .’

She swung round and was facing him again, and he noted with surprise that her figure was no longer plump, it was almost as flat as Charlotte Kean’s had been before her body started to swell with the bairn. Eeh! and that was another thing, the bairn. Oh my God! Where would this end? He said now harshly, ‘It’s nearly two years, you’ve got to remember that. He . . . he was her manager, and . . . and she was lonely.’

‘Lonely? Lonely ?’ She started to laugh; then thrusting her white head forward, she demanded, ‘Where’s he now? Living in the big house? Huh! Well, his stay’s goin’ to be short, isn’t it, Jimmy? He can’t have two wives, can he?’

‘He didn’t know, you can’t blame him.’

‘Can’t blame him? Huh! I was the only woman he’d ever wanted in his life, the only one he would ever love until he died. You . . . you know nowt about it. Can’t blame him, you say!’

‘You should never’ve gone; it was your own fault, you going on that holiday. I . . . I told him he shouldn’t have let you.’

‘But he did, he did let me, Jimmy. What he should have done the day I left was come after me and knock hell out of me an’ made me stay. But he didn’t, did he? He let me go.’

‘You know why he let you go. It was because of John George, that business, an’ you sticking out and wanting him to go and give himself up. You’re as much to blame as he is, Janie, about that. But he’s not to blame for marryin’ again, ’cos how was he to know? He waited a year, over a year.’

‘That was kind of him. Well now, what are we going to do, Jimmy, eh? You’ll have to go and tell him that his wife’s come back. That’s it . . . just go an’ tell him that his wife’s come back.’

He stared at her. This was Janie all right, but it was a different Janie; not only was she changed in looks but in her manner, her ways, and as he stared at her he couldn’t imagine any disaster great enough to change a woman’s appearance as hers had been changed.

She saw his eyes on her hair and she said quietly now, ‘I mean it, Jimmy. You’d better go and tell him. And . . . and tell him what to expect, will you?’ She put her hand up towards her head. I . . . I lost all me hair. I was bald, as bald as any man, and . . . and they rubbed grease in, fish fat, an’. . . an’ this is how it grew. And . . . and living out in the open in the sun and the wind I became like them, all brown ’cos of me fair skin likely.’

She sat down suddenly on a chair and, placing her elbows on the table, she lowered her face into her hands.

Don’t cry, Janie, don’t cry.’ He moved to the other side of the table. And now she looked up at him dry-eyed and said, ‘I’m not cryin’, Jimmy. That’s another thing, I can’t cry. I should cry about the children and the master and mistress and how I look, but something stops me . . . Go and fetch him, Jimmy.’

‘I . . . I can’t, Janie. It would . . ’

‘It would what?’

‘He’d . . . he’d get a gliff.’

‘Well, if he doesn’t come to me, I’ll have to go to him. He’ll get a gliff in any case, and he’d far better meet me here than . . . than up home . . . What’s the matter? . . . What is it now?’

‘Your grannie, Janie, she’s . . .’

‘Aw no!’ She dropped her head to the side and screwed up her eyes, then after a moment said, ‘When?’

‘Last year, after . . . shortly after she heard the news.’

‘And me da?’

‘He . . . he went to Jarrow to live with . . . he took lodgings in Jarrow. There’s new people in the house, an old couple. An’ the Learys have gone an’ll. I never thought they’d ever move but he started work in St Hilda’s Colliery, and it’s too far for him to trek in the winter. They live down here now in High Shields. It’s all changed up there.’ He wanted to keep talking in a hopeless effort against what she was going to say next, but she stopped him with a lift of her hand as she leant back in the chair and drew in long draughts of breath, then said, ‘I don’t think I can stand much more. And I’m so tired; I haven’t been to sleep for . . . aw, it seems days . . . Go and fetch him, Jimmy.’

The command was soft, but firm and brooked no argument. He stared at her for a moment longer; then grabbing his coat and cap from the back of the door, he dragged them on and rushed out. But once down in the yard he didn’t run; instead, he stood gripping the staunch post that supported the end of the house as he muttered to himself, ‘Eeh! my God! What’s gona happen?’

Charlotte straightened the silk cravat at Rory’s neck, dusted an invisible speck from the shoulder of his black suit, and finally ran her fingers lightly over the top of his oiled hair, and then, standing slightly back from him, she said, ‘To my mind you’re wasted on a gaming table.’