Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

He was trapped. Standing before him was his wife, his legal wife, and he’d have to tell Charlotte that his wife had come back and that she herself had no claim to him and the child in her couldn’t take his name. He couldn’t do it. What was more, he wouldn’t do it. He heard his voice saying now, clearly and firmly, ‘I can’t tell her.’

‘You what!’

‘I said I can’t tell her, she’s going to have a ch . . . bairn.’ He had almost said child, so much had even his vocabulary changed.

There was complete silence in the room, until Jimmy moved. He had been standing at the side of the fireplace and now his foot jerked and he kicked the brass fender, which caused them both to look towards him. And then she said, ‘Well, it’s going to be hard on her, isn’t it, bringing up a bairn without a father? But then, her way will be smoothed, money’s a great compensation. Oh yes, money’s a great compensation. You can make things happen when you’ve got money. I had four sovereigns. The mistress give them to me to buy presents for you all to bring home. I put them in me little bag, an’ you know me an’ me little bag. Whenever I changed I used to pin it under me skirt, and when they found me there was me little bag still pinned under me skirt. But I didn’t know anything about it until I got me memory back. Madame, the old woman I lived with, had taken it, but when I came to meself and wanted to come home and didn’t know how, the son put the bag into me hand. He was very honest, the son, and so I travelled in luxury all the way here. First, in the bottom of a cart with pigs; then for miles on foot, sleeping on the floors of mucky inns; then the boat; and lastly, the back end of the train, like a cattle-truck; and—’ and now she screamed at him—‘you’re no more sorry for me than you would be for a mangy dog lying in the gutter. The only thing you’re worried about is that I’ve come back and your grand life is to be brought to an end. Well, if you don’t tell her, I will; I’m not gona be pushed aside, I’m gona have me place.’

‘Janie. Janie.’ His voice was soft, pleading, and she stopped her ranting and stared at him, her face quivering but her eyes still dry. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll do what I think is right. In . . . in the end I’ll do what I think is right. But give me a little time, will you? A few days, time to sort things out, to . . . to get used to—’ He gulped in his throat. ‘You can have what money you want . . .’

‘I don’t want your money. Anyway, ’tisn’t your money, you’ve never worked for it, it’s her money.’

‘I do work for it, begod! and hard at that.’ His voice was loud now, harsh. ‘I work harder now than ever I’ve done in me life. And now I’m goin’ to tell you something, an’ it’s this. Don’t push me; don’t drive me too far. This . . . this has come as a surprise. Try to understand that, but remember I’m still Rory Connor and I won’t be pushed.’ He paused for a moment, then ended, ‘I’ll . . . I’ll be back the morrow night,’ and on this he swung round on his heel and went out.

Jimmy, casting a look at Janie, where she was standing now, her hands hanging limply by her side and her mouth open, turned and followed him. In the yard he saw the dim outline of Rory standing where he himself had stood earlier in the evening against the stanchion post, and he went up to him and put his hand on his arm, and held it for a moment before saying, ‘I’m sorry, Rory. I’m sorry to the heart of me, but . . . but you can’t blame her.’

‘What am I going to do, Jimmy?’ The question came out as a groan.

‘I don’t know, Rory. Honest to God, I don’t know. Charlotte ’ll be in a state. I’m sorry, I mean I’m sorry for Charlotte.’

‘I . . . I can’t leave her, I can’t leave Charlotte. There’s her condition and . . . Oh dear God! what am I goin’ to do? Look, Jimmy.’ He bent down to him. ‘Persuade her to stay here out of the way, don’t let her go up home. Look, give her this.’ He thrust his hand into an inner pocket and, pulling out a chamois leather bag, emptied a number of sovereigns on to Jimmy’s palm. ‘Make her get some decent clothes; she looks like something that’s just been dug up. I could never imagine her letting herself go like that, could you?’

‘No. No, Rory. I told you, she’s . . . she’s changed. She must have gone through it. You’ll have to remember that, she must have gone through it.’

‘Aye, and now she’s going to make us all go through it.’

As he moved across the yard Jimmy went with him, saying, ‘Where you makin’ for? Where were you going’?’

‘To a game.’

‘Game? Does Charlotte know?’

Rory stopped again and said quietly, ‘Aye, Charlotte knows and she doesn’t mind. As long as I’m happy, doing something that makes me happy, she doesn’t mind; all she minds is that she’ll ever lose me. Funny, isn’t it?’

They peered at each other through the darkness. ‘Where you goin’ now, back home?’

‘No, no, I’ll . . . I’ll have to go on to the game. They’re expecting me, and if I didn’t turn up some­thing would be said. Anyway, I’ve got to think. I’m . . . I’m nearly out of me mind.’

Jimmy made no reply to this and Rory, touching him on the shoulder by way of farewell, went up the yard and out of the gate.

He did not go straight to Plynlimmon Way but walked for a good half-hour, and when at last he arrived at the house Frank Nickle greeted him with, ‘Well, Connor, we thought you weren’t coming, we’ve been waiting some—’ he drew from the pocket of his spotted grey waistcoat a gold lever watch attached to a chain across his chest—‘three quarters of an hour.’

‘I . . . I was held up.’

‘Are you all right? Are you unwell?’

‘Just . . . just a bit off colour.’

‘No trouble, I hope?’

‘No trouble.’

‘Then let us begin.’

Nickle’s tone was peremptory, it was putting him back into the servant class as far as he dared allow it. That the man hated him he was well aware, for he knew he was cornered, and had done since the night he came to dinner. But he also knew that he’d have to be careful of him in all ways. However, at this moment Nickle and his nefarious doings seemed of very minor importance.

They went into what was known as the smoking room. It was part office and part what could be considered a gentleman’s rest room, being furnished mostly with leather chairs, a desk, and a small square table, besides four single chairs.

The two men present were smoking cigars and they greeted Rory cordially, speaking generally, while Frank Nickle lifted a china centrepiece from the square table, laid it aside, then opened the top of the table which was cut in the shape of an envelope, each piece being covered with green baize. This done, they all took their seats around the table and Nickle, producing the cards from a hidden drawer underneath, the game began . . .

Three hours later Rory rose from the table almost twenty pounds poorer. At one time in the evening he had been thirty pounds to the good.

He left before the others, and at the door Frank Nickle, smiling his thin smile, said, ‘You weren’t your usual brilliant self tonight, Connor.’

‘No, I think I’m in for a cold.’

‘That’s a pity. Give my regards to your lady wife.’ The large pallid face now took on a slight sneer. ‘Tell her not to slap her little boy too hard for losing.’

He had the urge to lift his hand and punch the man on the mouth. But wait, he told himself, wait. Give him time, and he would do it, but in another way. He left without further words, went down the pathway through the iron gate and to the road where the carriage was waiting.

Nickle had suggested covertly that it was unwise to come by carriage, servants talked . . . ordinary servants, and to this Rory had replied that Stoddard was no ordinary servant, he was as loyal as Nickle’s own. And anyway, wasn’t he visiting the house for a ‘Gentlemen’s Evening’? They were common enough. How could one discuss the finer points of business if it weren’t for ‘Gentlemen’s Evenings’?