Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

As he held her tightly to him he dwelt for a moment on the strangeness of life and what two years could do to a man’s feelings, and he realized that no man could really trust himself and say that what he was feeling today he would still feel to­morrow. A few moments ago he had told Charlotte he loved her and would never leave her; two years ago he had told Janie that he loved her and she would always and ever be the only one in his life. What was a man made of when he could change like this? It was past him, he couldn’t understand it. Yet there was one thing at the moment he was certain of, and that was that he no longer wanted Janie but he did want Charlotte, and that what he felt for her wasn’t mere gratitude but love, a love that owed nothing to externals but sprang from somewhere deep within him, a place that up till now he hadn’t known existed.

Janie had refused to take the money that Rory had left. Not until she was back in her rightful place, she had said, would she take a penny from him.

‘But Janie,’ Jimmy had pleaded, ‘you can’t go round looking like that, and . . . and all your clothes . . . well, they were given away, the Learys got them.’

‘Why can’t I go round like this, Jimmy? This is what I’ve worn for the last two years, and as I said, when I’m back in me rightful place then I’ll take money from him for clothes.’

On that night one of the first things she asked when he had come back into the room was, ‘What’s happened to John George?’

‘Oh,’ Jimmy had answered, ‘John George’s all right. He has a newspaper shop in Newcastle . . . and that lass is with him. When he got out he came back and saw her, and she left the man. Her father went after her and threatened both of them, but she said it was no good she wouldn’t go back. They’re all right,’ he had ended.

She had looked at him hard as she asked, ‘How did he come by the paper shop?’

‘Well.’ Jimmy had brought one foot up on to his knee and massaged his ankle vigorously while he said, ‘It was her . . . Charlotte, she saw to it.’

‘ She saw to it? You mean to say, after sendin’ him along the line she set him up in a shop?’

‘Aye.’

‘And he let her?’

‘Oh aye, he held no grudge. That’s John George, you know. He’s too good to be true really, or soft, it’s how you take him. But she found out where he was, and she went up to him and talked with him and . . . and well, that was that . . . She’s kind, Janie.’

She had looked hard at him as she said, ‘I don’t know about kind, but one thing’s clear, she’s wily. She’s bought the lot of you. You’re for her, aren’t you, Jimmy? Hook, line and sinker you’re for her. And I’ll bet you’ll be telling me next that all them in the kitchen are at her feet an’ all.’

‘Oh no, Janie, oh no. There was hell to pay. They . . . they didn’t speak to him for ages.’

Slightly mollified, she held out her hands towards the blaze, then said quietly, ‘He doesn’t want me now, Jimmy. You can see it; he doesn’t want me.’

And Jimmy could make no reply to this by way of comfort . . .

Nor could he the next night after Rory had gone, nor last night, because each time they met they seemed to become further apart. They were like two boxers who hated each other. Even if Rory were to leave Charlotte he couldn’t see them ever living together again. He began to wonder why she was insisting on it.

He had just come in from the yard and the sight of her cooking a meal caused him to say, ‘Lizzie . . . Lizzie ’ll be down the morrow; she . . . she comes to bake. What you gona do, Janie?’

‘What do you think?’ She went on cutting thick slices from a piece of streaky bacon.

‘Well, you’ll give her a gliff.’

‘We’ve all had gliffs, Jimmy.’ Still continuing slicing the bacon, she didn’t look up as she said, ‘You didn’t mention it, but I suppose her ladyship’s been supportin’ them up there an’ all?’

It was some seconds before he answered, ‘Rory has, and it’s his own money, ’cos as he said he works hard for it. And he does, Janie. He travels about a lot, seein’ . . . seein’ to different businesses and things . . . and he studies . . .’

‘Studies!’ She raised her head and looked at him scornfully. ‘Rory Connor studies! What? New tricks in the card game?’

‘Don’t be so bitter, Janie.’

She flung the knife down so hard on to the table that it bounced off on to the floor, and, leaning towards him, she cried, ‘Jimmy, have you any idea how I feel, comin’ back here and finding I’m not wanted by nobody? Nobody . Oh—’ she moved her head slowly from shoulder to shoulder—‘how I wish I’d never got me memory back. Do you know some­thing? I was happy back there. The life was hard, but they were good people, jolly, and they took to me.’ She now looked down towards the table. There’s something else I’ll tell you. There was a man there, the son . . . he wanted to marry me. There were few young ones in the village and they had to go miles and miles to reach the next settlement. But . . . but I still had me wedding ring on’—she held out her hand—‘and I said I must be married to somebody. They all worked it out that I’d been with me husband and child and they must have been both drowned ’cos I kept talking about the child afore I came round, so the priest said. He was on one of his visits when I was picked up. It was Miss Victoria. And . . . and then Henri pushed me off the rock and when I came up out of the water I remembered. They were all strange to me. I looked at them an’ saw them as I hadn’t afore, rough fisherfolk, rougher than anything you see round here, livin’ from hand to mouth. They only had two old boats atween the lot of them. It was his, Henri’s boat, that picked me up. He’—Her voice trailed away now, as she ended, ‘He sort of felt I belonged to him ’cos of that.’

When she raised her eyes again to Jimmy she said softly, ‘They all came and saw me off. They walked the five miles with me to where we met the priest and he took me on to the next village in the cart. And you know something? He warned me, that priest. He warned me that things would’ve changed. And do you know what I said to him, Jimmy? I said to him, “Well I know, Father, of one who won’t have changed, me husband . . .’

It was half an hour later when they’d almost finished the meal that Jimmy, scraping the fat up from his plate with a piece of bread, said tentatively, ‘What’ll happen, Janie, if . . . if he won’t leave her?’

‘He’s got to leave her. He’s got no other option, it’s the law.’

‘Janie—’ He chewed on the fat-soaked piece of bread, swallowed it, then said, ‘Rory’s never cared much for the law. I mean he hasn’t bothered about what people think. What if he says, I mean ’cos of the bairn comin’, “To hell with the law!” and stays with her, what then?’

‘What then? Well, she’ll be living in sin won’t she? And she’s prominent in the town, and the gentry won’t stand for that, not in the open they won’t. Things can happen on the side, but if it came out in court that he wouldn’t take me back, and me his wife, and he went on living with her, why neither of them would dare show their faces. There’s things that can be done and things that can’t be done, especially in Westoe; it isn’t like along the riverfront here. And he’ll find that out. Oh aye, he’ll find that out.’

It was at this point in the conversation that the door opened and Rory entered. She did not turn and look at him, and he walked slowly towards the fireplace.

Jimmy, rising flustered from the table, said, ‘Hello there.’

Rory nodded towards him, but gave him no reply. He had taken off his hat and was holding it in one hand which was hanging by his side; then looking at Janie he said, ‘Do you think we could talk quietly?’