Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

Then again she was alone for a time and she stood staring unblinking at the house. She did not move when the carter and three other men came down the steps and mounted the cart and rode away.

She did not know how long she stood there before she saw the carriage return and the doctor, carrying his leather bag, get out and hurry into the house, but she imagined that it was near on two hours before he came out of the house again.

As he went to get into the carriage she seemed to come out of a trance and, stumbling towards him, asked, ‘Please, please. How is he? How are they?’

The doctor looked her up and down, her odd hat, her cloak, her clogs. She looked like a field peasant from the last century, and not a peasant of this country either. He peered at her for a moment before he answered, ‘The young man will survive but Mr Connor is very ill, seriously so.’ He made an abrupt movement with his head, then stepped up into the carriage, and the driver, after giving her a hard stare, mounted the box, turned the carriage and was about to drive away when a servant came running down the steps, calling, ‘Will! Will!’ When the coachman pulled the horses up, the servant, gripping the side handle, looked up at him and said quickly, ‘The mistress, she says, you’re to go straight on after dropping the doctor and . . . and bring the master’s people. You know where.’

‘Aye. Aye.’ The coachman nodded and cracked his whip and the horses once again sped down the drive.

The servant now looked at the woman standing to the side of the balustrade. ‘Do you want something?’ she asked.

Janie shook her head.

‘Did . . . did you come with them?’

Janie nodded once.

The servant now looked her up and down. She had never seen anyone dressed like her, she looked a sketch, like a tramp, except that her face didn’t look like that of a tramp for it was young, but she looked odd, foreign, brown skin and white hair sticking out from under that funny hat. She said, ‘What do you want then?’

‘Just to know how they are.’

The voice, although low and trembling, was reassuring to the servant. She might look foreign but she was definitely from these parts.

‘They’re bad. The master’s very bad and . . . and the mistress is demented. The master’s brother, he’ll pull through. Come back in the mornin’ if you want to hear any more. Do . . . do you know them?’

‘Aye.’

‘Aw . . . well, come back in the mornin’.’

As the servant went up the steps Janie turned away, but only until she had heard the click of the door; then she stopped and took up her position again, staring at the two upper brightly lit windows.

Rory lay swathed in white oiled linen. His face was the same tone as the bandages. At five o’clock this morning he had regained consciousness and he had looked into Charlotte’s face, and she had murmured, ‘My dearest. Oh, my dearest.’

As yet he wasn’t conscious of the pain and so had tried to smile at her, but as he did so it was as if the muscles of his face had released a spring, for his body became shot with agony. He closed his eyes and groaned and turned his head to the side, and when he opened his eyes again he imagined he was dreaming, because now he was looking into Lizzie’s face. And he could see her more clearly than she could him, for her face was awash with tears. But she was crying silently.

Vaguely he thought, she generally moans like an Irish banshee when she cries . . . then, What’s she doing here? He turned his head towards Charlotte again and her face seemed to give him the answer. He was that bad. Yes, he was bad. This pain. He couldn’t stand this pain. He’d yell out. Oh God! God! what had happened him? The fire. The Pitties! The Pitties. They were murderers. He had always meant to get the Pitties but they had got him and Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . .

He said the name a number of times in his head before it reached his lips. ‘ Jimmy .’

‘He’s all right, darling. Jimmy’s all right. He’s . . . he’s in the other room, quite close. He’s all right. Go to sleep, darling, rest.’

‘Char-lotte.’

‘Yes, my dear?’

The words were again tumbling about in his mind, jumping over streams of fire, fire that came up from his finger nails into his shoulders and down into his chest. His chest was tight; he could hardly breathe but he wanted to tell her, he wanted to tell her again, make her understand, make her believe, press it deep into her that he loved her. He wanted to leave her comfort . . . What did he mean? Leave her comfort. Was he finished? Had they finally done for him? Was he going out? No. No. He could put up a fight. Aye, aye, like always he could put up a fight, play his hand well. If only the burning would stop. If he could jump in the river, take all his clothes off and jump in the river.

‘Char-lotte.’

‘Go to sleep, darling. Rest, rest. Go to sleep.’

Yes, he would go to sleep. That’s how he would fight it. He would survive; and he’d get the Pitties. Little Joe, he’d make Little Joe speak out . . . and about Nickle. God! Nickle. It was him who was the big fish, aye he was the big fish . . . Aw, God Almighty. Oh! oh, the pain . . . He only needed thirty-five pounds to get the boatyard for Jimmy. If he could get set into a good game he’d make it in two or three goes. He wanted to give Jimmy something to make up for those lousy legs he was stuck with . . . Somebody was scorching him . . . burning him up . . .

‘Drink this.’

The liquid sizzled as it hit the fire within him, then like a miracle it gradually dampened it down . . .

‘He’ll sleep for a while, lass.’

Lizzie took the glass from Charlotte’s hand and placed it on a side table and, coming round the bed, she said, ‘Come away and rest yourself.’

‘No, no; I can’t leave him.’

‘He doesn’t need you now, he needs nobody for the time being. It’s when he wakes again and that won’t be long, come away.’

Charlotte dragged her eyes from the face on the pillow and looked up into the round crumpled face of the woman she had come to think of as Rory’s aunt. Then obediently she rose from the chair and went towards the other room, and Lizzie, following her, said, ‘I would change me clothes if I was you and have a wash, then go downstairs and have a bite to eat. If you don’t, you’ll find yourself lying there along of him, and you won’t be much use to him then, will you?’

Charlotte turned and stared at the fat woman. She spoke so much sense in her offhand way. She nodded at her but didn’t speak.

Lizzie now closed the door and walked back to the bed and, sitting down, stared at her son, at the son who hadn’t given her a kind word for years. As a boy he had liked her and teased her, as a man he had insulted her, scorned her, even hated her, but all the while, through all the phases, she had loved him. And now her heart was in ribbons. He was the only thing she had of her own flesh and he was on his way out.

On the day he was born when he had lain on her arm and first grabbed at her breast she had thought, He’s strong; he’ll hold the reins through life all right. And everything he had done since seemed to have pointed the same way, for he had earned a copper here and there since he was seven. And hadn’t he been sent to school? And hadn’t he been given full-time work afore he was fourteen? And then to jump from the factory into the high position of a rent man. Moreover he had been the best dressed rent man in the town because he made enough out of his gaming to keep himself well rigged out and still have a shilling or two in his pocket. Then his latest bit of luck, marrying into this house. Who would ever have believed that would have come about? He’d always had the luck of a gambling man.