The Gambling Man Read online

  ‘Aye, lass, I know what you mean, although I’ve never lived any other kind of life but this and I don’t want to, not for meself I don’t, but for you and . . . and others. Yes, yes, I know what you mean.’ She now placed portions of the meat on the slices of dry bread which she then stacked on a plate. Patting the last one, she exclaimed, ‘Well now, let’s go and feed the five thousand an’ find out if it’s tea they want or if they’re goin’ to get the cans on.’

  In the kitchen once more, Lizzie slapped down the heaped plate of meat and bread in the middle of the table, saying, ‘Is it tea or are you gettin’ the cans on?’

  The men glanced furtively from one to the other, their eyes asking a question. Then Paddy and Bill turned simultaneously and looked towards the women, and as usual it was Lizzie who answered them, crying loudly now, ‘There’s none of us goin’ trapesing down there the night an’ it fit to cut the lugs off you. If you want your beer there’s the cans.’ She thrust out her thick arm and pointed towards four assorted cans, their lids dangling by pieces of string from the handles.

  The men made no answer but still continued to look towards the women, and then Ruth spoke. Quietly and in levelled tones, she said, ‘It’s Sunday.’

  The men sighed and turned back to the table again, and Bill Waggett muttered under his breath, ‘An’ that’s that then. Bloody Sunday. You know’—he glanced up from the cards and, catching Jimmy’s attention, he nodded at him, saying softly, ‘I hate Sundays. I always have hated Sundays ever since I was a lad ’cos she kept me going harder on a Sunday than when I was at work.’ He had inclined his head backwards towards the fire-place and had hardly finished speaking when his mother, her dewlap chin wobbling, cried across the room, ‘Lazy bugger! you always were. Wouldn’t even kick when you were born; slid out like a dead fly on hot fat.’

  As the roars of laughter filled the kitchen Bill Waggett turned towards his mother and yelled, ‘That’s a fine thing to say; you should be ashamed of yersel.’ He now looked towards Ruth as if apologizing, but she was being forced to smile, and Ruth rarely smiled or laughed at ribaldry.

  ‘Remember the day he was born.’ Old Mrs Waggett had got their attention now. ‘Me mother an’ me grannie pulled him out, an’ I remember me grannie’s very words. “Like a Saturday night rabbit he is,” she said. You know’—she turned towards Janie—’when the last of the rabbits are left in the market, all weary skin an’ bone? “You’ll never rear him,” she said; “he’ll go along with the other five.” But I never had no luck, he didn’t.’

  She now glanced in impish affection towards her son, where he was sitting, his head bowed, moving it slowly from side to side. The movement had a despairing finality about it. His mother had started and it would take some kind of an event to stop her, especially when as now she had the ears of everyone in the room. He could never understand why people liked listening to her.

  ‘And it was me own mother who looked at him lying across her hands an’ said, “I don’t think you need worry about the press gang ever chasin’ him, Nancy.” An’ you know somethin’? The press gang nearly got me dad once. Around seventeen ninety it was. I’m not sure of the year, one, two or three, but I do know that all the lads of the Tyne, the sailors like, put their heads together; they were havin’ no more of it. They, ran the press gang out of the town, North Shields that is, not this side. Then in come the regiment. Barricaded the town, they did, an’ forced the lads on board the ships. But me dad managed to get over to this side of the water; he said himself he never knew how.’

  ‘He walked on it.’

  There were loud guffaws of laughter now and Gran cried back at her son, ‘Aye, an’ he could have done that an’ all, for at one time you could walk across the river. Oh aye, they once made a bridge with boats, me mother said, and laid planks over ’em, and a whole regiment passed over. The river’s changed.’ She nodded from one to the other. ‘You know, me grannie once told me they caught so much salmon on the Tyne that it was sold at a farthin’ a pound. It was, it was. Can you believe that? A farthin’ a pound!’

  ‘Yes, yes, Gran.’ All except her son were nodding at her.

  ‘And I don’t need to go as far back as me grannie’s or even me mother’s time to remember the great shoals of fish that were caught in these waters. An’ there were nowt but keels and sailin’ ships takin’ the coal away then. None of your Palmer’s iron boats. What did you say, our Bill?’ She frowned towards her son. ‘ “Oh my God!” that’s what you said. Well, I’m glad you think of Him as yours.’

  She joined in the titter that now went round the room. Then nodding her head from one to the other, she went on, ‘Talkin’ of coal. I can remember as far back as when Simon Temple opened his pit at Jarrow. I was only eight at the time but by! I remember that do. The militia was marching, the bands playing, an’ when he got to Shields market the lads pulled the horses from his carriage and drew him themselves. His sons were with him and his old dad. They pulled them all the way to the Don Bridge, where the gentlemen of Jarrow met him. And that was the day they laid the stone for the school for the bairns of his workmen. By! I remember it as if it was yesterday. Simon Temple.’ She shook her head and lapsed for a moment into the memory of one of the rare days of jollification in her childhood.

  In the pause that followed Collum Leary put in, ‘Simon Temple. Aye, an’ all the bloody coal owners. Grand lads, grand fellows, great gentlemen. Oh aye, especially when they’re shedding crocodile tears over the dead. Ninety-nine men and lads lost in the Fellon pit and over twenty at Harrington . . . .’

  ‘That was a long time ago, Collum.’ Grannie Waggett thrust her chin out at the small man who had usurped her position of storyteller and he turned on her, no longer jocular as he cried, ‘Don’t be daft, Gran. It’s happenin’ almost every month in one pit or t’other. Don’t be daft, woman.’

  ‘Leave be. Leave be.’ It was the first time Kathleen Leary had spoken and her husband looked at her as he repeated, ‘Leave be, leave be, you say. Bloody coal owners!’

  The mood of the kitchen had changed as it nearly always did when the subject of work was brought up, whether it was Paddy Connor talking of the steel works or Bill Waggett of the conditions in the docks, or Collum Leary of the soul destroying work in the mines; and nearly always it was on a Sunday when the atmosphere would become charged with bitterness because nearly always on a Sunday Grannie Waggett was present.

  ‘Come on, Gran.’ Janie had taken hold of her grandmother’s arm.

  ‘What! What you after? Leave me be.’

  ‘It’s time we were goin’ in.’ Janie nodded towards the wall. ‘An’ I’ll soon be making for the road.’

  Grannie Waggett stared up into Janie’s face for a moment. Then her head nodding, she said, ‘Aye, aye, lass; I forgot you’ll soon be making for the road. Well—’ She pulled herself up out of the chair saying now, ‘Where’s me shawl?’

  Janie brought the big black shawl from where it had been draped over the head of a three-seated wooden saddle standing against the far wall pressed between a battered chest of drawers and a surprisingly fine Dutch wardrobe.

  The old woman now nodded, first to Ruth, then to Nellie, then to Lizzie, and finally to Kathleen Leary, and to each she said, ‘So long,’ and each answered her kindly, saying, ‘So long, Gran,’ and as she made for the door with Janie behind her, Lizzie called to her, ‘Put the oven shelf in the bed, you’ll need it the night.’

  ‘I will, I will. Oh my God! look at that,’ she cried, as she opened the door. ‘It’s comin’ down thicker than ever.’ She turned her head and looked into the room again. ‘We’re in for it, another window-sill winter. I can smell it.’

  Janie had taken an old coat from the back of the door and as she hugged it around her she glanced back towards the table and Rory, and when she said, ‘Half an hour?’ he smiled and nodded at her.

  ‘Go on, Gran, go on; you’ll blow them all out.’ Janie went to press her grandmother on to the outer step, but the old la
dy resisted firmly, saying, ‘Stop a minute. Stop a minute. Look, there’s somebody coming in at the gate.’

  Janie went to her side and peered into the darkness. Then again looking back into the room, she cried, ‘It’s John George.’

  Rising slowly from the table and coming towards the door, Rory said, ‘He wasn’t coming the night; he mustn’t have been able to see her.’

  ‘Hello, John George.’

  ‘Hello there, Janie.’ John George Armstrong stood scraping his boots on the iron ring attached to the wall as he added, ‘Hello there, Gran.’

  And Gran’s reply was, ‘Well, come on in if you’re comin’ an’ let us out, else I’ll be frozen stiffer than a corpse.’

  Janie now pressed her grannie none too gently over the step and as she passed John George she said, ‘See you later, John George.’

  ‘Aye, see you later, Janie,’ he replied before entering the kitchen and closing the door behind him and replying to a barrage of greetings.

  Having hung his coat and hard hat on the back of the door he took his place at the table, and Rory asked briefly, ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Oh, the usual . . . . You playing cards?’ The obvious statement was a polite way of telling the company that he didn’t wish to discuss the reason for his unexpected presence among them tonight in and they accepted this.

  ‘Want to come in?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  As John George and Rory exchanged a tight smile Bill Waggett said, ‘You’d better tighten your belt, lad, an’ hang on to your trousers ’cos he’s in form the night. Cleared me out of monkey nuts.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh aye. We were sayin’ he should go to America and make his fortune on one of them boats.’

  ‘He needn’t go as far as that, Mr Waggett, there’s plenty of games goin’ on in Shields and across the water, and they tell me that fortunes are made up in Newcastle.’

  ‘Gamblin’! That’s all anybody hears in this house, gamblin’. Do you want a mug of tea?’ Lizzie was bending over John George, and he turned his long thin face up to her and smiled at her kindly as he answered, ‘It would be grand, Lizzie.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I’ve had me tea.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, not so long ago.’

  ‘Have you a corner for a bite?’

  ‘I’ve always got a corner for a bite, Lizzie.’ Again he smiled kindly at her, and she pushed him roughly, saying, ‘Death warmed up, that’s what you look like. Good food’s lost on you. Where does it go? You haven’t a pick on your bones.’

  ‘Thoroughbreds are always lean, Lizzie.’

  As she turned and walked away towards the scullery she said, ‘They should have put a brick on yer head when you were young to make you grow sideways instead of up.’

  The game proceeded with its usual banter until the door opened again and Janie entered, fully dressed now for the road in a long brown cloth coat to which was attached a shoulder cape of the same material. It was an elegant coat and like all the clothes she now wore had been passed on to her from her mistress. Her hat, a brown velour, with a small flat brim, was perched high on the top of her head, and its colour merged with the shining coils of her hair. The hat was held in place by two velvet ribbons coming from beneath the brim and tied under her chin. She had fine woollen gloves on her hands. The only articles of her apparel which did not point to taste were her boots. These were heavy-looking and buttoned at the side. It was very unfortunate, Jane considered, that her feet should be two sizes bigger than her mistress’s, yet she always comforted herself with the thought that her skirt and coat covered most parts of her boots and there was ever only the toes showing, except when she was crossing the muddy roads and the wheels of the carts and carriages were spraying clarts all over the place.

  ‘Eeh! by! you look bonny.’ Lizzie came towards her, but before reaching her she turned to Rory, who was rising from the table, saying, ‘You going to keep her waiting all night? Get a move on.’

  The quick jerk of Rory’s head, the flash of his eyes and the further straightening of his lips caused Janie to say quickly, ‘There’s plenty of time, there’s plenty of time. I’ve got a full hour afore I’m due in. Look, it’s only eight o’clock.’

  It’ll take you all that to walk from here to Westoe an’ the streets covered.’

  ‘No, it won’t, Lizzie. When I get goin’ George Wilson, the Newcastle walker, or me grannie’s fusiliers aren’t in it.’ She now swung her arms and did a standing march and ended, ‘Grenadier Waggett, the woman walker from Wallsend!’ Then stopping abruptly amid the laughter, she looked to where John George was taking his coat from the back of the door, and she asked flatly, ‘You’re not comin’ surely? You haven’t been here five minutes.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back, Janie, me Uncle Willy’s not too good.’

  ‘Was he ever?’

  The aside came from Lizzie and as Ruth went to admonish her with a quick shake of her head Rory turned on her a look that could only be described as rage, for it was contorting his features. He did not shout at her, but his low tone conveyed his feelings more than if he had bawled as he said, ‘Will you hold your tongue, woman, an’ mind your own business for once!’

  Strangely Lizzie did not turn on him, but she looked at him levelly for a moment and countered his anger with almost a placid expression as she said, ‘I’ve spent me life mindin’ me own business, lad, an’ me own business is to take care of those I’m concerned for, and I’m concerned for John George there. That uncle and aunt of his live off him. And what I’m sayin’ now I’ve said afore to his face, haven’t I, John George?’

  ‘You have that, Lizzie. And I like you mindin’ me business, it’s a comforter.’

  ‘There you are.’ She nodded towards Rory, who now had his back to her as he made his way down the long narrow room towards the ladder at the end that led into the loft, which place was Jimmy’s and his bedroom and had been since they were children, one end of it at one time having been curtained off to accommodate Nellie.

  With no further words, Lizzie now went into the scullery, and Janie began saying her good-byes. When she came to Nellie she bent over her and said below her breath, ‘You all right, Nellie?’

  ‘Aye. Aye, Janie, I’m all right.’

  Janie stared down into the peaked face; she knew Nellie wasn’t all right, she had never been all right since she married. Nellie’s marriage frightened her. Charlie Burke had courted Nellie for four years and was never off the doorstep, and Sunday after Sunday they had laughed and larked on like bairns in this very room. But not any more, not since she had been married but a few months. It was something to do with—the bedroom. Neither her grannie nor Lizzie had spoken to her about it and, of course, it went without saying that Ruth wouldn’t mention any such thing. But from little bits that she had overheard between Lizzie and her grannie she knew Nellie’s trouble lay in—the bedroom, and the fact that she had not fallen with a bairn and her all of three years married. Charlie Burke rarely came up to the house any more on a Sunday. Of course he had an excuse; he worked on the coal boats and so could be called out at any time to take a load up the river.

  Janie now went into the kitchen to say good-bye to Lizzie.

  Lizzie was standing with her hands holding the rim of the tin dish that rested on a little table under the window, which sloped to the side as if following the line of the roof.

  ‘I’m off then Lizzie.’

  Without turning and her voice thick and holding a slight tremor, Lizzie said in answer, ‘He’s a bloody upstart. Do you know that, Janie? He’s a bloody snot. I’m sorry to say this, lass, but he is.’

  ‘He’s not; you know he’s not, Lizzie.’ She shook her head at the older woman. ‘An’ you’re as much to blame as he is. Now yes you are.’ She bent sidewards and wagged her finger into the fat face, and Lizzie, her eyes blinking rapidly, put out her hand and touched the cream skin that glowed w
ith health and youth and said, ‘Lass, you’re too good for him. And it isn’t the day or yesterday I’ve said it, now is it? He’s damned lucky.’

  ‘So am I, Lizzie.’

  ‘Aw, lass.’ Lizzie smiled wryly. ‘You’d say thank you if you were dished up with a meat puddin’ made of lights, you would that.’

  ‘Well, and why not? And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve eaten lights.’

  They pushed against each other with their hands; then Janie said, ‘Remember that starving Christmas? How old was I? Ten, eleven? No work, strikes, trouble. Eeh! we had lights all right then. Me grannie cooked them seven different ways every week.’ She paused and they looked at each other. ‘Bye-bye, Lizzie.’

  Spontaneously now Janie put her arms around Lizzie and kissed her, and Lizzie hugged her to herself. It was an unusual demonstration of affection. People didn’t go kissing and clarting on in public, it wasn’t proper; everybody knew that, even among engaged couples kissing and clarting on was kept for the dark country lanes, or if you were from the town, and common, a back lane or shop doorway; the only proper place for kissing and darting on was a front room, if you had one; if not, well then you had to wait for the bedroom, as every respectable person knew. She was going to wait for the bedroom, by aye she was that, even although she wasn’t all that taken with what she understood happened in the bedroom.

  She now disengaged herself and went hurriedly from the scullery, leaving Lizzie once more gripping each side of the tin dish.