The Gambling Man

He felt a stir of excitement in his stomach at the thought of getting set-in in a big school; none of your tanner pitch and tosses or find the lady, but banker with a kitty up to twenty pounds a go. By, that was talking. Twenty pounds a go. Once in there it wouldn’t be long afore he could set up house—he and Janie, setting up house. He wanted to get married, he ached for Janie. And that was the right word, ached. At night he would toss and turn until he would have to get up and put the soles of his feet on the ice-cold square of lino that stood between the beds.

He’d see her the morrow. Just to be with her lifted him out of the doldrums; just to look at her pulled at his heart, ’cos she was bonny, beautiful. And he wasn’t spending the whole afternoon the morrow playing cards for monkey nuts. Huh! He wondered why he let himself in for it Sunday after Sunday. No, hail, rain or shine they’d go out up the lanes, and he’d settle things in his own way. Aye he would.

‘Rory! Rory!’

He turned swiftly and looked up the dock bank to see John George pushing his way through a press of men towards him, and when he came up Rory stared at him saying, ‘You’re late, aren’t you? You’re generally done around twelve.’

‘I know, but there was an accident back there at the Boldon Lane toll-gate. I helped to sort the carts out. A young lad got crushed. Toll’s finished next year they say, an’ a good thing an’ all.’

‘Getting into a throng with money in your bag, you must be mad . . . And where did you get that?’

Rory was now looking John George over from head to foot. ‘You knock somebody down?’

Stroking the lapels of a thick brown overcoat that, although a little short, fitted his thin body, John George said, ‘I picked it up last Saturday in Newcastle, in the market.’

‘What did you give for it?’

‘Half a dollar.’

‘Well you weren’t robbed, it’s good material. You should have got yourself some boots while you were on.’ He glanced down at the cracked toecaps. ‘It’s a wonder the old fellow hasn’t spotted them and pulled you up. You know what he is for appearances.’

‘I’m going to see about a pair the day when I’m up there.’

‘You’re going to Newcastle again?’

‘Aye.’ John George now turned his head and smiled at Rory. ‘I’m meeting her on the three o’clock train an’ I’m going to show her round. Look’—he thrust his hand into the overcoat pocket, then brought out a small box wrapped in tissue paper—’I bought her this for Christmas. What do you think of it?’

When Rory took the lid off the box and looked at the heart-shaped locket and chain he stared at it for some seconds before turning to John George again and asking quietly, ‘What did you give for it?’

‘Not . . . not what it’s worth, it’s second-hand. It’s a good one.’

‘What did you give for it?’

‘Seven and six.’

‘Seven and six! Are you mad? How can you afford seven and six? You tell me that your Aunt Meg needs every penny to keep the house goin’ and three bob’s as much as you can keep back.’

‘Well, it’s . . . it’s true. But . . . but I worked out a system.’

‘You worked out a system, you!’ Rory screwed up his face. ‘You worked out a system! On what? Tell me on what?’

‘Aw, not now, man, not now. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you after . . . later on. I wanted to have a word with you about something else . . . You see I’m thinking of moving, trying to get a better job. I could never hope to get Maggie away on the wage I’ve got and having to see to them at home and . . .’

‘Where could you get a better job than what you’ve got?’

‘There’s places in Newcastle.’

‘Aye, I know there’s places in Newcastle, but them chaps don’t get even as much as we do. There’s no trade unions yelling for us. I’m not satisfied, but I know damn well that if I want more money I won’t get it at rent clerking. Look, are you in some kind of fix?’

‘No, no.’ John George shook his head too vigorously and Rory, eyeing him from the side, shook his head also. They walked on in silence, taking short cuts until they came to the market, then they wound their way between the conglomeration of stalls, turned down a narrow side lane known as Tangard Street, and past what appeared to be the window of an empty shop, except that the bottom half, which was painted black, had written across it: Septimus Kean, Estate Agent, Valuer, and Rent Collector. Next to the window was a heavy door with a brass knob that had never seen polish, and above it a keyhole.

As John George was about to insert his key into the lock the door was pulled open from inside and they were both confronted by Mr Kean himself.

‘Oh! . . . Oh! Mr Kean. We thought you were away.’

The small, heavy-jowled man looked at Rory and barked, ‘Evidently. Do you know what time it is?’ He pulled out a watch, snapped open the case and turned the face towards Rory. Ten minutes past one. When the cat’s away the mice can play.’

‘But we finish at one.’ Rory’s voice was harsh, the muscles of his neck were standing out and his face was flushed with sudden temper.