The Gambling Man

The gate opened at a touch and she went through and stood for a moment looking at the ramshackle building before her. There were steps leading up to a door and, having mounted them, she knocked gently and waited. After a short interval she knocked again, harder now, and after knocking a third time she tried the handle and found the door locked.

She descended the steps and looked about her. There was evidence of a small boat being built. She walked into the slipway, then out again and stood looking up at the windows. She could see the place as a boatyard, even though it was very small, but as a residence, never. She gave a slight shudder. Being almost on the river’s edge it would be overrun with rats and so damp. And he lived here and had spoken of it with enthusiasm!

Where was he now? Most likely at his parents’ house. Of course, that’s where he would be. Well, she couldn’t go there . . . or could she?

‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t.’

She walked out of the yard, closing the gate behind her, and again she chastised herself, sternly now. ‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t. Please retain some sense of decorum.’

But it was such a long time until tomorrow. Would he come to work? Well, the only thing she could do was to wait and see, and if he didn’t put in an appearance, then she would go to his home. It would seem quite in order to do so then.

She walked slowly back through the town. People were making their way to the churches. There were a number of carriages in the market place adjacent to St. Hilda’s. She wondered for a moment whether she should go in there, then decided not to. What would she pray for? She mustn’t be a hypocrite. She’d always prided herself on being honest, at least to herself. She went to church, but she was no church-woman. She knew why more than half the congregation attended her own particular church. Their reasons were various, but had nothing to do with God and worship: to see and be seen; to make connections. It was an established fact that it did one no harm in the business world to belong to a congregation, especially if you paid substantially for your pew and had your name inscribed on a silver name-plate.

In her loneliest moments she warned herself against cynicism knowing that if she didn’t want to lose those few people who termed themselves her friends she must keep her radical opinions to herself. But oh, she had thought so often how wonderful it would be, how comforting to have someone with whom she could talk plainly. A male. Oh, yes a male, someone like . . .

When had she first thought of him in that way? All her life seemingly. Don’t be ridiculous. Well, four and a half years was a lifetime.

Sunday was a long day, and on Monday morning she was awake early and dressed for outdoors by eight o’clock, and by a quarter to nine she was seated behind the desk in the inner office in Tangard Street.

If he were coming to work he would come here to see to the men. If he didn’t put in an appearance, well she must see to them, and once they were settled she would go on to Simonside and offer her condolences . . .

He came into the office at ten minutes to nine and she was shocked at the sight of him, and sad, truly sad; yet at the same time envious of a woman who, by her going, could pile the years almost overnight on a man.

She rose swiftly from the chair, then came round the desk and stood in front of him, saying, and with sincere feeling, ‘I’m so sorry. Now you shouldn’t have come, I didn’t expect you. You . . . you must go home and stay there as long as you feel it is necessary; there’s no hurry, I can see to things . . .’

She watched him wet his lips before saying in a voice so unlike his own in that it was quiet, like that of a sick man bereft of strength, ‘I’d . . . I’d much rather be at work, if you don’t mind.’

‘Well—’ she shook her head slowly—’it’s as you wish. But . . . but you don’t look well. And . . . and haven’t you got . . . ? Well, aren’t there things you must see to officially?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We . . . I went on Saturday. The police said they’d let me know if they heard anything further. Mr . . . Mr Buckham’s father has gone over, I’m to see him when he comes back.’

‘Oh.’ She stared into his face. It was grey, lifeless. She realized as she looked at him that his appeal did not come from his looks at all, as one might imagine, as she herself had imagined years ago, but from the vitality within, from the bumptiousness and the arrogance that was part of his nature. At the moment there was no life either in his face or in his body. But, of course, it was to be understood this was only temporary; he was under shock, he would revive . . . she would see that he revived. The decision he had taken to come straight to work was the best possible thing he could have done.

She said now, ‘Then I can leave you?’

‘Yes.’

She picked up her bag and gloves from the desk, and turning to him again, she said, ‘If you wish you may send Mr Taylor with the collection.’

‘Thanks.’ He inclined his head towards her.