The Gambling Man

‘Be careful, Connor, be careful. Mind who you’re speaking to. You know what happens to cheeky individuals; there’s never an empty place that cannot be filled. I know that you’re finished at one, and damned lucky you are to be finished at one, but you should have been back here before one and your book settled, and then you could have been finished at one . . . And what’s the matter with you?’ He was now glaring at John George. ‘You sick or something?’

John George gulped, shook his head, and remained standing where he was on the threshold of the door.

And this caused Mr Kean to yell, ‘Well, come in, man! What’s come over you? Close the door before we’re all blown out. And let me have your books; I want to get away.’

With this, Mr Kean turned about and went through a door into another room. The door was half glass, but it was clear glass, clear in order that the master could look through it at any time and see that his two clerks weren’t idling at their desks.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Rory had taken hold of John George’s shoulder. ‘You look like death, what is it?’

John George gulped twice in his throat before he whispered, ‘Lend . . . lend me ten bob.’

‘Lend you ten bob?’

‘Aye. Look, just for now, I’ll have it for you Monday mornin’. Just . . . just lend it me. Aw, Rory, lend it me. For God’s sake, lend it me.’

Rory looked towards the glass door and as he put his hand into his pocket, he hissed, ‘You were paid last night.’

‘Aye, I know, but I’ll explain, I’ll explain in a minute or two.’ The hand he held out was trembling and when Rory put the gold half sovereign on to the palm John George’s fingers pressed over it tightly for a moment before swiftly dropping it into the leather bag which he still held in his hand.

‘Come on, come on.’

They exchanged glances before John George turned away and almost stumbled across the room and into his master’s office.

Rory remained gazing at the half open door . . . He was on the fiddle. The damn fool was on the fiddle. It was that lass. God, if he hadn’t been here and old Kean had found him ten shillings short!

Mr Kean’s voice came bawling out of the room again, saying, ‘What’s the matter with you, Armstrong? You look as if you’re going to throw up.’ Then John George’s voice, thin and trembling, ‘Bit of a chill, sir. Got a cold I think.’

There was a pause, then Mr Kean’s observation: ‘That coat’s new, isn’t it? You shouldn’t feel cold in that. About time you did smarten yourself up. Bad impression to go around the doors looking like a rag man.’ Another pause before his voice again rasped, ‘Mrs Arnold, she’s paid nothing off the back for four weeks. Why haven’t you seen to it?’

‘She’s been bad. She . . . she took to her bed a few weeks ago. But she says she’ll clear it up soon because her girl’s got set on across the water at Haggie’s . . . the Ropery you know.’

‘Yes, I know, I know the Ropery. And I know the type that works there. She’ll likely drink her pay before she gets back across the water. She’s got others working, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes. Yes, she’s got a lad down the pit. But . . . but he’s only a nipper, he’s not getting more than tenpence a day. She’s . . . she’s had hard times since her man went.’

‘That’s neither my business nor yours, I don’t want the family history, I only want the rent and the back rent. Now you see to it. You’re getting slack, Armstrong. I’ve noticed it of late.’

There followed another silence before John George returned to the outer office, his face looking bleak, his eyes wide and in their depth a misery that caused Rory to turn away, pick up his bag and go into the other room.

When he had placed the money from the bag on the table, Mr Kean separated each single coin with his forefinger, then after counting them he raised his eyes without lifting his head and said, ‘You mean to tell me this is the result of a morning’s work?’

‘It was Saltbank Row and Pilbey Street.’

‘I know damned well it was Saltbank Row and Pilbey Street, it’s always Saltbank Row and Pilbey Street on a Saturday, but what I’m saying to you is, do you mean to tell me that’s all you got out of them?’

Rory moved one lip over the other before replying, It’s always the same near Christmas.’

‘Look!’ The thick neck was thrust forward, then the head went back on the shoulders and Mr Kean directed an enraged stare on to Rory’s grim face as he cried, ‘One gives me family histories, the other festival dates as excuses. Now look, I’m telling you they’re not good enough, neither one nor the other, Christmas or no Christmas. If that sum’—he now dug his finger on to one coin after another—’if it isn’t doubled at the next collection then there’ll be a lot of barrows needed to shift their muck. You tell them that from me. And that’s final.’ Again he stabbed the coins. ‘Double that amount or it’s the bums for the lot of ’em.’

When Rory turned abruptly from the table Mr Kean barked at him, ‘Answer me when I’m speaking to you!’