The Gambling Man

‘Aw, I know that, lass, I know that. It’s me temper gets the better of me.’ She turned from hacking lumps of meat from the brisket bone and, looking full at Janie, she said, ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, it’s funny, but you understand, lass, don’t you?’

‘Aye, I understand, Lizzie. Aw, don’t worry, he understands an’ all.’

‘I wish I could think so.’

‘He does, he does.’

Lizzie now put the knife down on the table and, bringing one plump hand up, she pressed it tightly across her chin as she remarked, ‘I’m not a bad woman, Janie, I never was.’

‘Aw, Lizzie, Lizzie.’ Janie, her arms outstretched now, put them around the fat warm body of Lizzie O’Dowd, whom she had known and loved since she was a child; even before her own mother had died she had loved Lizzie O’Dowd as if she were a second mother, or perhaps she had placed her first, she was never quite certain in her own mind; and now, their cheeks pressed close for a moment, she whispered, ‘It’ll all come right. It’ll all come right in the end, you’ll see.’

‘Aye, yes. Yes, you’re right, lass.’ Lizzie turned her away as she roughly swept the tears from her cheeks with the side of her finger. Then picking up the knife again and her head bowed once more, she muttered, ‘I think the world of Ruth an’ I always have. She’s the best of women . . . . Life isn’t easy, Janie’

‘I know it isn’t, Lizzie. And Ruth’s fond of you, you know she is. She couldn’t do without you. None of us could do without you.

‘Ah, lass.’ Lizzie was smiling now, a denigrating smile. ‘Everybody can be done without.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Have a walk around the cemetery the next time you’re out.’

‘Aw. Lizzie—’ Janie was leaning against her shoulder now laughing—’you’re the limit. You know, every time I feel down I think of you.’

‘Huh, that’s a left-handed compliment if ever heard one: When you’re down you think of me. You can’t get much lower than down, can you?’

‘You!’ Janie now pushed her. ‘You know what I mean. Look, is that enough bread?’

‘That! It wouldn’t fill a holey tooth; you’d better start on another loaf . . . How is that nice family of yours?

‘Oh, lovely as always, lovely, Eeh! you know I often  wonder what would have become of me, I mean what  kind of job I would’ve got in the end. I’d likely have landed up in some factory, like most others, if I hadn’t  had that bit of luck. Life’s so different there, the furniture, the food, everything. The way they talk the master and mistress, I mean. Do you understand,  Lizzie? You know I’m not bein’ an upstart but I like bein’ there. Mind you, that’s not to say I don’t like comin’ home; I love coming home, even when I know me grannie is goin’ to choke me with words and her bloomin’ old sayin’s. Eeh! the things that she remembers.’ They were laughing again. Then she ended, ‘But there’s different kinds of life . . . I mean livin’, Lizzie. You know what I mean?’

‘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.’