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.
‘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.
‘
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
