The Gambling Man

down.

He now drew his hand down over his face, stretching the skin, and he looked at her sitting staring at him accusingly. Jimmy had said she had changed, and she had, and in all ways. She looked like some peasant woman who had lived in the wilds all her life. The dark skirt she was wearing was similar to that worn by the fishwives, only it looked as if she had never stepped out of it for years. Her blouse was of a coarse striped material and on her feet she had clogs. Why, she had never worn clogs even when she was a child and things were pretty tight. Her boots then, like his own, had been cobbled until they were nothing but patches, but she had never worn clogs.

Aw, poor Janie . . . Poor all of them . . . Poor Charlotte. Oh my God! Charlotte.

‘I’m sorry I came back.’ Her voice was high now. ‘I’ve upset your nice little life, haven’t I? But I am back, and alive, so what you going to do about it? You’ll have to tell her, won’t you? Your Miss Kean . . . My God! You marryin’ her of all people! Her! But then you’d do anything to make money, wouldn’t you?’

‘I didn’t marry her for . . .’ The words sprang out of his mouth of their own volition and he clenched his teeth and bowed his head, while he was aware that she had risen to her feet again.

Now she was nodding at him, her head swinging like that of a golliwog up and down, up and down, before she said, ‘Well, well! This is something to know. You didn’t marry her for her money. Huh! You’re tellin’ me you didn’t marry her for her money. So you married her because you wanted her? You wanted her, that lanky string of water, her that you used to make fun of?’

‘Shut up! My God! it’s as Jimmy said, you’re different, you’re changed. And yet not all that. No, not all that. Looking back, you had a hard streak in you; I sensed it years ago. And aye, it’s true what I said, I . . . I didn’t marry her for her money, but it’s also true that I didn’t marry her ’cos . . . ’cos I was in love with her.’ He swallowed deeply and turned his head to the side and, his voice a mutter now, he said, ‘She was lonely. I was lonely. That’s . . . that’s how it was.’

‘And how is it now?’

He couldn’t answer because it was wonderful now, or at least it had been.

‘You can’t say, can you? My God, it’s a pity I didn’t die. Aye, that’s what you’re thinkin’, isn’t it? Eeh! I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.’ She was holding her head in her hands now, her body rocking. Then of a sudden she stopped and glared at him as she said, ‘Well, she’ll have to be told, won’t she? She’ll have to be told that you can have only one wife.’

As he stared back at her he was repeating her words, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ for he couldn’t believe what he was recognizing at this moment, that it could be possible for a man to change in such a short time as two years and look at a woman he had once loved and say to himself, ‘Yes, only one wife, and it’s not going to be you, not if I can help it’—What was he thinking? What was he thinking?

He was trapped. Standing before him was his wife, his legal wife, and he’d have to tell Charlotte that his wife had come back and that she herself had no claim to him and the child in her couldn’t take his name. He couldn’t do it. What was more, he wouldn’t do it. He heard his voice saying now, clearly and firmly, ‘I can’t tell her.’

‘You what!’

‘I said I can’t tell her, she’s going to have a ch . . . bairn.’ He had almost said child, so much had even his vocabulary changed.

There was complete silence in the room, until Jimmy moved. He had been standing at the side of the fireplace and now his foot jerked and he kicked the brass fender, which caused them both to look towards him. And then she said, ‘Well, it’s going to be hard on her, isn’t it, bringing up a bairn without a father? But then, her way will be smoothed, money’s a great compensation. Oh yes, money’s a great compensation. You can make things happen when you’ve got money. I had four sovereigns. The mistress give them to me to buy presents for you all to bring home. I put them in me little bag, an’ you know me an’ me little bag. Whenever I changed I used to pin it under me skirt, and when they found me there was me little bag still pinned under me skirt. But I didn’t know anything about it until I got me memory back. Madame, the old woman I lived with, had taken it, but when I came to meself and wanted to come home and didn’t know how, the son put the bag into me hand. He was very honest, the son, and so I travelled in luxury all the way here. First, in the bottom of a cart with pigs; then for miles on foot, sleeping on the floors of mucky inns; then the boat; and lastly, the back end of the train, like a cattle-truck; and—’ and now she screamed at him—‘you’re no more sorry for me than you would be for a mangy dog lying in the gutter. The only thing you’re worried about is that I’ve come back and your grand life is to be brought to an end. Well, if you don’t tell her, I will; I’m not gona be pushed aside, I’m gona have me place.’

‘Janie. Janie.’ His voice was soft, pleading, and she stopped her ranting and stared at him, her face quivering but her eyes still dry. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll do what I think is right. In . . . in the end I’ll do what I think is right. But give me a little time, will you? A few days, time to sort things out, to . . . to get used to—’ He gulped in his throat. ‘You can have what money you want . . .’

‘I don’t want your money. Anyway, ’tisn’t your money, you’ve never worked for it, it’s her money.’

‘I do work for it, begod! and hard at that.’ His voice was loud now, harsh. ‘I work harder now than ever I’ve done in me life. And now I’m goin’ to tell you something, an’ it’s this. Don’t push me; don’t drive me too far. This . . . this has come as a surprise. Try to understand that, but remember I’m still Rory Connor and I won’t be pushed.’ He paused for a moment, then ended, ‘I’ll . . . I’ll be back the morrow night,’ and on this he swung round on his heel and went out.

Jimmy, casting a look at Janie, where she was standing now, her hands hanging limply by her side and her mouth open, turned and followed him. In the yard he saw the dim outline of Rory standing where he himself had stood earlier in the evening against the stanchion post, and he went up to him and put his hand on his arm, and held it for a moment before saying, ‘I’m sorry, Rory. I’m sorry to the heart of me, but . . . but you can’t blame her.’

‘What am I going to do, Jimmy?’ The question came out as a groan.

‘I don’t know, Rory. Honest to God, I don’t know. Charlotte ’ll be in a state. I’m sorry, I mean I’m sorry for Charlotte.’

‘I . . . I can’t leave her, I can’t leave Charlotte. There’s her condition and . . . Oh dear God! what am I goin’ to do? Look, Jimmy.’ He bent down to him. ‘Persuade her to stay here out of the way, don’t let her go up home. Look, give her this.’ He thrust his hand into an inner pocket and, pulling out a chamois leather bag, emptied a number of sovereigns on to Jimmy’s palm. ‘Make her get some decent clothes; she looks like something that’s just been dug up. I could never imagine her letting herself go like that, could you?’

‘No. No, Rory. I told you, she’s . . . she’s changed. She must have gone through it. You’ll have to remember that, she must have gone through it.’

‘Aye, and now she’s going to make us all go through it.’

As he moved across the yard Jimmy went with him, saying, ‘Where you makin’ for? Where were you going’?’

‘To a game.’

‘Game? Does Charlotte know?’

Rory stopped again and said quietly, ‘Aye, Charlotte knows and she doesn’t mind. As long as I’m happy, doing something that makes me happy, she doesn’t mind; all she minds is that she’ll ever lose me. Funny, isn’t it?’

They peered at each other through the darkness. ‘Where you goin’ now, back home?’

‘No, no, I’ll . . . I’ll have to go on to the game. They’re expecting me, and if I didn’t turn up some­thing would be said. Anyway, I’ve got to think. I’m . . . I’m nearly out of me mind.’

Jimmy made no reply to this and Rory, touching him on the shoulder by way of farewell, went up the yard and out of the gate.

He did not go straight to Plynlimmon Way but walked for a good half-hour, and when at last he arrived at the house Frank Nickle greeted him with, ‘Well, Connor, we thought you weren’t coming, we’ve been waiting some—’ he drew from the pocket of his spotted grey waistcoat a gold lever watch attached to a chain across his chest—‘three quarters of an hour.’

‘I . . . I was held up.’

‘Are you all right? Are you unwell?’

‘Just . . . just a bit off colour.’