‘Gamblers Never Win’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the dusk of the winter afternoon Mrs Scurridge stirred from her nap by the fire as she heard the light movements of her husband in the bedroom overhead, and she was already on her feet in the firelight and filling the soot-grimed copper kettle at the sink when he came into the big farmhouse kitchen, his thin dark hair tangled on his narrow skull, his sharp-featured face unshaven, and blurred with Saturday-afternoon sleep. He crossed the room to the fireplace without a word or a glance for her and ran his hand along the mantelshelf in search of a cigarette-end. He wore a striped flannel shirt, without collar, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and over it an unbuttoned navy blue waistcoat. Besides braces he wore a heavy leather belt buckled loosely about his thin waist. He was a shortish, bandy-legged man and he had to stretch up on his toes to bring his eyes level with the mantelshelf. After a moment’s fumbling he found the partly smoked Woodbine, and pushed a twist of paper into the fire to get a light. The first mouthful of smoke started him coughing and he was helpless for some moments, bending over and supporting himself by the palm of his hand on the tall, old-fashioned fireplace while the phlegm cracked and gurgled in his throat. When the attack had passed he spat into the fire, straightened up, wiping the spittle from his thin lips with the back of his hand, and spoke:

‘Tea ready?’

His wife pushed him aside and put the kettle on the fire, pressing it firmly down on the glowing coals.

‘It can be,’ she said, as soon ‘as you know what you want.’

She picked up the twist of paper that Scurridge had dropped in the hearth and lit the single gas mantle suspended directly over the table. The gas popped and flared, then settled down to a dim, miserable glow which revealed the heartbreaking shabbiness of the room: the square table with bulbous legs hacked and scarred by years of careless feet; the sagging chairs with their bulging springs and worn and dirty upholstery; the thin, cracked linoleum on the broad expanse of damp, stone-flagged floor; and the great brown patch of damp on the wall – as though someone had spilt a potful of coffee against the grimy wallpaper – in one corner of the room. The very atmosphere was permeated with the musty odour of damp decay, an odour which no amount of fire could drive from the house.

Scurridge reached for the morning newspaper and turned to the sports page. ‘I fancy a bit o’ bacon an’ egg,’ he said, and sat down beside the fire and placed his pointed elbows in the centres of the two threadbare patches on the arms of his chair.

His wife threw a surly glance at the upraised newspaper. ‘There is no eggs,’ she said, and Scurridge’s pale, watery, blue eyes fixed on her for the first time as he lowered the paper.

‘What y’mean “there is no eggs”?’

‘I mean what I say; I didn’t get any,’ she added with sullen defiance. ‘I couldn’t afford ’em this week. They’re five-an’-six a dozen. Something’s got to go – I can’t buy all I should as it is.’

Scurridge smacked his lips peevishly. ‘God! Oh! God. Are we at it again? It’s one bloody thing after the other. I don’t know what you do with your brass.’

‘I spend it on keeping you,’ she said. ‘God knows I get precious little out of it. Always a good table, you must have. Never anything short. Anybody ’ud think you’d never heard of the cost of living. I’ve told you time an’ again ’at it isn’t enough, but it makes no difference.’

‘Didn’t I give you another half-crown on’y the other week?’ Scurridge demanded, sitting forward in his chair. ‘Didn’t I? It’s about time you knew how to spend your brass; you’ve been housekeepin’ long enough.’

She knew the hopelessness of further argument and took refuge, as always, behind the bulwark of her apathy. She lit the gas-ring and put on the frying pan. ‘You can have some fried bread with your bacon,’ she said. ‘Will that do?’

‘I reckon it’ll have to do, won’t it?’ Scurridge said.

She turned on the upraised newspaper a look in which there was nothing of hatred or malice or rebellion, but only a dull, flat apathy, an almost unfeeling acceptance of the facts of her life, against which she only now and again raised her voice in a token protest; because, after all, she was still capable, however remotely, of comparing them with what might have been.

She laid a place for Scurridge on a newspaper at one corner of the table and while he ate there she sat huddled to the fire, nibbling at a slice of bread and jam, her left hand holding the fold of her overall close over her flaccid breasts. The skin of her face was sallow and pouchy; her hair, dark and without lustre, was drawn back in a lank sweep and knotted untidly on the nape of her neck. Her legs, once her best feature, were swollen in places with ugly blue veins. Only in her eyes, almost black, was the prettiness of her youth ever revealed, and this only momentarily when they flashed in an anger now rare. For most of the time they were like dirk windows onto a soul lost in an unmindful trance. Little more than forty-five years old, she had become already worn and aged before her time in the unending struggle of her life with Scurridge in this bleak and cheerless house which stood alone on a hillside above Cressley, an eternity from lights and noise and the warmth of human laughter.

Scurridge pushed away his plate and ran his tongue across his greasy lips. He drank the last of his tea and set the pint mug down on the table. ‘Been better wi’ an egg,’ he said. His forefinger groped into his waistcoat pocket, searching absently for another cigarette-end. ‘You want to economise,’ he said. He smacked his lips, seeming to savour the word along with the fat from the bread. ‘Economise,’ he said again.

‘What on?’ his wife asked wearily, without hope of a reasonable answer. She had been whittling down her own needs for years, pruning where he would feel it least, and now there were only the bare necessities left for her to give up. It was a long time since any little luxuries had cushioned the hard edges of her existence.

‘How the hell should I know?’ Scurridge said. ‘It’s not my job to know, is it? I’ve done my whack when I’ve worked an’ earned the brass.’

‘Aye, an’ spent it.’

‘Aye, an’ haven’t I a right to a bit o’ pleasure when I’ve slaved me guts out all week, eh? An’ how do other folk manage, eh? There’s many a woman ’ud be glad o’ what I give you.’ He got up to search on the mantelshelf once more.

‘Nine out o’ ten women ’ud throw it back in your face.’

‘Oh, aye,’ Scurridge said, ‘I know you think you’re badly done to. You allus have. But I know how t’men talk in t’pit an’ happen you’re better off than you think.’

She said nothing, but her mind was disturbingly alive. Oh! God, he hadn’t always been like this: not at first: only since that demon had got into him, that demon of lust, lust for easy money and a life of idleness. She had never known the exact amount of his wages but she had once caught a glimpse of a postal order he had bought to send off with his football pools and the amount on it had horrified her, representing as it did the senseless throwing away of a comfortable, decent life.

As Scurridge straightened up from lighting his cigarette he peered at her, his eyes focusing with unaccustomed attention on one particular feature of her. ‘What you don wi’ your hand?’ he said. He spoke roughly, without warmth, as though fearing some trap of sentiment she had laid for him.

‘I caught meself on the clothes-line hook in the back wall,’ Mrs Scurridge said. ‘It’s rusty an’ sharp as a needle.’ She looked vaguely down at the rough bandage and said without emotion, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if it turns to blood poisoning.’

He turned away, muttering. ‘Aw, you allus make the worst of anythin’.’

‘Well, it’s not the first time I’ve done it,’ she told him. ‘If you’d put me another post up I shouldn’t have to use it.’

‘Aye, if I put you another post up,’ Scurridge sneered. ‘If I did this, that an’ the other thing. Is there owt else you want while we’re at it?’

Goaded, she flung out her arm and pointed to the great stain of damp in the corner. ‘There’s that! And half the windows won’t shut properly. It’s time you did summat about the place before it tumbles round your ears!’

‘Jesus Christ and God Almighty,’ Scurridge said. ‘Can’t I have any peace? Haven’t I done enough when I’ve sweated down yon’ hole wi’out startin’ again when I get home?’ He picked up his paper. ‘Besides, it all costs brass.’

‘Aye, it all costs brass. The hens cost brass so you killed ’em all off one by one and now you can’t have any eggs. The garden cost brass so you let it turn into a wilderness. The sheds cost brass so now they’re all mouldering away out there. We could have had a nice little smallholding to keep us when you came out of the pit; but no, it all costs brass, so now we’ve got nothing.’

He rustled the paper and spoke from behind it. ‘We’d never ha’ made it pay.’ This place ’ud run away wi’ every penny if I let it.’

The mad injustice of it tore at her long-nurtured patience and it was, for a moment of temper, more than she could bear. ‘Better than it all going on beer an’ pools an’ dog-racing,’ she flared. ‘Making bookies an’ publicans their bellies fat.’

‘You think I’m a blasted fool, don’t you? You think I’m just throwin’ good money after bad?’ His hands crushed the edges of the newspaper and the demon glared male-volently at her from his weak blue eyes. ‘You don’t see ’at I’m out for a further fetch. There’ll be killin’ one o’ these days. It’s got to come. The whole bloody kitty ’ull drop into me lap an’ then I’ll be laughin’.’

She turned her face from the stare of the demon and muttered, ‘Gambling’s a sin.’ She did not really believe this and she felt with the inadequacy of the retort surprise that she should have uttered those words. They were not her own but her father’s and she wondered that she should clutch at the tatters of his teaching after all this time.

‘Don’t mouth that old hypocrite’s words at me,’ Scurridge said without heat.

‘Don’t tell you anything, eh?’ she said. ‘You know it all, I reckon? That’s why your own daughter left home – because you ’at knew it all drove her away. Well mind you don’t do the same with me!’

This brought him leaping from his chair to stand over her, his face working with fury. ‘Don’t talk about her in this house,’ he shouted. ‘Damned ungrateful bitch! I don’t want to hear owt about her, d’you hear?’ He reeled away as the cough erupted into his throat and he crouched by the fire until the attack had passed, drawing great wheezing gulps of air. ‘An’ if you want to go,’ he said, ‘you can get off any time you’re ready.’

She knew he did not mean this. She knew also that she would never go. She had never seriously considered it. Eva, on her furtive visits to the house while her father was out, had often asked her how she stood it; but she knew she would never leave him. Over the years she had found herself thinking back more and more to her father and she was coming now to accept life as the inevitable consequence, as predicted by him, of the lapse into the sin which had bound her to Scurridge and brought Eva into the world. Eva who, as the wheel turned full circle, had departed without blessing from her father’s house, though for a different reason. No, she would never leave him. But neither could she foresee any future with him as she was. She had come to believe in the truth of her father’s prediction that nothing good would come of their life together and she was sometimes haunted by an elusive though disturbing sense of impending tragedy. The day was long past when she could hope for a return to sanity of Scurridge. He was too far gone now: the demon was too securely a part of him. But she too had passed the point of no return. For good or for bad, this was her life, and she could not run away from life itself.

They sat on before the fire, two intimate strangers, with nothing more to say to each other; and about six o’clock Scurridge got up from his chair and washed and shaved sketchily in the sink in the corner. She looked up dully as he prepared to take his leave.

‘Dogs?’ she said.

‘It’s Saturday, in’t it?’ Scurridge answered, pulling on his overcoat.

All the loneliness of the evening seemed to descend upon her at once then and she said with the suggestion of a whine in her voice, ‘Why don’t you take me with you some Saturday?’

‘You?’ he said. ‘Take you? D’you think you’re fit to take anywhere? Look at yersen! An’ when I think of you as you used to be!’

She looked away. The abuse had little sting now. She could think of him too, as he used to be; but she did not do that too often now, for such memories had the power of evoking a misery which was stronger than the inertia that, over the years, had become her only defence.

‘What time will you be back?’

‘Expect me when you see me,’ he said at the door. ‘Is’ll want a bite o’ supper, I expect.’

Expect him at whatever time his tipsy legs brought him home, she thought. If he lost he would drink to console himself. If he won he would drink to celebrate. Either way there was nothing in it for her but yet more ill temper, yet further abuse.

She got up a few minutes after he had gone and went to the back door to look out. It was snowing again and the clean, gentle fall softened the stark and ugly outlines of the decaying outhouses on the patch of land behind the house and gently obliterated Scurridge’s footprints where they led away from the door, down the slope to the wood, through which ran a path to the main road, a mile distant. She shivered as the cold air touched her, and returned indoors, beginning, despite herself, to remember. Once the sheds had been sound and strong and housed poultry. The garden had flourished too, supplying them with sufficient vegetables for their own needs and some left to sell. Now it was overgrown with rampant grass and dock. And the house itself – they had bought it for a song because it was old and really too big for one woman to manage; but it too had been strong and sound and it had looked well under regular coats of paint and with the walls pointed and the windows properly hung. In the early days, seeing it all begin to slip from her grasp, she had tried to keep it going herself. But it was a thankless, hopeless struggle without support from Scurridge: a struggle which had beaten her in the end, driving her first into frustration and then finally apathy. Now everything was mouldering and dilapidated and its gradual decay was like a symbol of her own decline from the hopeful young wife and mother into the tired old woman she was now.

Listlessly she washed up and put away the teapots. Then she took the coal-bucket from the hearth and went down into the dripping, dungeon-like darkness of the huge cellar. There she filled the bucket and lugged it back up the steps. Mending the fire, piling it high with the wet gleaming lumps of coal, she drew some comfort from the fact that this at least, with Scurridge’s miner’s allocation, was one thing of which they were never short. This job done, she switched on the battery-fed wireless set and stretched out her feet in their torn canvas shoes to the blaze.

They were broadcasting a programme of old-time dance music: the Lancers, the Barn Dance, the Veleta. You are my honey-honey-suckle, I am the bee… Both she and Scurridge had loved old-time dancing a long time, a long long time ago: and, scorning the modern fox-trots, how often they had danced so in the first years of marriage while some kind friend looked to the baby, Eva! Oh, those wonderful early days: that brief era of glorious freedom, with the narrow restrictions of her father’s house behind her and the mad decline of Scurridge in the unknown future! Oh! Those times... There seemed to be a conspiracy afoot tonight, set on making her remember, and she sat there while the radio played, letting the old tunes wash the long-submerged memories onto the shores of her mind; and later on she took a candle and went up into the cold, barn-like bedroom and climbing on a chair, rummaged in a cupboard over the built-in wardrobe and eventually unearthed a photograph album. Rubbing the mildewed cover on her overall, she took the album down to her chair by the fire. It was years since she had looked into the album and slowly now she turned the pages and went back across the years to her youth.

 

She was asleep when the knock came at the back door to startle her into sudden wakefulness, and consciousness that the gaslight had failed and the room was lit only by the flicker of the big fire in the grate. She thought for a bemused moment that she had imagined the sound, and then it was repeated more insistently this time, and she got up and after picking up and placing on the table the photograph album which had slid from her knee while she dozed, went into the passage.

She stood a few feet from the door and called out, ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ It was a lonely house and, though she was not normally nervous, being awakened so abruptly had disturbed her a little.

‘It’s me,’ a woman’s voice answered; ‘Eva.’

‘Oh!’ Mrs Scurridge stepped forward and unbolted the door and swung it open. ‘Come in, love, come in. I wasn’t expecting you tonight. You must be near frozen through.’

‘Just a minute,’ her daughter said. ‘I’ll just give Eric a shout.’ She walked to the corner of the house and called out. A man’s voice answered her and then there was the coughing splutter of a motor-cycle engine, from the road at the front of the house.

‘I thought you mustn’t be in when I couldn’t see a light,’ Eva said when she came back. She kicked the snow off her boots against the step before coming into the passage. ‘What’re you doing sitting in the dark? Don’t tell me you haven’t a penny for the gas now.’

‘It went out while I was having a little nap.’ They went along the stone-flagged passage and into the fire-lit kitchen. ‘I’ll just find me purse and see if I’ve any coppers.’

‘No, here.’ Eva took out her own purse. ‘I’ve a shilling here: that’ll last longer.’

‘Well, I’ve got some coppers…’ her mother began. But Eva had already crossed the room and her heels were clacking on the steps to the cellar. Mrs Scurridge put a twist of paper into the fire and when she heard the shilling fall in the meter, lit the gas-mantle.

‘Isn’t Eric comin’ in then?’ she asked as Eva returned.

‘He’s got a football club meeting in Cressley,’ Eva said, ‘He’s callin’ back for me. He might pop in for a minute then.’

Her mother watched her as she took off her headscarf and gingerly fingered her newly permed mouse-brown hair.

‘A busy young man, your Eric.’

‘Oh, here, there an’ everywhere.’ Eva took off her heavy tweed coat. Under it she had on a dark-green wool dress. Round the high neck of the dress she was wearing a necklace of an imitation gold finish with a matching bracelet round her wrist. She brought an air of comfortable prosperity and well-being with her into the shabby room.

‘They made him a foreman at the Works last week,’ she said, with a faint note of complacent pride in her voice.

‘Ah, promotion, eh?’

Eva lifted her skirt from the hips to avoid ‘seating’ it and sat down in her father’s chair. She levered off her fur-lined winter boots and put her nylon-stockinged feet on the kerb. ‘He’ll be manager one day,’ she said. ‘Everybody says how clever he is.’

‘Well, it’s nice to hear of a young man getting on,’ her mother said; ‘especially when he’s something to you.’

Eva ran her palms up and down her calves then pushed back the hem of her skirt to expose her knees to the fire. She was a thin young woman, easily chilled, and she could not remember ever being able to keep warm in this house in winter. She stretched out her hands and leaned towards the blaze.

‘Brrrh! What weather... It’s freezing like anything outside.’

‘I hope your Eric’ll be safe on his bike.’

‘Oh, he’ll be all right. He’s a careful driver: and it’s better with the side car on, weather like this... Have you been cutting yourself?’ she asked, noticing her mother’s hand for the first time.

Mrs Scurridge told her what had happened and Eva said, ‘You want to look after it. Don’t let it turn septic.’

Mrs Scurridge dismissed the injury with a shrug. ‘It’s only a scratch. I’ve put some salve on it. It’ll heal up in a day or two…’

‘I like your frock,’ said Mrs Scurridge after a moment. ‘Is it new?’

‘Well, nearly. I’ve only worn it two or three times. I got it in Leeds when we were looking at furniture. It was in Creston’s window – y’know, in Briggate – an’ it took me eye straight away. Eric saw me looking at it an’ he bought it me. I knew we couldn’t afford it, what with all the expense of movin’ an’ everything, but he talked me into it.’ She gave a short laugh of feminine pleasure, at this thought of her husband’s indulgence.

‘You’ve got moved and everything, then?’

‘Yes, we’re in, thank the Lord. It’ll take a bit of making comfortable, what with it being so new in’ all that, but it’s like heaven after livin’ in digs.’

‘I dare say it will be. But you got on all right with the folk you lodged with, didn’t you? You never had any trouble or anything?’

‘Oh, no, nothing like that. Not that there hasn’t been times when I could have said a thing or two, mind. But Mrs Walshaw’s much too reserved an’ ladylike to ever have words with anybody. She had a way of looking down her nose at you ’at I never liked. She’d taken quite a fancy to Eric, y’know, what with her an’ Mr Walshaw not havin’ any child of their own, an’ I believe she thought he’d never find a lass good enough for him. No, you can’t quarrel with Mrs Walshaw. Quite the lady, she is. You’d never think to meet her she’d made all her money keepin’ a fish and chip shop an’ taking lodgers in.’

‘Aye, it takes all sorts... You’ll have been kept busy for a bit, then?’

‘Oh, You’ve no idea. What with cleanin’ an’ paintin’ and buying furniture an’ making curtains, we’ve had a real month of it. But it’s such a lovely house, Mother. I walk round sometimes when Eric’s at work and tell myself it’s really ours. An’ I still can’t believe it. I’m always thinkin’ I’ll wake up one morning and find we’re back in Mrs Walshaw’s back bedroom.’

There was a short silence while Eva gently rubbed her legs in the heat of the fire. Then Mrs Scurridge said diffidently, ‘You’re not... You don’t think you’re over-reaching yourselves at all, do you? You know what I mean: taking on a bit more than you can manage.’

‘Oh, no,’ Eva said; ‘we’re all right. We’ve been saving up ever since we were married. Both of us working. An’ Eric was always careful as a single lad, y’know. He never threw his money around like a lot of ’em do. No, we’ll be all right. We shall have to pull our horns in a bit from now on; but we’ll manage nicely, thank you.’

‘Well then,’ said her mother, satisfied. ‘You know your own know best. An’ I’m right glad ’at you’re settled in a home of your own at last.’

‘An’ you can come an’ see us any time you like now,’ Eva said. ‘It’s not far – just half an hour on the bus from Cressley.’

‘Yes, I’ll have to see about it now. I’ll be poppin’ over one o’these fine days. Just let’s get a bit o’ better weather here.’

Eva toasted her knees. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘an’ how are you keeping?’

Mrs Scurridge gave a faint shrug. ‘Oh, so so. A touch of lumbago now an’ again; but I can’t grumble. I’ll be happier when we have a bit better weather. You feel so cut off here when there’s snow on the ground. Half a mile from the nearest house and hardly any traffic on the road at night.’

‘You should get out more,’ Eva said, ’stead o’ sittin’ in night after night.’

‘Aye, I suppose I should. You get out of the habit, though. And besides, this weather–’

‘No need to ask about me father,’ Eva said. ‘Seems this weather doesn’t keep him in. Where’s he gone tonight? Down town?’

Her mother nodded, looking into the fire. ‘Dogs, I suppose.’

‘Leaving you here on your own, is usual.’

‘There’s no pleasure out on a night like this.’

Eva nodded. ‘I know all about it.’ She drew in her breath. ‘I don’t know how you stand it. I don’t, honestly.’ Her gaze flickered round the room and the dinginess of what she saw seemed so to oppress her that she barely restrained a shudder. ‘Thank God I got out when I had the chance.’

‘It was different with you,’ her mother said. ‘You’d have gone anyway, sometime.’

‘Not if he’d had his way. It just suited his book having two women about the house to wait on him. An’ with my money coming in he could hang on to more of his own.’ She stopped, then burst out in angry impatience, ‘I don’t see it. I just don’t see it. A husband should be somebody like Eric, who considers his wife an’ looks after her. An’ when he stops being like that your duty stops as well. You don’t owe me father a thing. You could walk out of here tonight an’ nobody could blame you. An’ you know there’s a place waiting for you any time you want it now. You’ve somewhere to go now.’

Mrs Scurridge threw a shrewd glance at her daughter’s profile, flushed pink now from the heat of the fire and her outburst of indignation. ‘Is that what Eric thinks too?’ she said. ‘What does he think about it?’

‘Well... he thinks like I do. He doesn’t know why you stick it.’

‘But that doesn’t mean he’d be happy to be saddled with his mother-in-law as soon as he’s settled in his first home. Especially a mother-in-law like me.’

‘Why especially like you?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose he thinks I’m the smartest woman he’s ever seen.’

‘But you could be smart,’ Eva cried. ‘You could if you got away from here. What’s the use of bothering here, though, livin’ week in an’ week out miles from anywhere with a husband who spends all his money on gamblin’ an’ drinkin’? How can anybody take a pride in conditions like that?’

‘Well, my place is with your father, Eva, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘But you don’t–’

‘That’ll do,’ her mother said quietly.

Eva said, ‘Oh!’ and stood up with an impatient gesture.

The radio was still playing. ‘Do we have to have this thing on?’

‘You can switch if off if you like. I was listening to some old-time dance music, but it’s over now.’

Eva went round the back of the chair and turned the knob. In the silence that followed she remained standing there, one hand resting on top of the wireless cabinet, her back to her mother.

‘Mother,’ she said suddenly, and turned round, ‘am I illegitimate?’

Her mother started. ‘No, you’re not.’

‘But you an’ me dad had to get married because of me, hadn’t you?’

‘No, no. It wasn’t quite like that. We did get married when we knew you were coming; but we should have done anyway. We weren’t forced into it.’ She met her daughter’s eyes. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Oh, it’s something I’ve hid in the back of me mind for a long while now,’ Eva said, still standing behind the chair. ‘It was just a matter of checkin’ a couple of dates to make sure.’

‘Have you said anything to Eric?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘I don’t see why I should.’

‘Neither do I,’ Mrs Scurridge said. ‘But you don’t think he’d mind, do you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Eva said frankly. ‘He... Well, he’s a bit straitlaced about some things, is Eric. I don’t see any point in spoiling anything…’

‘But nobody can call you illegitimate, Eva,’ Mrs Scurridge said. ‘We were married months before y…’ She turned her gaze to the fire. ‘I’m sorry, love. I never saw any reason to tell you.’

‘Oh, don’t you be sorry.’ Eva’s mouth set. ‘It’s him, not you.

‘You shouldn’t hate your father so much, Eva.’

‘How can I help it when everything he touches turns rotten? He’s spoilt your life an’ he’d have done the same with mine if I hadn’t stood up to him. He couldn’t even get married in a right way. He had to get hold of you by getting you into trouble.’

‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ her mother said intensely. ‘He was different in those days. You’d never credit the difference.’

‘So you tell me. But I can’t remember him like that. The only father I know is a tight-fisted, mean-hearted old rotter who can’t live decent for gamblin’ everything away.

‘Oh, Eva, Eva.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said; ‘but it just makes me boil.’

‘Look,’ her mother said. ‘Just look in that album on the table and you’ll see your father as he was.’

Eva moved to the table and opened the cover of the album. ‘I don’t remember seeing this before.’

‘I might have shown it to you when you were little. I haven’t had it out meself for years. It was that old-time dance music on the wireless that made me remember it. It started me thinkin’ back…’

Eva pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. ‘He wasn’t bad-looking as a young man…’

‘A little wiry dandy of a man, he was,’ Mrs Scurridge said. ‘Honest, hardworking, full of fun. I was twenty-two when I met him and I’d hardly spoken to a man except to pass the time of day. I’d never been out to work because your grandfather wanted me at home to look after the house. It was stifling in your grandfather’s house because there wasn’t any joy or life. It was all God. God, God, God, from morning till night. Not a God of joy and love, but your grandfather’s God. A God of commandments. Thou shalt not. Your grandfather was a man with God in his mouth and ice in his heart. I once heard somebody say that about him and I never forgot it. He had a saying for every occasion. “Gamblers never win” was one I keep remembering now. “They might seem to do”, he used to say, “but be sure their sin will find them in the end”. A stiff, unbending man, he was. I never in my life saw him soften at anything.

‘The only time your father came to call on me your grandfather turned him off the step because he wasn’t suitable. He came from a poor family and his father had been in prison for assaulting his employer. If there was anything your grandfather couldn’t abide it was a work-man who answered back. He had half a dozen of his own and he ruled them with a rod of iron. Jobs weren’t so easily come by in those days, so they didn’t dare to complain. I took to meeting your father in secret whenever I could slip out of the house. It was the happiest time of my whole life. He brought sunshine and laughter into my life and I’d have gone to the ends of the earth with him...

‘We were married in a registry office when we knew you were on the way. Your grandfather had done with me by that time. We were never married at all in his eyes – just living in sin because of the sin that brought you into the world. We didn’t mind, though. We were very happy for a while…’

‘But what changed him?’ Eva asked. ‘What made him like he is now?’

‘All kinds of things help to change a man. Bad luck, weakness of character. When your grandfather had the stroke that finished him your father was out of work. We were struggling to make ends meet. All your grandfather’s money went to the chapel and various other worthy causes. We didn’t get a penny. He went to his grave without forgiving me, and your father never forgave him. He grew bitter. They were bitter years for a lot of people. He saw nothing in front of him but a life of slaving in the pits and nothing at the end of that but broken health or p’raps a quick end underground. So he began to crave for easy money. He wanted to get rich quick without working for it. It was like a demon that got into him, ruling his life. Nothing else mattered. Everything else could go to the wall. Now it’s too late. He’ll never change again now. But I made my vows, Eva. I said for better or for worse and you can’t believe in principles when it’s easy and forget ’em when it’s hard. I chose my life and I can’t run away from it now…’

Suddenly overcome, Eva fell down beside her mother’s chair, grasping her roughened hand and pressing it to her face in the rush of emotion that swept over her.

‘Oh, Mother, Mother; come away with me. Come away tonight. Leave it all an’ have done with it. I’ll make it right with Eric. He’s a good man; he’ll understand.’

Mrs Scurridge gently withdrew her hand and touched her daughter’s head. ‘No, love. I thank you for what you’ve said; but my place is with your father as long as he needs me.’

 

Carried along in the crowds that swarmed from the greyhound stadium, but alone, was Scurridge, richer tonight by six pounds. But it give him little joy. He knew that next week or the week after he would lose it again and probably more as well. His ultimate aim was not centred here; these small prizes were of only momentary satisfaction to him and it was only the constant urgings of the demon, the irresistible pull of something for nothing, which brought him here week after week. He turned right at the opening of the lane and walked along the pavement with his slouch-shouldered gait, chin sunk into the collar of his overcoat, hands deep in pockets, a dead cigarette butt between his lips. His pale eyes were brimming with tears, his thin features pinched and drawn in the biting wind which scoured the streets, turning the slush on the pavements and in the gutters to ice. He still dressed as he had in the lean thirties, in shabby overcoat and dirty tweed cap, with a silk muffler knotted round his neck to hide lack of collar and tie. The new prosperity had left no mark on Scurridge.

He was making for the Railway Tavern, one of his customary Saturday-night haunts, and as he neared the pub he heard himself hailed with joviality and beery good-cheer by two men approaching from the opposite direction.

‘Fred! Ey, Fred!’

He stopped, recognising the men. He nodded curtly as they drew near. ‘How do, Charlie. Do, Willy.’

They were better dressed than Scurridge though they were, like him, colliers – coal-face workers: the men who earned the big money, the elite of the pit. The one called Charlie, the taller of the two, came to a halt with his arm thrown across the shoulders of his companion.

‘Here’s old Fred, Willy,’ he said. ‘Ye know old Fred, don’t you, Willy?’

Willy said Aye; he knew Fred.

‘I should bloody well an’ think you do,’ Charlie said. ‘Everybody knows Fred. The life an’ soul of the party, Fred is. Here every Sat’day night; an’ every other night in t’week he’s at some other pub. Except when he’s at t’Dogs. When he in’t in a pub he’s at t’Dogs, an’ when he in’t at t’Dogs he’s in a pub. An’ when he in’t at either, Willy – where d’you think he is then, eh?’

Willy said he didn’t know.

‘He’s down t’bloody pit wi’ t’rest on us!’ Charlie said.

Wheezy laughter doubled Charlie up, the weight of his arm bearing Willy down with him. Willy extricated himself and carefully straightened his hat. Scurridge, at this moment, made as if to enter the pub, but Charlie, recovering abruptly, reached out and took his arm.

‘Know what’s wrong wi’ Fred, Willy?’ he said, throwing his free arm back across Willy’s shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. He’s got a secret sorrer, Fred has. That’s what he’s got – a secret sorrer. An’ d’you know what his secret sorrer is, Willy?’

Willy said no.

‘No, ye don’t,’ Charlie said triumphantly. ‘An’ no bugger else does neither. He keeps it to himself, like he keeps everythin’ else.’

Feeling he was being got at, and not liking it, Scurridge tried to free his arm: but Charlie held on with all the persistence of the uninhibitedly drunk.

‘Oh, come on now, don’t be like that, Fred. I’m on’y havin’ a bit o’ fun. I allus thought you’d a sense o’ yumour. I like a feller with i sense o’ yumour.’

‘Come on inside,’ Scurridge said. ‘Come on an’ have a pint.’

‘Now yer talkin’, Fred lad,’ Charlie said. ‘Now yer bloody well an’ talkin’!’

They followed Scurridge up the stone steps and into the passage, where he would have gone into the taproom but for the pressure of Charlie’s hand on his back. ‘In ’ere’s best,’ Charlie said. ‘Let’s go where there’s a bit o’ bloody life.’ He pushed open the door of the concert room. Beyond the fug of tobacco smoke, there could be seen a comedian on the low stage, a plump man in a tight brown suit and red tie. He was telling the audience of the time he had taken his girlfriend to London and some laughter broke from the people seated there as he reached the risqué punchline of the story. ‘Over there,’ Charlie said, pushing Scurridge and Willy towards an empty table. As they sat down the waiter turned from serving a party nearby and Charlie looked expectantly at Scurridge.

‘What yer drinkin?’ Scurridge said.

‘Bitter,’ Charlie said.

‘Bitter,’ Willy said.

Scurridge nodded. ‘Bitter.’

‘Pints?’ the waiter said.

‘Pints,’ Charlie said.

The waiter went away and Charlie said, ‘Had any luck tonight, Fred?’

‘I can’t grumble,’ Scurridge said.

Charlie gave Willy a nudge. ‘Hear that, Willy? He might ha’ won fifty quid tonight, but he’s not sayin’ owt. He tells you what he wants you to know, Fred does, an’ no more.

‘He does right,’ Willy said.

‘O’ course he does, Willy. I’m not blamin’ him. Us colliers, we all talk too much, tell everybody us business. Everybody knows how much we earn. They can all weigh us up. But they can’t weigh Fred up. He keeps his mouth shut. He’s the sort o’ feller ’at puts a little cross on his football pools coupon – y’know, no publicity if you win. Wha, he might be a bloody millionaire already, for all we know, Willy.’

‘Talk some sense,’ Scurridge said. ‘Think I’d be sweatin’ me guts out every day like I am if I’d enough brass to chuck it?’

‘I don’t know, Fred. Some fellers I’ve heard tell of keep on workin’ as a hobby-like.’

‘A fine bloody hobby.’

The waiter put the drinks on the table and Scurridge paid him. Charlie lifted his glass and drank deeply, saying first, ‘Your continued good ’ealth, Fred me lad.’

Scurridge and Willy drank in silence.

‘Well,’ said Charlie, putting the half-empty glass back on the table and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, ‘Is’ll be able to tell me mates summat now.’

‘Tell ’em what?’ Scurridge asked.

’At I’ve had a pint wi’ Fred Scurridge. They’ll never bloody believe me.’

This continued reference to his supposed meanness angered Scurridge and he flushed. ‘You’ve got yer bloody ale, haven’t yer?’ he said. ‘Well, you’d better sup it an’ enjoy it, ’cos you won’t get any more off me.’

‘I know that, Fred,’ said Charlie, in great good humour, ’an’ I am enjoying it. I can’t remember when I enjoyed a pint as much.’

Scurridge turned his head and looked sulkily round the room. The entertainer had come to the end of his patter and now, accompanied by an elderly man on the upright piano, was singing a ballad in a hard, unmusical pseudo-Irish tenor voice. Scurridge scowled in distaste. The noise irritated him. He hated music in pubs, preferring a quiet atmosphere of darts and male conversation as a background to his drinking. He lifted his glass, looking over its rim at Charlie who was slumped against Willy now, relating some anecdote of the morning’s work. Scurridge emptied the glass and Charlie looked up as he scraped back his chair.

‘Not goin’, are yer, Fred? Aren’t you havin’ one wi’ me?’

‘I’m off next door where it’s quiet,’ Scurridge said.

‘Well, just as yer like, Fred. So long, lad. Be seein’ yer!’

Relieved at being free of them so easily, Scurridge went out and across the passage into the taproom. The landlord himself was in attendance there and seeing Scurridge walk through the room to the far end of the bar, he drew a pint of bitter without being asked for it and placed the glass in front of Scurridge. ‘Cold out?’ Scurridge nodded. ‘Perishin’’. ‘He pulled himself up onto a stool, ignoring the men standing near him and the noise coming faintly from the concert room. Close behind him, where he sat, four men he knew, colliers like himself, were gathered round a table, talking as the dominoes clicked, talking as all colliers talk, of work...

‘So when he comes down on t’face, I says, “I reckon there’ll be a bit extra in this week-end for all this watter we’re workin’ in?” An’ he says, “Watter! Yer don’t know what it is to work in watter!” “An’ what do yer think this is seepin’ ovver me clog tops, then,” I says: “bloody pale ale?”’

Scurridge shut his ears to their talk. He never willingly thought of the pit once he was out of it; and he hated every moment he spent down there in the dark, toiling like an animal. That was what you were, in animal, grubbing your livelihood out of the earth’s bowels. He could feel the years beginning to tell on him now. He was getting to an age when most men turned their back on contract working and took an easier job. But he could not bear to let the money go. While there was good money to be earned, he would earn it. Until the day when he could say good-bye to it all...

He drank greedily, in deep swallows, and the level in his glass lowered rapidly. When he set it down empty the landlord came along and silently refilled it, again without needing to be asked. Then with the full glass beside him Scurridge prepared to check his football pool forecasts. He put on his spectacles and taking out a copy of the sports final, laid it on the bar, folded at the results of the day’s matches. Beside the newspaper he put the copy coupon on which his forecasts were recorded, and with a stub of pencil in his fingers he began to check his entries. If was a long and involved procedure, for Scurridge’s forecasts were laid out according to a system evolved by him over the years. They spread right across the coupon, occupying many lines, and could only be checked by constant reference to the master plan, which was recorded on two scraps of paper which he carried in a dirty envelope in an inner pocket. Consequently the glass at his elbow had been quietly refilled again before he came near to the end of his check and a gradual intensification of his concentration began to betray in him the presence of growing excitement. And then the movements of the pencil ceased altogether and Scurridge became very still. The noises of the taproom seemed to recede, leaving him alone and very quiet, so that he became conscious of his own heartbeats.

 

Mother and daughter heard at the same time the low growl of the motor-cycle as it approached the house.

‘That’ll be Eric now,’ said Eva, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘He said about ten.’ She reached for her boots and slipped her feet into them.

‘Won’t you have a cup o’ tea before you go?’

‘No, thanks, love.’ Eva stood up. ‘We really haven’t time tonight. We promised to call an’ see some friends.’ She reached for her handbag and felt inside it. ‘Before I forget... here, take this.’ She held out her hand, palm down. ‘It’ll come in handy.’

Her mother had automatically put out her own hand before she realized that it was a ten-shilling note she was being offered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thanks all the same; but it isn’t your place to give me money.’

‘I can give you a present, can’t I?’ Eva said. ‘Take it an’ treat yourself to something nice. You don’t get many treats.’

‘How should I explain it to your father?’ Mrs Scurridge said. ‘He thinks I squander his money as it is. And I couldn’t tell him you’d given it to me.’

Eva put the note back in her bag. ‘All right. If that’s the way you feel about it…’

‘I don’t want you to be offended about it,’ her mother said. ‘But you know how it is.’

‘Yes,’ Eva said, ‘I know how it is.’

The sound of the motor-cycle had died now at the back of the house and there was a knock on the door. Eva went out into the passage and returned with Eric, her husband. He said, ‘Evenin’ to Mrs Scurridge and stood just inside the doorway, looking sheepishly round the room, then at his wife who had put on her coat and was now adjusting her headscarf over her ears. He was a big fair young man, wearing a heavy leather riding-coat and thigh-length boots. A crash helmet and goggles dangled from one end.

‘It’ll be cold riding your bike tonight, I expect?’ Mrs Scurridge said. She felt awkward with her son-in-law, for she had had no chance of getting to know him.

His eyes rested on her for a second before flitting back to Eva. ‘It’s not so bad if you’re well wrapped up,’ he said. ‘Ready, love?’ he said to Eva.

‘All about.’ She picked up her handbag and kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘I’ll pop over again as soon as I can. An’ you’ll have to make an effort to get over to see us.’

‘I’ll be surprising you one of these days.’

‘Well, you know you’re welcome any time,’ Eva said. ‘Isn’t she, Eric?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Eric said. ‘Any time.’

She wondered vaguely what would be their reaction were she to walk in on them unexpectedly one evening; when they had company, for instance. Then she pushed the thought from her mind and followed them out to the back door where she and Eva kissed again. Eva walked across the crisp, hardening snow and got into the side-car. Mrs Scurridge called good night and watched them coast round the side of the house. She waited till she heard the sudden open-throttled roar of the engine before closing the door and going back into the house.

She sat down and looked into the fire and in a moment a flood of misery and self-pity had swept away the uncertain barrier of her indifference and was over-flowing in silent tears on to her sallow cheeks. For the first time in years she allowed herself the luxury of weeping. She wept for many things: for the loneliness of the present and the loneliness of the past; for that all too brief time of happiness, and for a future which held nothing. She wept for what might have been and she wept for what was; and there was no consolation in her tears. She sat there as the evening died and slowly her sorrow turned to a sullen resentment as she thought of Scurridge, away in the town, among the lights and people; Scurridge, struggling through the Saturday-evening crowds to stake her happiness on the futile speed of a dog in its chase after a dummy hare. Leaning forward some time later to stir the fire she was suddenly transfixed by a shocking stab of pain. The poker clattered into the hearth as the pain pierced her like a glowing spear. Then with an effort that made her gasp, and brought sweat to her brow, she broke its thrust and fell back into the chair. Lumbago: a complaint with a funny name, that lent itself to being joked about. But not in the least funny to her. It could strike at any moment, as it had just now, rendering her almost helpless. Sometimes it would pierce her in the night and she would lie there, sweating with the agony of it, until she could rouse Scurridge from his sottish sleep to turn her on to her other side. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It might be in hour or more before Scurridge returned. She longed for the warmth of her bed and with her longing came a fierce desire to thwart Scurridge in some way.

It was then that she first thought of locking him out for the night.

It was a pathetic gesture, she knew; but it was all she could think of: the only way to show resentment and defiance. She foresaw no benefit from it and her imagination, dulled by the pain which hovered across the threshold of every moment, could not stretch even as far as Scurridge’s rage in the morning. The immediate horizon of her thoughts contained only the warm bed and the oblivion of sleep. It could neither encompass nor tolerate Scurridge’s drunken return and the possibility of a demand for the satisfying of flesh that was a mockery of their first youthful passion.

She boiled a kettle and filled a stone hot-water bottle and hobbled with it upstairs. Then she made some tea and searched the cupboard where she kept the remains of old medicinal prescriptions and bottles of patent remedies accumulated over the years, until she found a round box of sleeping pills once prescribed for her. The label said to take two, and warned against an overdose. She took two, hesitated, then swallowed a third. She wished to be soundly and deeply asleep when Scurridge came home. Standing there with the box in her hand it occurred to her to wonder if there were enough tablets to put her into a sleep from which she would never awaken, and she thrust the box out of sight among the bottles and packets and returned the lot to the cupboard. She poured herself some tea and sipped it before the fire, her hands clasped round the warmth of the mug. At eleven o’clock she raked the ashes down from the fireback and went into the passage and shot the bolts on the back door. Even as she stood there in the act she felt the insidious creep of the old apathy. What did it matter? What good would it do? She turned away and went back into the kitchen where she doused the gas. By the light of a candle she made her careful way upstairs. She undressed and lay shivering between the clammy sheets, moving the hot-water bottle round and round, from one part of her cold body to another, until eventually she became warm, and in a short time after that, fell asleep.

 

Scurridge stared from the pools coupon to the newspaper. A man came in and stood next to him at the bar counter. He ordered his drink and said to Scurridge, ‘A real freezer out tonight, isn’t it?’ Scurridge made no answer; he was hardly aware that he had been addressed. His mind was a maelstrom of excitement and he put his hand to his forehead and by an effort of will forced himself into sufficient calmness to recheck the column of results. It was right, as he’d thought. No mistake – he’d forecast seven drawn games and he needed only one more to complete the eight required for maximum points. One forecast only remained to be checked and that was a late result printed in blurred type in the stop press column of the newspaper. He peered at it again. It could be a draw or an away win, he thought. If it was an away win he would be one point down and eligible for a second dividend. That one point could mean the difference between a measly few hundred pounds and a fortune.

‘Here – can you make this out?’

He thrust the paper at the man who had spoken to him, pointing with his forefinger at the blurred print. ‘That last result there. Is it two all or two, three?’

The man put his glass on the counter and took the paper out of Scurridge’s hands. He turned it to the light. ‘It’s not right clear,’ he said. ‘I dunno. I’d say it’s more like two, three. An away win.’

‘It can’t be,’ Scurridge said. ‘It’s got to be a draw.’ He turned to the domino-playing miners. ‘Anybody got an Echo?’ The excitement was plain in his voice and the big miner who passed the newspaper said, ‘What’s up, Fred? Got a full line?’ Scurridge grabbed the paper. ‘I dunno yet,’ he said. ‘I dunno.’ He ran his finger down the column to the result in question. It was a draw, completing his eight.

‘It’s a draw,’ Scurridge said. He crushed the paper in his hands and let it fall to the floor.

‘Hey up!’ the big miner said. ‘That’s my paper when you’ve done wi’ it.’

‘I’ll buy you a dozen bloody papers,’ Scurridge said. ‘I’ve got eight lovely draws. Eight bloody lovely draws. Look!’ He snatched the coupon from the counter and thrust it at the group of miners. ‘I’ve got eight draws an’ there’s on’y eight on the whole coupon!’ The one sitting nearest took the coupon and scanned it. ‘See,’ Scurridge said, pointing. ‘Seven on there an’ this one here.’

The collier looked at the coupon in stupefaction. ‘By God, but he’s up. He’s up!’

‘Here, let’s look,’ said another, and the dominoes were laid face down while the coupon passed round the table. ‘Lucky sod,’ one of the men muttered, and Scurridge took him up with an excited ‘What’s that? Lucky? I’ve worked years for this. I’ve invested hundreds o’ pounds in it, an’ now it’s up.’

‘It’ll be a tot this week, Fred,’ the big miner said. ‘There’s on’y eight draws altogether so there won’t be many to share the brass. Wha, it might be a hundred thousand quid!’

A hush fell over the group at the mention of this astronomical sum from which the interest alone could keep a man in comfort for a lifetime. A hundred thousand pounds! Somehow Scurridge’s mind, occupied with the fact that the prize was in his grasp, had not yet put it into actual figures. But now excitement flamed in his face and his eyes grew wild.

‘It’s bound to be,’ he shouted. ‘There’s nobbut eight draws on the whole coupon, I tell yer!’

He snatched his glass from the bar counter and took a long drink, slamming it down again as he came to a decision. ‘I’ve won six quid on t’dogs tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand drinks all round. C’mon, drink wi’ me. Have what yer like – whisky, rum, owt yer’ve a mind for.’

They passed up their glasses, needing no second invitation, and soon the news spread across the passage to the concert room, bringing people from there to slap Scurridge on the back and drink the beer he was paying for as he stood flushed and jubilant, pressed up against the bar.

Shortly after closing time he found himself on the street with a full bottle of rum and an empty pocket, in company with Charlie and Willy.

‘An’ I allus say,’ Charlie said, ‘I allus say a man shouldn’t let his brass come between him an’ his pals.’

‘What’s money?’ Scurridge said.

‘That’s right, Fred, You’ve hit the bleedin’ nail right on the head. What’s money? I’ll tell you what it is – it’s a curse on the whole yuman race, a curse... An’ I wish I had a cellarful. If I had a cellarful I’d lay in a nine-gallon barrel of ale an’ I’d go down every night an’ sup an’ count it. An’ I’d let you come an’ help me, Fred. I wouldn’t forget you. Oh no, not me. I wouldn’t forget me old pals. What’s money worth if it comes between a feller an’ his pals?’

Willy belched stolidly. ‘Friendship’s the thing.’

‘You never spoke a truer word, Willy,’ Charlie said. He threw his arm across Willy’s shoulders and leaned on him. ‘Your heart’s in the right place, Willy lad.’

They parted company on the corner and as Scurridge moved away Charlie called after him, ‘Don’t forget, Is’ll want a ride in that Rolls-Royce.’

Scurridge waved the bottle of rum over his head. ‘Any time. Any time.’

As he passed along Corporation Street on his way through the town he was suddenly arrested by the thought that he should send off a telegram to the pools people claiming his win. Wasn’t that what you did? You sent a telegram claiming a first dividend and followed it with a registered letter. But the post office was closed; he could see its dark face right there across the street from where he stood. It baffled him for a moment. How could he send a telegram when the post office was closed? Why hadn’t the pools people thought of that? And then a dim glow of light by the door of the post office building reminded him of the telephone and he made his way unsteadily across the deserted street. Inside the call box he stared for some time at the black shape of the receiver before putting out a slow hand and lifting it to his ear. He had never before in his life used a public telephone and when a small voice spoke right into his ear he took sudden fright and slammed the receiver back into its cradle as though it had burned hot in his hand. Not until then, as he stood, breathing heavily, in the call box, did it occur to him that he would need some money. He began to rummage through his pockets. The search produced only two coins – a sixpence and a penny – and he looked at them where they lay in his palm, with mingled relief and regret. Regret that he could not, after all, make sure of his money, and relief that he would now have to put off the complex business of sending the telegram till tomorrow.

Outside on the pavement once more he was struck by the irony of having a hundred thousand pounds yet not having enough in his pocket to pay for a taxi home. He looked about him, getting his bearings; then he turned towards home. On the way he began to think of his wife. Christ! This would be one in the eye for her. She’d never believed he could do it. No bloody faith. All she wanted was brass for fancy foods and for keeping hens. Hens! God! And still more brass to throw away on that great barracks of a house. Well now she could have brass, all she needed. She’d see that Fred Scurridge didn’t bear grudges. She’d see what sort of man he was. And they’d get right away from this God-forsaken district to somewhere where there was life and plenty of sun, and no more dropping down into that dark hole to sweat his guts out for a living. He’d done it now. He was free... free...

Somewhere along a back street on the outskirts of town he lurched into the doorway of a newsagent’s shop, failing against the door and sliding down into a sitting position. He uncorked the bottle of rum and took a deep swallow. He shook his head then and shuddered, making a wry face and breathing out, ‘Aagh!’ A moment later through the pool of light shed by the street-lamp opposite the doorway there slid the lean shape of a mongrel dog, its rough coat yellow in the dim light. It came into the doorway and pushed its cold muzzle into Scurridge’s hand. He began to fondle it under the ears, talking to it as he did so: ‘Nah then, old feller, nah then.’ And the dog responded by licking his hand. ‘Yer shouldn’t be out on a night like this,’ Scurridge said. ‘Yer should be at home, all nice an’ cosy an’ warm. Haven’t yer gorra home, eh, is that it?’ He felt for a collar. ‘Yer don’t belong to nobody, eh? All on your ownio… all on yer own.’ The dog sat down close to him, all the while nuzzling his hand. ‘I used to have a dog once,’ Scurridge said. ‘Looked summat like you, he did. A long time since, though. He was a lovely dog... grand. He used to come an’ meet me from t’pit. He got run over one Sat’day mornin’ just as I wa’ comin’ out. A coal lorry got him. A full ’un. Rotten mess. I couldn’t even pick him up and take him home to bury him. The driver shovelled him up an’ took him off somewhere. I don’t know where. I wa’ that sluffed about it. A real pal to me, that dog was. I called him Tommy. An’ eat! That dog wa’ t’best eater ’at I ever saw. Scoff a beefsteak while you wa’ lookin’ at it.’ He ran his hand along the dog’s spare flanks and over its ribs. ‘Long time sin’ you had a beefsteak, old lad... Aye, well never mind. Happen yer’ll get yer bit o’ luck afore long. I’ve had a bit o’ luck tonight, I’ll tell yer. Best bit o’ luck I ever had, on’y bit... never had any afore. Except maybe marryin’ my missis. I didn’t do bad there. She’s not been a bad wife to me. An’ now I’m goinna make her rich. Rollin’ in it, she’ll be. One in the bloody eye for that skinflint father of hers. Left all his brass to the chapel when we were near starvin’. Said I wa’ no good an’ never would be. Well I wish he was alive to see me now. I hope he’s watchin’ where ever he is. Never had a good word for man nor beast, that old devil. Not like me. I allus had a soft spot for animals. Like thee. Tha’re a grand old lad even if tha are a stray ’at nobody wants. What’s it feel like when nobody wants thee? Lousy, I’ll bet. Here!’ he said suddenly, lifting the dog’s jaw on his hand. ‘I’ll tell thee what – here’s thy bit o’ luck. Tha can come home wi’me. How’d yer like that, eh? How’d yer like that?’

He put his hand to his forehead and mumbled to himself. It occurred to him that he was not feeling well; not well at all. ‘Time we were off home, lad,’ he said to the dog. ‘Can’t stop here all night.’ He tried to get to his feet and fell back with a thud that shook the door. He sat there for a minute before making another effort which took him reeling out into the street. ‘C’mon, lad,’ he said to the dog. ‘C’mon, boy.’

He was a long time in coming to the path through the wood, for he walked slowly and unsteadily, staggering about the pavement and making occasional erratic detours on to the crown of the road, and sometimes stopping altogether while he slouched against a wall, the rum bottle tilted to his mouth. The steep path under snow was like narrow frozen rapids – difficult enough to anyone sober, and next to impossible to Scurridge, in his condition. After falling on his hands and knees several times in as many yards he left the path and made his way up the slope through the black, twisted, snow-frothed shapes of the trees, the dog, with infinite patience, following at his heels. Near the top of the slope he caught his foot in a hidden root and sprawled headlong, striking his head heavily on the trunk of a tree before coming to rest face down in the snow. For several minutes consciousness left him; and when it returned he was mumbling to himself and shaking his head in a dazed manner as he got up off the ground and went unsteadily upwards and out of the trees.

He was almost at the back door before he realised that the house was in darkness. He groped for the latch and pushed at the door, thinking at first that it was stuck, and then realizing that it was locked. What the hell was she playing at! He knocked, and then, in a spasm of temper, drove the side of his clenched fists at the door panel. ‘Hilda!’ he shouted. ‘Open up an’ let me in!’ But there was no sound from within and in a few minutes he wandered round to the front door and tried that. As he had expected, that was locked too. It was always locked: they had not used the door in over fifteen years. He came back along the side of the house, swearing softly and thickly to himself. She hadn’t locked him out on purpose, had she? She couldn’t have locked him out! She wouldn’t do a thing like that to him. Not tonight, after he’d been so clever. The dog stood some way off and watched him as he stood there in the snow, his head bowed as though in deep thought, wondering what next to do. He felt ill, terribly ill. It was a fit of sickness that hammered in his head and made him sway on his feet. He put a cold, shaking hand to his brow, remaining like that in a coma of illness, during which time his memory seemed to cease functioning. So that when at last he stirred himself again he could not remember what he was doing there alone in the darkness and the snow.

He slumped down on the doorstep, huddling into the corner to get as much protection as possible from the wind, and took out the bottle of rum. He drank deeply, feeling the spirit sear his throat and spread in a warm wave inside him. For a moment it seemed to revive him, and then all at once the sickness came back to him, worse than ever this time, almost engulfing him in a great black wave. He dropped the bottle and put his head in his hands and moaned a little. What was it? He wanted to get in. He had to get in to Hilda. He had something to tell her. Something good. Something she would be pleased to hear. But he couldn’t get in. Couldn’t get to her to make her happy. And now he couldn’t remember what he had to tell her. He only knew that it was something good, because he could recall being happy himself, earlier on, before he came over badly. He couldn’t remember ever feeling as bad is this... Suddenly he reared to his feet and bawled it the top of his voice, ‘Hilda! Hilda! Let me in!’ and the dog, startled, ran off into the trees.

There was only silence. Perhaps she’d gone, he thought. Hopped it. She’d said she would, many a time. He’d never believed her, though. He’d never wanted her to go. She was his wife, wasn’t she? He’d never wanted any other woman. He couldn’t live by himself. Who’d look after him? How would he manage? And if she’d gone he wouldn’t be able to tell her. Tell her what?...Something good. Something to make her happy... He turned and rambled off across the patch of unkempt land that had been the garden and looked with aimless curiosity into the mouldering outhouses with their damp and rotten timbers. The thought came to him that he might shelter there. But it was too cold and he was very ill. He had to get into the house where it was warm. He returned across the snow and looked at the house which stood out plainly in the sharp, clear light shed by the new moon. And after some moments he thought of the window.

He lurched across to the wall of the house and put fumbling hands on the stones. With some difficulty he managed to get one knee onto the sill, his fingers feeling for holds in the interstices of the weathered stonework. He pulled himself up till he was standing upright and felt for a gap across the top of the window. He moved his foot and it slipped away from him across the icy stone of the sill and he lost his balance and fell sideways, his hands clawing at the wall. His right hand described an arc against the wall and the wrist hit the rusted needle-sharp point of the clothes-line hook jutting out some inches from the stone, and his falling weight pulled him on to it, so that for a few seconds he hung there, impaled through the arm. He felt the indescribable agony of the hook as it tore out the front of his wrist and he cried out once, a cry that ended in a choking, sobbing cough, before falling in a huddled heap on the snow, to crouch there, moaning and gibbering senselessly, his good hand clawing feebly at the gaping wound and feeling the warm gush of blood spouting from the severed arteries. And then the pain swamped his already befuddled senses and he rolled slowly sideways and was still.

As he lay there the dog returned to nose, whimpering softly, about him before turning again and loping away to the wood. A few minutes later snow began to fall, swirling down in fat feathery flakes all across the valley and the town and the hillside. It fell soundlessly on the roof of the house, over the room where Mrs Scurridge lay in her drugged sleep, and on Scurridge, melting at first and then slowly, softly, drifting and falling, covering him from sight.