The Gamble


Greta took a deep breath. Pull the wheel one way and send the ball the other. Two experienced croupiers were there to help her. The brass crown in the centre of the wheel was easy to catch. Catch it by one of its tines - send it in the opposite direction to the previous spin and then apply the ball to the underside of the rim. “Place your bets,” she called. Her only customers were two dowagers in evening dress. The one with the fox fur wrap put a chip on red. The one with elbow-length black gloves put one on the centre column and dotted others across the board. The wheel went so fast that all the numbers merged. Greta poised the ball. Pressure and a flick should propel it in a centrifugal rush, round and round. She pressed. She flicked. The ball managed a few lazy circuits then lost its momentum and clattered into one of the numbers. She bent towards it. “Zero,” she announced. To her relief all she had to do was collect the chips. She swept them off to her left. The girl at her side sorted them deftly, her plump arm brushing Greta’s thin one. The dowagers were expressionless. “Place your bets,” said Greta, and tried to pick the ball out of its little brass pocket. She failed and the heavy wheel whizzed round. She waited, fingers hovering. Here it came. She tweaked at it but it fell back into the wheel, landing in number two and the wheel span it away again.

“No spin,” called the chief sharply.

Oh God.

The chief leaned forward on her high stool and picked the ball from the blurred race of the wheel. There was the faintest of clicks as her long red nails brushed the flying metal. Without any apparent strain on her graceful wrist she slowed the wheel down then sent it one way, the ball, the other. The dowagers made their cautious bets as before. The ball buzzed round and round. The chief smiled at Greta and relaxed back again. The ball went on and on. What if I can’t get it out of the wheel – what if I mess up the next spin? Sometimes, in training games, Greta had flung the ball right out of the wheel. The ball slowed. “No more bets,” said Greta, “Five, red,” she added as it dropped. She cleared the losing chips and went to spin again.

“Pay red, croupier. Winning bet on red,” warned the chief. An embarrassed Greta matched the winning chip. “Two to one, croupier,” the chief snapped. Greta, more flustered than ever, added the missing chip to the glaring dowager’s pile. “Spin the ball now please Greta,” said the chief, adding, “place your bets.” She gave Greta a smile of encouragement. Greta spun. The ball managed two feeble loops. “Short spin!” rapped the chief, “No more bets!” But Greta had yanked the wheel too hard again and it was racing so fast that once more the numbers had vanished in a blur. The ball clattered into the brass cups, bouncing in and out of several numbers before settling and she couldn’t see which number it was in. “Zero,” called the chief. Greta’s mouth had seized up. Heart hammering, she slid the chips off the baize with sweaty fingers and her skin rasped on the surface, leaving a painful sensation, like carpet burn, down the sides of her hands.

“She’s spinning zero a lot,” observed Black Gloves, sliding a chip onto zero with an unsmiling look at Greta. Fox-Fur put a chip on number thirty.

Greta spun, but again she had yanked the wheel too hard. The dropping ball ricocheted wildly off the brass and out it flew, into the room. Both dowagers claimed it had landed in their number just before leaping out. “God Almighty Greta, what am I going to do with you? You’re useless.” Miss Norma arrived in a hiss of silk. “Go upstairs and have a break.” Greta made for the mahogany door marked staff only. Norma’s tuneless voice rose behind her. “Good evening ladies, sorry about that. I’ll take over here.”

Beyond the door, odours of pounded garlic and frying steak filled the air. Ahead was the kitchen. The waiters liked playing tricks. Greta hoped they wouldn’t notice her go by. The swing-doors burst open and a commis chef dashed towards the cold-room along the corridor. Greta hurried upstairs. In the rest room her reflection goggled back at her. Damn. One of her false eyelashes was peeling off. Would she ever get a proper job? She had not anticipated it being this hard. But maybe because it was, she now definitely wanted to be a lecturer in a college of further education. She had sent off several application forms, but so far no-one had asked her for an interview. Why was it so difficult? Alma, Clare and Ray had begun good jobs. Camilla and Col had moved into planned careers. David was finishing his PhD. Tears welled up in her eyes. Rosalind came in. “Norma’s such a cow,” she said, after a glance at Greta, “everyone’s pissed off with her. Have a fag.” And she offered Benson and Hedges.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” Greta took a cigarette; “She’s only doing her job. I’m being stupid.”

“She’s jealous because you’ve been to university,” said Rosalind, “So much for having a degree – she said – when am I going to see some brains… She’s a bitch.”

“I shouldn’t cry,” Greta pressed a piece of loo roll under one eye.

“No,” said Rosalind, “Your eyelashes will fall off. The bitch told me to tell you to have a coffee, and then come down. She’s going to train you on Blackjack.”

“It can’t be any worse than roulette,” Greta inhaled deeply. The cigarette was calming her down.

Rosalind put the kettle on and spooned Maxwell House into a mug for Greta. “I’d better go,” she swished back out, flashing a beautiful smile. She had angular cheekbones and a haughty expression that reminded Greta of Cossacks. It was the first time Greta had seen her smile.

Going back past the kitchen Greta stepped as lightly as possible. In her sharp heels it was difficult to walk quietly on the hard stairs. Two commis chefs carrying live lobsters were coming from the cold-room. As soon as they saw her they cornered her, brandishing the lobsters and shouting in Italian. She screamed, trying to dodge the slow lashing of the tentacles and the waving claws. The commis laughed and shouted all the more. One of them bent and put a lobster on the stair by her foot and she screamed again, gathering her long skirt in a tight bunch around her legs. There was no other sensible response. This was the world of Gargantua and Pantagruel and she was the screaming one who has to run, be caught, scream and run again: like the pilgrim who hides in the salad and gets eaten along with the lettuce.

Right at the end of September Greta was interviewed at Central College by the suave head of the Liberal Studies Department who offered her five hours a week of part time teaching. He took her to the staff room. “Tim, here, will show you around and give you some induction notes,” he said, and left her in the care of a likeable young lecturer about her own age with a friendly smile and nicotine stained fingers. Greta took to him immediately.

At the end of an intense tour …these are the art rooms, and receiving page after page of notes from various filing cabinets… this is the resources room, and an hour of earnest discussion in the drama studio… I’ll teach you how to use the lighting board, Greta was shown out clutching an armful of folders. “Oh, and this is Gordon,” said her guide, as a lecturer in a tweed jacket came by, “he’ll be one of your colleagues too. I have to go; I’ve got a meeting.”

“Thank you,” called Greta as Tim loped off. “Hello,” she said to the newcomer over her pile of folders.

“Has Tim shown you everything?” asked the bespectacled young man, genially, “I hope he made you welcome.”

“Yes thanks,” said Greta, “we’re going to meet up for a pint later so he can show me some student projects to give me an idea of the level. I’m starting next Thursday. Sorry; what was your name?”

“Gordon,” said the young man. “So - a pint, eh? Can anyone come? I’d better not tell his girlfriend,” and with a roguish smile, he pushed his heavy spectacles back on his nose as if they were slipping off.

Back at the flat David was delighted, and cooked steak Béarnaise; opening a vintage bottle of claret to celebrate. “You’ll be able to give up that bloody casino now,” he said.

But she didn’t. Things were looking up. And Greta showed a positive talent for Blackjack.

“Greta,” snapped Miss Norma, “practise your shuffle. The restaurant’s packed, it’s going to get really busy.”

Greta was glad. The first two hours had been boring and the piped music drove her mad.
Sha la la la la lala la
Sha la la la la lala la
Sha la la la la lala la
And sweet Marie who waits for me…

She pulled back the block and took the released cards out of the shoe. There were four packs and she began practising a waterfall shuffle. What if Deborah walked in now? Greta’s dreamy gaze rested on the French roulette table in the centre of the room. Come on, Twig, let’s play Pontoon… The ball fizzed like a wasp around the glittering rim of the wheel. “No more bets,” called the croupier. The ball clattered to rest. “Thirty-one, black.”

There wasn’t long to dream. Greta’s table filled up and soon she was flying. The hours slid past. “Eighteen: twenty: stay madam?” The woman nodded, setting her golden Bambi earrings dancing. “And you Sir - fourteen?

“I’ll twist.” His crew cut bristled at her.

“Twenty four,” said Greta, dealing a picture and scooping away the losing hand. Crew Cut thumped his fist on the padded edge of the table in a fury.

“Stick,” said the last customer.

Greta had a queen. She pulled her new card from the shoe and flipped it over. An ace. “Blackjack,” she announced and her spry fingers plucked their chips from the baize in front of them. Then, with an arcing hand she swiped away their losing cards.

“Fluke!” said the one with the Bambi earrings, laughing as Greta swished out the new cards. “Can I play two hands?”

“Certainly Madam,” Greta paused to let the woman put another chip on the table. Her new cards were a ten and an ace and Bambi clapped her hands.

A rustle of taffeta was followed by a tap on Greta’s bare shoulder. Norma, in a beautiful black halterneck gown, had come to give her a break. The table was tense. Norma waited silently. Crew Cut had bought a card on both his tens and had scored twenty on each hand. Bambi had blackjack on one hand and twenty on the other and the rest of the table had strong hands too. They all stared at Greta’s Jack of diamonds.

“She’s got to bust this time,” said the friendly man in the white tuxedo.

“Blackjack,” she said as she drew the ace of spades. The players gasped and laughed. Crew Cut swore. Her right hand began clearing the losing bets. “Ègalitè,” she said, and passed over Bambi’s blackjack without taking the chips. She scooped up Crew Cut’s and cleared the cards then clapped her hands together and opened them out like a book, as she got down off the stool.

“Good riddance,” said Crew Cut, lighting a cigarette.

Upstairs Greta made coffee and took out Alma’s letter. Alma, who had taken a first in philosophy, was about to complete a three-month contract with a community theatre company in Bristol. October 15th 1971. Dear Greta, remember when we did ‘The Seagull’ in Edinburgh? – Well I’m going out with a musician who saw me in it. He’s with Floodgate Theatre Company. His name is Mick and his guitar playing makes me swoon. I am planning to audition for Floodgate so we can tour together. I hope I get in. I saw Clare last month. She’s doing social work in the department that sorts out foster homes. She was telling me awful things about why children have to be taken into care. I don’t know how she can do it. It upsets me just to hear about it.

Greta pictured their delicate happy Clare finding out about neglect and cruelty and children taken into care. What would have happened to her if someone had found out about what went on while her mother was out cleaning? But they didn’t find out. So she had received a normal upbringing. And now no-one would ever know. And she was normal. I’m impressed that you’ve got the lecturing but how’s the casino? I can imagine you in that sort of place; it sounds glamorous no matter what you say. I want you to meet Mick. Write to me and tell me when you get some time off. Love Alma. Greta put the letter away and lit a cigarette. She and Alma were twenty-one. Here at the casino Rosalind was only nineteen and yet she was married and had a baby son. Her husband had no qualifications or job and was teaching himself to play the saxophone. At nineteen, Rosalind was a mother and the breadwinner. A glance at the clock showed it was midnight. Four hours to go.

Rosalind came in carrying a plate of dried up steak and rattling chips. The croupiers were fed at midnight on tough bits of meat and chips – some said they were customers’ uneaten chips. “How’s your lecturing Greta?” Rosalind settled herself down.

“My Thursday one is OK but on Tuesdays it’s at nine o’clock,” said Greta, “it’s hardly worth going to bed by the time I get home and have a wash - I feel shattered.”

“I bet your students are bigger than you aren’t they?” laughed Rosalind, “all those hulking apprentices!”

David, now a teaching fellow, went to New York for six weeks on a research visit. It was December. He was disappointed that she wouldn’t come with him. “I don’t believe you,” he said, when she told him it was because of work, “It’s something else,” and his eyes were hooded with anger.

I get triple time for Christmas at the casino,” she wrote in a Christmas card to her parents, and I really need to think up lesson plans. But David was right. Those weren’t the reasons. I like lecturing but it’s hard work, prattled her card. Greta was almost afraid at the way David sensed she was hiding something. She knew what her reason was but she couldn’t tell him. Merry Christmas Mum and Dad. And by the way – just to let you know, my new address is: c/o Hayden-Fox, Flat 2, 31 Newcastle Terrace, The Park, Nottingham. The card showed a wooden angel praying and Greta prayed for inspiration as she tried to devise entertaining ways to present current affairs to her unruly mobs of apprentices. Term was underway again by the time David came back and she still refused to give up the casino. He protested. He would be waking up just as she was coming home to bed. On her nights off she would be too exhausted to go out.

She got to grips with teaching; dressing differently for a start; midi length brown pinafore dress over a skinny polo-neck and black boots of wet-look leather with clumpy heels. The lads noticed. “where’s your mini skirt, Miss? You wore it when we first had you,” they bantered. Day-release mechanics, sheet metal-workers, plumbers and carpenters, like the boys at her school, they identified with her accent and said she was more like they were than the other lecturers. When Floodgate Theatre Company came to the College in June, Greta tried to persuade her apprentices to attend, explaining the plot of Romeo and Juliet to them.

“Guess who,” hot fingers covered her eyes.

“Alma… You were wonderful,” the pre-Raphaelite clouds of Alma’s hair tickled Greta’s face as she hugged her friend, breathing in the familiar after-show fragrance of baby lotion.

“Thank you. Are these your students?” Darting figures around them stacked chairs and swept the floor.

“No. These are all O and A-level. None of mine came.”

“This is Mick,” said Alma and the lanky young man behind her, the production’s lute-playing Mercutio, smiled; big teeth white in a strong face.

“You were fantastic,” said Greta, “especially the music, and the sword fight.”

“What about me?” demanded Alma, who had played Lady Capulet, and still looked like her in the ankle-length Indian cotton dress she wore. “Where’s David?” she added, as Mick draped a purple crocheted shawl round her.

“Meeting us in the pub,” said Greta, still annoyed that David had gone to an English department seminar instead of attending the play. “And you were brilliant. It was effective - the way you underlined the fact that Juliet was so young by playing her mother young too.”

Mick hugged Alma, nodding in approval at Greta’s words and then turned and hollered: “we’re going to the pub.” Other actors emerged from the wings and followed him as he strode towards the door. Not many men could carry off jeans tucked into unzipped biker boots but with his long black hair flowing down over his Che Guevara tee shirt Greta was amused to see that Mick turned the head of every girl in the hall.