Authors: Walter Greenwood
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Hardcastle, eagerly: ‘Me ‘usbant’ll be a good payer all right. He don’t believe i’ checks an’ weekly payments. He ain’t comfortable owin’ debts. … But what can y’ do?’
Mrs Bull grunted: That ‘usbant o’ thine’s got a lot t’ learn, Mrs ‘Ardcastle, a lot - to - learn. They can’t get blood out of a stone, an’ while Ah can get tick (credit) somewhere, well, here’s one wot doesn’t intend t’ go owt short. Y’dead a long while, an
Ah’ve
had a bellyful o’sorrer if Ah ne’er have no more.’ She drained her glass at a gulp, passed it back to Mrs Nattle and said: ‘Gie’s another threepenn’orth, Sair Ann…’
Mrs Hardcastle, knowing of nothing else to say, excused herself. A few days later Harry obtained his new suit.
IT was staggering, paralysing, incredible, unique.
As the news flew round people came out of their homes stare eyed, followed the crowd to the back entry where, if the congregation and their animated conversation were any indication, a murder, surely, had been committed.
The back entry was shaped in a triangle and was the place where Sam Grundy, the street comer bookmaker, received the threepenny, sixpenny and shilling bets of the neighbouring population. It wanted five minutes to six o’clock. Sam, or, as should be said, his hireling, commenced paying out winnings at six precisely. Except on special occasions Sam kept to the background, the business like others that are profitable, being illicit. Business was conducted over a backyard door, the clerk in charge standing on a chair seat on the other side of the bolted door.
The atmosphere was electric: people still flowed into the back entry through the three openings, where, at each, an unemployed man, unable to find other occupation offered himself ostensibly as paid sentinel to keep a look-out for Two Cities policemen, all of whom knew that at any day and at the appropriate time, law-breakers could have been arrested by the score. For some reason or other their beats took them elsewhere than the back entry’s vicinity during Sam’s business hours. Though, occasionally, plain clothes men did come upon the scene to take away the sentinels whose fines were paid by Sam. Though Sam looked upon this expenditure as a kind of rent due to the law for permitting his transgressions.
Passers by, their curiosity aroused by the general commotion, swelled the numbers, interrogating their nearest neighbour with a whispered, urgent: ‘What’s up? What’s happened?’ and darting quick glances at the house backs as though expecting to see flames consuming one of them. Here and there were closely packed groups peering over the shoulders of people engaged in making calculations on the margins of their newspapers. Now and again when the calculations were concluded, hats were pushed to the backs of heads followed by whistles expressive of incredulity.
‘… Aye, an’ he’s had a thripp’ny treble every week for last
three years. This is fust time it’s come up Twenty-two quid
for thrippence. What d’y’ think o’ that? He ain’t twenty ‘ear old, yet, either!’
Incredulously: Twenty-two quid for thrippence? - Yaaah. Some hopes.’
‘True as God’s above. Thrippence win on a twenty t’ one chance, that’s five an’ three; all on Jackdaw, that won three o’clock at twenty t’ one, that made it o’er five quid, an’ he played it all on Tea Rose in three-thirty an
that
come up at three t’ one. What d’y’ think o’ that?’
‘An’ will Sam Grundy pay him?’
‘Ah, now y’re askin’ summat. That’s what we’re all here to see. If he does then he gets all my bets in future, you bet he will. Aye, there’s lad o’er yonder… . Him as won, Ah mean.’
Harry, cap pushed up from his brow, white mercerized cotton scarf disarranged about his neck, stood right up to the back door a set smile of nervousness on his lips. The evening newspaper which he held in his hand was opened at the page giving the day’s racing returns.
A stupor lay on his brain; now and again his skin crept and he shivered when his gaze fell upon the calculations he had made on his newspaper. Whenever anybody spoke to him he laughed, hysterically, scarcely hearing a word they said. His mind was plagued by an oft-recurring vision of himself coming out of Marlowe’s half an hour previously, Jack Lindsay had bought a paper to see which horses had won; Harry, glancing over his shoulder as they walked along had eyed the results in such a manner as he had done ever since he first had indulged in the weekly bet, that was, in a furtive hope of the speculation proving profitable.
His first horse had won, he noticed. That wasn’t anything new. ‘Got one winner home, Jack.’ he murmured. His eyes roved the three o’clock race: ‘Jackdaw. … ‘ He stared, licked his lips: Two up, Jack,’ he put an arm about Jack’s shoulder: ‘Have a luk at three-thirty. … Ah played all on Tea Rose. It’ll be on back page; stop press,’ he grinned: ‘It’ll ha’ let me down, you bet.’
Jack obliged: ‘It’s won,’ he said, casually, not having paid any attention to Harry’s remarks: bluffing was not unknown among them.
Harry stopped: ‘Y’ what?’ he whispered, gripping Jack’s shoulder. Bill Lindsay and Tom Hare, following a pace at the rear, also stopped.
‘ ‘Ere,’ complained Jack, shaking his shoulder free: ‘What y’ doin’… . Leggo.’
Harry snatched the paper from him; his face was white. He looked from the paper to Jack and said, weakly: ‘Ah’ve gorra treble home. … Two twenty t’ one chances all on a three t’one … !’ They expressed their disbelief unequivocally. Harry’s trembling hand produced a copy of the bet. They read it and stared at him, awed.
They were blocking the pavement; crowds of other young men and apprentices were passing; they cursed them and told them to get out of the way. Bill Simmons, with a dazed air, said to a passing group: ‘ ‘Arry ‘Ardcastle’s got a treble home.’ The others stopped, curious. The group swelled in numbers. A crowd was soon attracted. Somebody asked for a pencil: a voice cried, breathlessly: Twenty-two quid. … Bloody hell!’ The first part of the phrase passed from lip to lip accompanied by glances of sheer amazement Harry, mystified, gaped at Jack Lindsay; Jack grinned: ‘Good owld Harry,’ he said generously: ‘Ah hope Sam Grundy pays up. … Sky’s limit wi’ him, so he ses…’
Congratulations from all sides; everybody wanted to shake Harry’s hand. He commenced to laugh, hysterically; still doubted his luck. And the little shop boy who ran Harry’s errands and who brewed tea for him, pushed forward to stand by Harry’s side, grinning and preening himself in the warmth of the reflected glory he was snatching from Harry. Something to remember for ever.
A few moments later saw Harry, Bill, Jack and Tom running homewards pell mell. Harry went directly to Grundy’s deserted back entry where he stood, leaning and panting against the appropriate door.
Jack, Bill and Tom flew into North Street to apprise, first the Hardcastles then the rest of the neighbours. News spread; teas were left go cold; all roads led to the back entry.
Cap pushed up from his brow, white mercerized cotton scarf disarrayed about his neck, Harry stood right up to the back door, a set smile of nervousness on his dry lips. The crowd about him spoke to him often; he laughed, scarce hearing a word they said.
Footsteps sounded in the backyard. Sam didn’t live here; he had a fine residence in a middle-class suburb; he rented the back portion of the house. Conversation in the entry subsided as by magic: in the silence that ensued carts could be heard rumbling over the setts of the main street two hundred yards away.
The back door opened; an unprecedented occurrence. A small, upturned box was to be seen ready as for the reception of an orator. A buzz of murmured conversation arose from the crowd accompanied by much neck straining as a small fat man, broad set, with beady eyes, an apoplectic complexion, came out of the house, crossed the tiny backyard and stood upon the upturned box, thumbs in waistcoat armholes. Preposterous-sized diamonds ornamented his thick fingers and a cable-like gold guard, further enhanced by a collection of gold pendants, spade guineas and Masonic emblems, hung heavily across his prominent stomach. He chewed a match stalk; his billycock rested on the back of his head; he wore spats. Self-confidence and gross prosperity oozed from him. The notorious Sam Grundy himself.
He gazed, paternally, upon the trembling Harry: ‘So y’ thought y’d brek bank, eh, lad?’ Roars of obsequious laughter from all sides. Sam was popular.
Standing immediately behind Harry was Ned Narkey, upper lip elevated in a half-smiling leer, and Ted Munter, the Marlowe time clerk. Ted put his hand to his mouth, glanced at Sam through his thick pebble spectacles, then strained to Ned’s ear: ‘Luk at him, Ned, lad,’ he said, apropos Sam: ‘Ah knew him when he’d no breeches arse to his pants. Me an’ him ran a crown an’ anchor board i’ th’ army. Pots o’ money we made. He saved his, but me, like a bloody fool as’ve allus bin, blewed it in on women and wine. … Eeee, if on’y Ah’d me time t’ go o’er agen.’
‘Bloody women an’ wine, eh?’ muttered Narkey. ‘Yaaah!’ He lifted his lip, turned his head stiffly, and spat. The spittle missed a bystander by the fraction of an inch. He glared at Ned who scowled back contemptuously then turned his great bulk away to regard Sam Grundy who, now, hands thrust deep into pockets was jingling his loose money noisily.
‘You know, young fellow me lad,’ cried Sam, loudly: ‘You know, some bookies have a limit. Y’ know that, don’t y’, eh?’ continuing, before Harry had time to answer: There’s fellers as call ‘emselves bookies as’d on’y pay y’ a fiver on your bet an’ no more,’ taking off his billycock and gazing about at the assembled crowd as though in acknowledgement of applause:
‘That
ain’t honest Sam Grundy.’
‘Good owld Sam … ‘ from many lips.
‘Honest Sam’s gotta motter - “Sky’s the limit”. - This here young feller me lad,’ indicating Harry with a sweep of the hand: This here young feller me lad had a thrippenny treble,’ turning round cautiously and resting a hand on the coping of the backyard wall: ‘Charlie,’ he cried, ‘fetch a chair.’ The man, Charlie, a tall, thin, consumptive-looking individual, hurried to obey: ‘Stand up alongside o’ me, son,’ said Sam. Harry complied. ‘Now, you had a bet wi’ me, lad, didn’t y’?’ Harry nodded, blushing deeply under the concerted gazes of the crowd. ‘How much were it, lad?’ Sam shouted.
‘Thrippence,’ mumbled Harry, palpitantly.
‘Speak up, lad, there’s nowt t’ be ashamed on. There ain’t nobody here as wouldn’t gie’ ten pun t’ be in your shoes,’ to everybody: ‘Eh?’ Tumult Sam held up his hand: ‘Now, lad, speak up: How much were the bet? Turn t’ t’ crowd, son, turn t’ t’ crowd.’
Harry, gazing over the housetops, bawled: ‘Thrippence.’
‘An’ how much d’y’ reckon t’ draw for y’ thrippence?’
Harry went very red, gazed at Sam guiltily and whispered: ‘Twenty-two quid.’
‘Now, Harry,’ said Sam, with good-natured reproach: ‘Y’ can speak louder’n that. The ladies and gents at back can’t hear y’. Up, now, out wi’ it.’
Harry mastered his shyness with a supreme effort and shouted: ‘Twenny-two quid.’ A universal sigh; a buzz of murmuring.
Sam lit a cigar, leisurely: ‘Twenny-two quid for thrippence. How many bookies’d pay out that much?’ No answer; a respectful silence. ‘Well, y’ all know Honest Sam’s motter … ‘ half turning: ‘Charlie….’ Charlie appeared with a handful of notes which he passed to Honest Sam.
‘What’s Honest Sam’s motter, Harry?’ Sam asked. Harry, at the sight of the money, turned to the crowd and bawled, hysterically: ‘Sky’s limit.’
‘Hold out y’ cap, Harry, lad.’
A wave of restlessness on the part of the crowd; it surged forward simultaneously; necks strained, eyes bulged, as, one by one, Sam dropped twenty-two one-pound notes into Harry’s cap. Everybody counted them fascinatedly as they fell. At the last Sam turned to the crowd, held out his billycock at arm’s length and cried: ‘That’s Honest Sam for y’. Wot can’t speak can’t lie.’ He paused, saved further breath out of regard of the noisy expressions of admiration rising on all sides. Carefully, he stepped from the box and tapped the smiling bewildered Harry on the shoulder as he, Harry, was about to push his way through the crowd hugging his cap to his bosom jealously: ‘Hey, Harry lad,’ said Sam, a genial expression on his face: ‘Ain’t that your sister, young Sal?’ Ned Narkey, overhearing the question, narrowed his eyes; his lips became thin lines; the tips of his strong yellow teeth could be seen; he clenched his fist and glared at Sam, resentfully.
‘Ain’t that your sister, young Sal?’ Sam’s question.
‘Oh, aye,’ Harry answered, wondering what Sally could have to do with this.
Sam nodded and smiled, thrust his hands into his pockets and rattled his money: ‘Don’t you forget to treat her, then. D’y’
hear,
young fellow me lad. … Tell her as Ah’ve said she’s t’ have a couple o’ quid out o’ y’ winnin’s for some new clo’es. An’ think on, Ah’ll ask her if y’ have done when Ah see her.’ He patted Harry upon the shoulder: ‘Better go through th’ ‘ouse,’ turning: ‘Charlie, show Harry t’ t’ front door.’ Harry followed.
Sam turned also and was about to pass through the back door when Ned Narkey tapped him on the shoulder: ‘Hey, you,’ he said, thickly: ‘What’s y’ game wi’ Sal Hardcastle, eh?’
Sam stared, astonished, not a little nervous of Ned’s threatening demeanour: ‘What d’ y’ mean, Ned?’ he answered, with a weak attempt at bluster.
‘Don’t “Ned” me. … You know what Ah mean,’ snapped Ned, his enormous chest inflating: ‘You’ve got women all o’er place. … Ah know. … Kate Gayley was mine when Ah’d a pocket full o’ dough. … Shuts bloody door i’ me face sin’ you tuk her out in y’ car. Told me she’d cut me out cos she was feared o’ neighbours talkin’ an’ gettin’ her widder’s pension stopped. … Ah ain’t daft, though. But you can keep the bitch.’