Foreign language users
A wise man resists playing cards with foreign language users. This is a maxim Mister Joseph Kerr should always have been well aware of. So how come he had succumbed to temptation yet again? Because he thought he would take them, that’s how. If you had discussed the point prior to play he would have nodded in a perfunctory fashion — that’s how much a part of him the maxim was. And yet he still succumbed. Of course. Gamblers are a strange breed. In fact, when he noticed his pockets were empty he frowned. That is exactly what he did, he frowned. Then he stared at the foreign language users who by this time had forgotten all about him. And the croupier was shuffling the deck for a new deal. And yes, she was also concealing her impatience in an unsubtle way, this croupier, and this unsubtlety was her method of displaying it, her impatience.
Mister Joseph Kerr nudged the spectacles up his nose a wee bit, a nervous gesture. His chair moved noisily, causing the other players to glance at him.
But what was he to do now? There was nothing he could do now. No, nothing to be done. It was something he just had to face. And yet these damn foreign language users had taken his money by devices one could scarcely describe as being other than less than fair, not to put too fine a point on things. And how in the name of all that’s holy could the fact that it was himself to blame be of any consolation?
He scratched his ear and continued to stand there, by the chair, and then he sighed in an exaggerated manner but it was bitterly done, and he declared how things had gone too far for him now, that he had so to speak come to the end of his tether. The croupier merely looked at him in reply but this look might well have been a straightforward appeal for a new player.
Mister Joseph Kerr shrugged. Then he stood to the side, making space for the new player who moved easily onto the seat. There was a pause. Mister Joseph Kerr had raised his eyebrows in a slightly mocking fashion. He smiled at the new player and touched him on the shoulder, saying how he should definitely pay heed to that which he knew so thoroughly beforehand. The new player glared at the hand on his shoulder. What’s the meaning of this? he murmured.
In all probability he too was a foreign language user. Mister Joseph Kerr nodded wearily. Maybe he was just bloody well growing old! Could that be it? He sighed as he strolled round the table, continuing on in the style of somebody heading to an exit. He entered the gents’ washroom and gazed at himself in the mirror. It was a poor show right enough, this tired face he saw; and something in it too as if, as if his eyes had perhaps clouded over, but his spectacles of course, having misted over. The thought how at least he was breathing, at least he was breathing, that was worth remembering.
Let that be a lesson
Between 12 and 1 o’clock every Sunday the boys met up the field and played football for the rest of the afternoon. They stopped for breaks whenever they felt like it; these they spent lying around smoking and chatting, unless it was raining, in which case they found shelter till it eased off enough to resume. Occasionally when somebody produced a pack of cards the game was forgotten about. Today was like that, plus the rain had become a downpour, looking as if it was on for the day. A few of the boys went home. Ten or so others gathered in the back close of a tenement to continue the cards. Then a man came down the stairs and told them to get to hell out of it. They went slowly, a couple of them staring back at the man till they were outside on the pavement. Matt then let it slip his house was vacant but insisted his maw and da had given him his last warning about bringing people in. He refused to even consider disobeying them. He kept on refusing till finally they offered him a bribe of 10 pence a skull. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘on condition the game stops whenever I say so.’
They spoke in whispers when he led them upstairs and into his room. The bed was used as the card table, the boys crouching or kneeling roundabout it. The game alternated between brag, pontoon, banker and chase-the-ace. After a couple of hours just five players remained. Arthur had the bulk of the money and his only real rival was Jimmy. The other three were just hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Beside Matt there were Dougie and Eddie: Eddie kept dashing out the house and round the street to his own place where he was thieving money from his grandfather’s coat pockets, his mother’s purse, his big sister’s purse, his young brother’s secret bank. The last time he returned it was with a packet of ten cigarettes which he sold to Jimmy for 20 pence more than the retail price. Dougie had been in and out the game at different times since the start, but then he would find a coin from somewhere and buy his way back in. Matt himself had managed to survive by selling pieces on jam for 15 pence, cups of tea for 10. But the clock ticked on and he was beginning to show the strain. Every few minutes he jumped up and rushed ben the living room to look out the window. In fact it was really the bread worrying him the most. A couple of slices just were left and his da would be needing sandwiches for work tomorrow. It would be a total disaster if there was nothing there in the morning.
Jimmy passed a fag to him. He took two deep draws on it, passed it on to Dougie. Eddie was shuffling cards and getting set to deal. ‘I want to change the game,’ he said.
‘No again,’ muttered Arthur.
‘Brag,’ said Matt.
Arthur shrugged. Eddie dealt the cards and the others posted the kitty money. Matt lifted his cards and dropped them at once, there was a noise from outside: his hand went to his face and covered his eyes. Jimmy whispered, ‘Fucking hell man. .’
The front door was opened now and people in the lobby. Matt’s parents had friends with them. They could be heard walking down to the living-room then the door clicked shut. Matt glanced about at the others. ‘It’s alright,’ he said, ‘Sshh; just keep quiet.’ He got up and left the bedroom, closing the door behind himself. Minutes later he was back and he had a radio with him, he turned on some music. ‘I told them yous were in and we were listening to records. It’ll be alright if we keep it quiet. .’ Matt added, ‘They’ve got a drink in them anyway.’
He knelt down at his place and the game continued, each of the boys making sure the coins did not chink. But less than quarter of an hour later the door banged open and Matt’s da was glowering at them. ‘Right yous mob,’ he said, ‘Think we’re bloody daft or something!’
Nobody moved.
‘Right!’ he said, jerking his thumb at the door.
The other four got up onto their feet but Matt looked at the floor and stayed where he was.
‘You and all,’ cried his da.
Arthur was nearest to the man, he was about an inch taller than him. ‘It was just for pennies we were playing Mister McDonald,’ he said.
Matt’s da frowned at him: ‘Think I’m bloody daft?’
‘Honest.’
Instead of replying Mister McDonald glared at his son. ‘I thought I told you I didnt want you hanging about with this yin?’
Matt sniffed. His face went red.
‘Eh? I’m asking you a question.’ Mister McDonald jerked his thumb at Arthur and added, ‘Thinks he’s a flyman so he does!’
‘Naw he doesni.’
‘Aye he does.’ The man glanced from Arthur to Jimmy and the other two boys, then noticed Matt looking at him and he glared: ‘What’s up with your face?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ll bloody nothing you.’
‘Da. .’ muttered Matt.
His father stared at him for a moment longer. Then he pulled the door fully open: ‘Okay, the lot of yous, ben the living-room!’
‘What?’ Matt frowned.
‘Ben the bloody living-room,’ roared his da. The four boys walked out into the lobby immediately and he beckoned Matt onto his feet and waved him out as well. He walked behind them, then stepped in front to open the living-room door. ‘In yous get,’ he said.