Until the Colours Fade (10 page)

‘Nine’s the main,’ he cried as the dice rolled, toppled and finally fell into place. His mouth was agonisingly dry and the box almost slipped from his hand, so moist had it become with sweat. Magnus had thrown a five, so that now became his main, while George took nine as his. As he shook the box Magnus did not think of winning, but wondered how he would be able to reach the door without his face betraying the crushing magnitude of his loss. Before he released the dice he saw that once again Strickland had backed him and was comforted that one or two others were doing the same. Perhaps after all he did not look like a man whom luck had utterly deserted. Even while the dice were
falling Magnus saw the needed patterns passing before his eyes, double fives, two and three, or four and one, and then the dots at last resolved themselves. A sudden roar of talk and exclamation broke as the spectators and side-betters saw that he had thrown three and two.

‘The caster has nicked it at five, gentlemen.’

For the first time Magnus saw the incredible sight of counters passing to his side of the table. But his confidence was checked when with his last throw he achieved deuce aces, thus losing his own and Braithwaite’s two hundred pounds to the house. He was now down four hundred and had three hundred left. He had turned catastrophe into a less serious disaster, but disaster none the less. George was fiddling with the gold chains across his damson-coloured flowered silk waistcoat.

‘What about it, Mr Crawford?’

Magnus had known from the moment he asked that he would hand him back the box; he would either win back his loss or lose everything. This time Braithwaite staked three hundred and for the second time that evening there were no counters left in front of him as Magnus matched the bet. It cost him no effort to
imagine
how George would enjoy telling Charles about his triumph and how his brother in turn would take grim delight in informing their father; but worst of all was the certainty that a loss during this ‘box hand’ would destroy every plan he had made. This was where his idiot scorn had got him, his disdain for the man had not even permitted him to allow George the spurious satisfaction of goading him a little with his superior wealth. So he had taken up his challenge on that hopelessly unequal ground. If he lost again George would offer to accept a written note and then another if he lost again. The thought almost made Magnus’s stomach turn over. Two hours ago his thoughts had ranged across the town calculating quite different risks, trying to predict every possibility involving the strikers, the candidates and the military, but now all he saw, and it seemed would ever care about, centred on the pool of light cast on that green oval table with its delicately demarcated circle.

He caught the flash of George’s white cuff and the movement of his frilled shirt as he cast the dice. The main called had been eight, but three had been thrown. Eight was now Magnus’s main. Strickland was betting again and this fact comforted Magnus a little. The next throw produced no result, and since his ‘box hand’ was over, George gave the box back to Magnus.

‘The caster is still backing it at eight, gentlemen,’ came
Bentley’s dry thin voice, as he sat with his rake poised and ready. A six and a two lay on the table when Magnus opened his eyes. Six hundred pounds was moved from the centre of the table. He still had two throws left, and whereas before his success he would gladly have agreed to stop the moment he wiped out the worst of his loss, now he saw matters in a different light. He wanted to force George to write out a cheque for more counters. For a moment he even saw himself playing through the night and beggaring the man. When with his next throw he won six hundred pounds and a further three hundred with the last, he felt sure that anything was possible. He had noticed that
Strickland
had not placed a bet on the final throw and now wanted to see if he could catch his eye to reprove him for his lack of faith, but he had left the table and had his back turned. A sudden superstitious fear made Magnus get up. Strickland had backed him from his lowest ebb to the point where he was now eight hundred up on the evening and now he was stopping playing. If any gambler needed an omen, this was surely it.

‘Allow me to give you more satisfaction,’ said George with a set face.

‘I am sure you have given me enough,’ Magnus replied, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion after the tension and excitement of the hazard table. For the first time in an hour he was aware of the room again. The table of food, the wall candelabras and the smoke-stained ceiling now became as real as the solitary circle of green cloth.

‘Will you settle now, gentlemen?’ asked Bentley, coming up to them. Magnus handed him five sovereigns for their box hands, before going over to the cashier. He paid over seven hundred in counters in return for his promissory note and cheque; the
balance
of eight hundred was given to him in coin and notes. George would have been astounded had he known that his opponent, who was now pocketing his winnings with such unconcern, had just doubled his total assets. Braithwaite wrote out a cheque for the two hundred he had lost above the counters he had started with.

‘And now our conversation,’ said Magnus, guiding George to his side-table. ‘I shall be to the point.’ A waiter took the
champagne
bottle from its ice-bucket and filled their glasses. On the table, between them, was a cigar cutter and a small glass jar filled with tooth picks. Magnus leant forward and said quietly:

‘You wish to marry my sister.’

George tugged at his sandy-coloured moustache and met
Magnus’s eyes.

‘That is a matter which concerns Miss Crawford, her father and myself.’

Magnus nodded affably and lifted his glass to his lips.

‘Formally, I daresay that’s so, Mr Braithwaite, but a brother may interest himself in a sister’s doings, I suppose.’ He put down his glass abruptly. ‘Frankly, Braithwaite, if she accepts you, it’ll be for your fortune. Do you want her on those terms?’

George’s face was scarlet and his hand clasped so tightly round his glass that Magnus thought it would break. A second later, Braithwaite flung the glass to the ground, and roared:

‘I’ll not drink with a man who dares dishonour his sister’s good name.’

‘I appreciate your feelings, but my motives are not
dishonourable
. I’ve invented nothing; she told me herself. I know it’s a scandalous breach of confidence, but it’s worse for a man to be deceived and a woman to sell herself.’

‘What harm have I ever done you?’ whispered George in a quavering, breaking voice. His face was still contorted with rage, but there were tears in his eyes. Magnus looked down at the table.

‘None,’ he murmured gently, ‘but does that justify a loveless marriage?’

George let out a choking groan, as much of grief as anger. Then he brought down his fist on the table, sending the jar of tooth picks, and Magnus’s glass, crashing to the floor. People gazed at them furtively, evidently supposing that they were arguing about their recent game.

‘You’re lying about her. Do you think I don’t understand you, Crawford? You hate my father and you hate his class because your own is dying; you’re sick with a pauper’s envy, but you still think I’m not good enough for your sister. Well, to hell with you and your patrician airs.’

George was breathing hard and still very angry, but Magnus judged that his outburst had helped him and waited a moment until he was still further recovered, then he said with slow firm emphasis:

‘I swear she’s no more love for you than I have. Withdraw your proposal.’

‘Never,’ cried George violently. He lowered his eyes and then looked at Magnus with a calmer, but intensely absorbed
expression
. ‘I think I care for her enough,’ he said softly, ‘even to forgive what you’ve just said.’

The man’s genuine emotion shook Magnus badly. He had been about to threaten to lay new evidence before a magistrate, concerning the conduct of the case against the
Independent,
unless George complied with his wishes. But now he knew he would not be able to bring himself to say that. He had no definite proof against George, and much of his earlier hostility had drained away. Yet he was still disquieted. Not many minutes ago, George would have happily beggared him.

‘If I’ve misjudged you, I have a proposition to make by which you may prove my mistake.’ George stared at him, as if puzzled by this apparent change of heart. Magnus smiled. ‘Persuade your father to discharge his Irishmen and I’ll not hinder you with Miss Crawford. You have my word.’

‘What does the strike mean to you?’

Magnus laughed at George’s confusion.

‘You mean what do I stand to gain by ending it?’ George nodded. ‘An egotist’s private pleasure in influencing events … a moralist’s satisfaction in averting bloodshed. You remember how it was the other night?’ He paused. ‘Stand up to your father and I’ll know you’re a better man than I took you for.’

George stood up wearily and sighed.

‘You know him very little, Crawford, that’s plain enough.’

‘I’ve faith in you. I’ll meet you at the Bull in three days. Monday at noon. Think of Miss Crawford, man.’

Magnus walked briskly to the green baize door, leaving George standing motionless by the table.

*

When Crawford and George had been talking together, Tom Strickland had collected his winnings. Earlier he had signed a note for forty pounds and had staked it all in side-bets on Magnus’s throws; after an initial loss of twenty pounds, he had finished by winning just over a hundred. As the money was handed to him, he was still trembling with excitement. Never before had he risked so much with so little reason; a total loss could have cost him six months’ painting. When he had seen Crawford lose again and again, and still match George’s bets, Tom had scarcely dared watch as the dice fell; longing to tear himself away, the man’s polished calmness had held him
spellbound
, until, unable to remain inactive while feeling such
involvement
, he had started to play.

Immediately afterwards he had longed to talk to Crawford and share with him the ecstatic pleasure of winning but, by then, he had been sitting with George. Tom was surprised that though
he neither knew nor understood the man, he none-the-less felt intuitively that, like him, Crawford had no place in the rigid stratification which birth, wealth and privilege sought to impose on all would-be absconders. For this reason, after Magnus had gone, he was not only disappointed to have been unable to speak to him but also dismayed by the look of brooding malignity on George’s normally impassive face. Tom had often heard it said that George could be as vindictive as his father. Without
stopping
to assess the risks of George guessing where he had gone, Tom quietly left the room and hurried down the stairs, intent on warning Crawford and disclosing his suspicions about Joseph’s intimidation.

Half-way along Lower Street, Magnus heard rapidly
approaching
footsteps behind him; he turned at once, wondering whether George had suddenly taken it into his head to
horse-whip
him into a more convenient frame of mind, but instead he saw Strickland hurrying towards him, casting an occasional glance over his shoulder.

‘Forgive me for following you, Mr Crawford.’ He sounded breathless and uneasy.

‘Provided you leave my money in my pocket, I shall be
honoured
by your attentions.’

Strickland did not smile at this, but drew Magnus aside out of the flickering gas-light into the dark shadow of an overhanging shop-front.

‘The Braithwaites aren’t people to quarrel with.’

The suddenness of this melodramatic announcement, coupled with Strickland’s lowered voice and earnest expression, made Magnus want to laugh.

‘Your desire to save your employer any inconvenience does your loyalty credit, Mr Strickland.’

‘My concern is for your welfare, not his.’

‘Forgive my levity. An evening at Bentley’s rarely leads to gravity of any sort.’ After the champagne, Magnus wished that he had found time to eat something. Apart from the wine, his
encounter
with George had left him light-headed and limp. The church clock was striking two. Strickland was looking at him anxiously.

‘Old Braithwaite has a gang of paid thugs, former navvies and bargees mostly. He’s already used them on individual strikers. One was found drowned in the canal….’

For a moment Magnus felt the same dizziness and fear he had experienced on first seeing George’s fistful of counters;
Strickland
might be telling the truth, might even wish to warn him, although the idea that the Braithwaites would dare treat him in the way they might men who had set fire to their property, seemed far-fetched.

He felt suddenly suspicious. Possibly George was using
Strickland
.

‘You know this positively?’ he asked sharply.

‘I’ve heard the same story more than once.’

‘People tend to speak ill of masters during strikes.’

Crawford’s harsh and dismissive tone surprised and wounded Tom. Barely a week ago, the man had asked for such
information
, implored him for it.

‘I’m sure that electors are being intimidated,’ Tom persisted.

‘Why should that concern me?’

‘I thought from what you said….’

‘Fiascos like that don’t encourage rational thinking, Mr Strickland. Best forget what I said.’

A moment later, Tom was amazed to find himself grasped by the coat and thrust back against the shop-door, with Crawford’s cane across his throat.

‘Braithwaite sent you after me, didn’t he?’

‘But why?’ asked Tom in amazement, laying his hands on the ends of the cane, but not attempting to free himself.

‘To worm your way into my confidence and tell him what I say. You weren’t very eager to tell me anything last time we met. A strange change since then, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Would I have told you what I have?’ cried Tom.

‘What’s the use of rumours which can’t be proved?’

‘Nor can my good-will,’ objected Tom, pressing down the cane so that it was against his chest. Magnus stepped back abruptly but did not look less suspicious. ‘I said nothing before,’ continued Tom, ‘because I wanted more work from Braithwaite. I’ve changed my mind.’