Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 2

The Chess Club, for Jack, wasn't about the chess. Oh no. He couldn't tell a rook from a rambler rose. It was the spectacle, the human drama, the sight of men contorting their faces into expressions of profound, yet ultimately pointless, concentration that truly tickled his fancy. Inside, the air hung thick with the odour of stale pipe tobacco and desperation, a blend as potent as a magician's potion. He spotted him then: the Old Man with the Trembles. His hands shook like leaves in a hurricane and his eyes darted about like frightened sparrows. His chess game was, to put it mildly, a disaster. Even Jack, whose strategic prowess peaked at remembering which end of a spoon to use, could see the man was playing with the skill of a badger attempting brain surgery.

“Terrible game,” Jack chirped, oblivious as ever. “You're throwing away your queen like she's an old sock!”

The Old Man sighed, a sound like air escaping a punctured bicycle tyre. “Got only five hundred dollars left, lad,” he muttered, his voice shaky. “Five hundred… for the rest of my life.”

And that, dear reader, was Jack's cue. He puffed up like a prize pigeon, his moral compass spinning wildly. “Five hundred dollars! Good heavens, man! You need a proper job! Stability! A career! It's the only way to secure your retirement, you see. A pension is your life raft in the sea of old age!” He gesticulated wildly, nearly knocking over a table laden with half-empty teacups. He ranted and raved, a whirlwind of unsolicited advice, practically accusing the poor old fellow of financial recklessness. “You can't just drift through life, like a ship without a rudder, hoping for the best! Work! Save! Plan!”

The Old Man merely sat there, a silent, stoic statue amidst Jack's theatrical storm. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the chessboard, no doubt plotting his next spectacularly ill-conceived move.

As Jack, finally exhausted, prepared to leave, feeling rather pleased with himself for his impromptu lecture on fiscal responsibility, the Old Man looked up, a flicker of something – perhaps amusement, perhaps despair – in his watery eyes. “You know, lad,” he rasped, “I worked. Fifty-eight years, without a holiday, without a sick day. Clerk at the bank, I was. Solid, reliable. But…” he paused, a dramatic beat worthy of the West End stage. “…today, I learned my pension company went bust. Bankrupt. Gone. Vanished.”

And with that, the Old Man turned back to his chess game, leaving Jack standing there, his jaw hanging open like a broken hinge, his rosy optimism deflated like a punctured balloon. The irony, dear reader, was as thick and rich as clotted cream, and decidedly less palatable.

Jack whose intellect could generously be described as “rustic charm,” emerged from the Chess Club looking like a thundercloud in trousers. He’d just endured a conversation with the old Mr. Henderson, a man whose chess skills were only surpassed by his knack for losing his meagre savings to unscrupulous investment schemes. Jack's heart, as soft as a marshmallow in a furnace, writhed with righteous indignation.

“It's the government, I tell you!” he muttered, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. “Blind as bats, they are, with their pockets lined with gold! They don't care a fig for the working man!”