The Man Who Cried

by Catherine Cookson

  ”I am enquiring for a Mr Mason.”

  ”I’m he.” i

  ”Oh. I’m Detective Inspector Davidson. Your son told me where I might find you.”

  ”Come in.”

  The inspector came in and stood aside while Abel closed the door. He did it slowly, and as slowly he walked past the man and into the sitting-room, and there he motioned with his hand towards the couch where Florrie was sitting nursing the child, and he said, ”This is Mrs Ford.”

  The inspector inclined his head forward and Florrie, now getting to her feet and laying the child in the corner of the couch, said in a low voice, ”Won’t you sit down?”

  ”If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand; this won’t take long.” He now turned to Abel and said, ”You know why I’ve come?”

  ”Oh yes, I know why you’ve come.”

  ”A Mrs Mason has laid claim by showing as proof her marriage certificate that she is your wife, and also” - the inspector now cast his glance to the side before raising his eyes again and looking straight at Abel - ”we have confirmed with Somerset House that the certificate which she produced agrees with their records. These records also show that a man using the name of Abel Gray, by which I understand you are now known, did subsequently go through a form of marriage with a person of the name of Hilda Maxwell.”

  The formal words and tone were in keeping with the inspector’s appearance and after Abel had acknowledged his statement by one single movement of his head the man now said, ”I must caution

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  you that from now on you need not say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence at your trial.”

  When Abel sighed the inspector said, ”I’d be obliged if you’d come to the station with me, sir, for questioning.”

  Abel turned and looked at Florrie. Her face remained straight, only her eyes told him what she was feeling.

  A few minutes later he was dressed for outside and he had opened the door leading into the hall; then pausing, he said, ”Just a minute, I forgot something,” and hurrying back into the sittingroom, quickly closing the door behind him, he went to Florrie and took her in his arms, and after kissing her hard and quickly on the lips he whispered, ”Don’t worry. What’s to be will be.

  Just remember, nothing can separate us in the long run.”

  She made no answer, only gulped in her throat, then pressed his face tightly between her hands. . . .

  On the journey to the station the inspector surprisingly dropped his official manner and, almost like a friend, said, ”Have you a solicitor ?”

  ”No.” •”-- - < - -,.-

  ”Well, the quicker you get one the better.” -’•• - ::> -

  ”Thanks, I’ll do that.” : *- • i /;•;- •..-.;

  ”Do you know anything about the proceedings you’re going into?” =:

  ”No, not a thing.” /

  ”Well then, if you had a solicitor with you he’d likely tell you to plead not guilty.”

  Abel turned his head swiftly to him. ”But I am,” he said, ”I’ve committed bigamy. I’m guilty all right.”

  ”That’s as may be, but if you plead guilty they can keep you inside tonight and then when you come up before the magistrates in the morning and you still hold your plea as guilty you can be kept in jail until your trial.”

  ”I won’t be able to get bail?”

  ”Not if you plead guilty.”

  ”Huh!” Abel shook his head, then, on a wry smile, said, ”I’ll get out until the trial if I say I’m not guilty ?”

  ”That’s the way it goes.”

  . . . And that’s the way it went. In the police station he went through much the same procedure as he had done in Florrie’s

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  sitting-room, only here the atmosphere was different, and it ended with him being bailed to appear before the magistrates the following morning.

  He was visibly shaken when he walked down the steps and into the street from the police station, and he stood for a moment thinking about a solicitor and where he would find one. He had never had need of a solicitor. Hilda had one, but he couldn’t go to hers. Florrie had said there was a tall building off Cuthbert Street that housed solicitors and accountants. She, too, had no need of a solicitor in Fellburn, the business of her shop had been settled in Newcastle.

  When a few minutes later he looked at the well-polished brass plate, he saw the name Thomas Gay and Co., Solicitors, Commissioners for Oaths, and underneath a list of four names headed by a John E. Roscommon. He looked at the other names. Well, it didn’t matter which one, did it, they’d all likely know what to do.

  He went into the building and up the stairs and through a glass door marked ”Thomas Gay & Co.” and to a glass-partitioned desk where a prim young woman looked at him and said, ”Well . .

  . yes ?”

  ”I’d ... I’d like to see Mr Roscommon please.” |s

  ”Have you an appointment ?”

  ”No.”

  ”Well, let me see” - she turned to a book - ”how about Wednesday at three ?”

  He stared at her for a moment before saying slowly, ”I want to see him today.”

  She stared back at him, her eyes widening. ”I’m afraid that’s impossible. Mr Roscommon is fully engaged.”

  ”One of the others?”

  ”They’re all engaged.” She moved her head slowly, then she bent forward as if speaking to a child and, peering up at him from under the partition, she said, ”You’ve got to make an appointment to see a solicitor.”

  ”Miss Wilton!”

  The young woman turned to look at the old man who was addressing her. He beckoned her to one side and although Abel couldn’t hear what he was saying he distinctly heard what she was saying. ”It isn’t done,” she said; ”Mr Blackett would go on.”

  Now Abel heard the old man say, and quite distinctly and

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  firmly, ”Leave Mr Blackett to me” and to this the yotfng lady answered with an indignant ”Eeh!”

  Now the old man was looking through the partition at Abel and was saying, ”Your name, sir ?” ?

  >•

  ”Gray . . . Mason . . . Abel Gray Mason.” ;-

  ”Would you mind taking a seat, sir?” ?

  ”Thank you.”

  Abel took a seat and he watched the old man disappear through a door and he was left staring at the partition and at Miss Wilton who was staring back at him in no friendly fashion. Under other circumstances he would have laughed at the expression on the young girl’s face, but he doubted at this moment if he would ever laugh again.

  It was almost five minutes later when the old man returned and, in the same polite manner, said,

  ”Will you come this way, sir?”

  Abel knew that his exit was being closely watched by Miss Wilton and as he went up a narrow corridor the old man said, ”The young lady is new to the work but she’s right in one way, it i&:; usual to make an appointment.”

  ”I realize that now but I’m . . . I’m badly in need of advice at the moment.”

  ”I understand that, sir. This way.”

  They now crossed an open office where four typists, busily tapping away, raised their heads for a second and glanced at him; then through another passageway; and now the old man was opening a door and ushering him into a sparsely furnished room.

  ”Mr Gray Mason, Mr Roscommon.”

  The man sitting behind the desk rose slowly to his feet, but that hardly brought him up to Abel’s shoulder. He didn’t speak, he just motioned towards a chair and Abel, sitting down, said, ”I ...

  I’m sorry to barge in like this but . . . but time is precious, you see, sir, I’ve got to appear in the magistrates court tomorrow morning and it’s . . . it’s all happened so quickly. I ... I didn’t realize . . . well, the procedure. ...”

  The small broad man closed his eyes for a moment and said, ”All right, all right, Mr Mason. Now just settle back and start from the beginni
ng. What’s your case?”

  On an outgoing breath Abel said, ”Bigamy.” ”Oh.” Mr Roscommon showed no surprise whatever. ”How many times ?”

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  ”Oh. Huh!” Abel smiled wryly. ”Only the once.”

  ”Only the once.” Mr Roscommon now began to apply himself to his desk pushing papers here and there. Finally, he drew one towards him - it was blank - and again he said, ”Well now, start from the beginning.”

  Abel started from the beginning. Twenty minutes later Mr Roscommon stopped making notes and asked the first question. ”Where’s your wife living now . . . your legitimate wife ?”

  ”I ... I don’t know.”

  ”You don’t know ? Oh. Well then, we’ll have to find out, won’t we?” He looked towards the clock and said aloud, ”Half past eleven. And that’s not the only thing we’ll have to find out before tomorrow morning.

  ”How has the woman . . . well, the one you’ve been living with as your wife taken this matter ?”

  ”Very badly.”

  ”Is there any hope she’ll stand by you ?”

  ”No, none.”

  ”. . . And you pleaded not guilty?” He was tapping the writing on his pad now, and he went on,

  ”Yes, of course, else you wouldn’t be here. Well now, as I see it, Mr Mason, the worst part of all this isn’t the fact that you married another woman while you still had a wife, although that is what they’ll have you on, but the reason why you left your wife in the first place, because looking at it from the judge’s point of view, no matter how cruel or unhappy your mistress was with her husband she would likely be alive today if it wasn’t for you. Well, need I say more?”

  No, he needn’t say more. And he had never thought of Alice as his mistress. They didn’t call them mistresses in the working class

  - his woman, or fancy bit was the name by which she would be known.

  ”Well now, your wife. She’ll likely come on you for maintenance. . . . You don’t know, I suppose, how she’s been living, I mean, has she been supporting herself?”

  ”I don’t know.” t :

  Mr Roscommon sighed. ”We’ve got a lot to go into.”

  ”What will happen after tomorrow morning, sir?”

  ”Oh, you’ll go up before the magistrates.” He paused, then said, ”Let me see. What have I got on tomorrow morning ? Shall I be able to go with you ?” He pulled a book towards him, thumbed 225

  -#•

  the pages, then said, ”H’m, h’m. Yes, yes, that’s afi right. It’ll likely be early. Oh, well now” - he again looked at Abel - ”what will happen then ? Well, you’ll plead not guilty, and I’ll ask for bail for you while the papers are being sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions, so you’ll be out and about until the committal proceedings.”

  ”Is that the trial ? And how long will I have to wait ?”

  ”No, no, that isn’t the trial, that’s only . . . well, a sort of preparation. It’ll take place in about three or four weeks’ time. From there you’ll be committed for trial at the assizes. Now where they’ll be held remains to be seen, it’ll be the nearest to the cornmittal proceedings. It could be in either Newcastle or Durham.”

  ”Can you give me any idea what the usual penalty is for a case like this ?”

  ”Oh.” Mr Roscommon pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. ”You could get anything up to seven years, but it all depends on who’s on the Bench and the prosecution. Oh yes, the prosecution. If the prosecution has a good barrister he can colour off-white tow black, so it’ll be up to us to get you one who can bring the black to off-white again. But don’t look so down” - Mr Roscommon smiled for the first time - ”I’ve even known cases like this where the judge has dismissed the whole affair. It could happen if he’s had trouble with his own wife.” He laughed a deep rolling chuckle now, but Abel didn’t join him.

  Mr Roscommon now lay back in his leather chair and rolled a pencil between his two hands as he asked, ”What is your wife like, good-looking ? Appeal of any kind ?”

  ”None whatever. To my mind she’s a vixen and looks it.”

  ”Oh yes, yes.” Mr Roscommon nodded now. ”She would look a vixen to you because you’re prejudiced, but you must remember, all men, and especially those in court, won’t be seeing her through your eyes, it’ll be what she sounds like that could sway the balance. Anyway” - Mr Roscommon rose suddenly to his feet - ”I’ve got a lot of work to do on this so I’ll bid you good-bye until tomorrow morning.”

  Abel was already at the door and when the small man held out his hand he took it, and as the solicitor shook it he said cheerily, ”There’s one thing in your favour, there’s a war on; people’s views have changed, widened. The powers that be have more important things to deal with than family issues, and who knows the

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  judge might think you’re worth more to the country in the factory than in gaol. Part time, you said, and you run a cycle repair business as well ?”

  ”Yes.”

  ”Ah well, funny thing to say, but this war has come as a godsend to many. Good-day to you.”

  ”Good-day.”

  As in a daze, Abel threaded his way through the typing room, along the corridor, past the outer office where Miss Wilton’s eyes seemed to be waiting for him, and down the stairs into the street.

  There’s a war on. He had forgotten for a moment there was a war on. He had forgotten that he had spent most of the night helping to clear the debris of a house almost brick by brick so the joists wouldn’t crush an old woman and her dog, both still alive in the basement of the house. He had forgotten that they had let him down through the cross beams that were supporting half an intact wall that tended any minute to collapse. He had forgotten that he’d had to prise the dog from the old woman’s arms before he could lift her and push her upwards, all the while she crying for the dog. He had lifted the dog very gently, for its back legs were badly crushed, he didn’t think it had long to survive. They had pulled him up through the hole only just in time, and when a few seconds later he had stood and watched the wall cave in he felt physically sick.

  Of a sudden he again felt sick and very tired; and oh God! he had the desire to cry. He must get home, home to Florrie.

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  The house was quiet. . . dead. Dick was still asleep. It was only half past five in the morning; the town was not yet astir, but even when it was the house would still appear dead.

  She put the kettle on the gas ring and went about the usual routine of brewing the first cup of tea, and while it was brewing she pulled the damper out of the fire, placed some pieces of coal gently on the top of the still hot ashes, and raked the fire, the dead ash falling into the pan underneath the grate. Then having poured herself out a cup of tea, she sat down, not in the big wooden chair, she never sat in that now, but on a kitchen chair near the table.

  While sipping her tea she stared at the blackout frame fixed over the kitchen window. Her thoughts were jumping from one thing to another, as they were in the habit of doing these days, always avoiding the main issue. There hadn’t been a. raid now for three weeks. It was a pity, because she wished one would blow the place to smithereens, with just her in it, because there was nothing more to live for. Everybody in the world seemed to have something to live for except her. Dick was always trying to hide the fact that he had a lot to live for.

  What would she have done without Dick these past weeks, and Molly too; they had both been wonderful. But it was Dick who had held her in the night when during that awful fortnight she’d had the bouts of screaming. But for him, they would have put her away, sent her for treatment was how they put it. At nights now, when she got all tensed up the only thing that made her take a pull at herself was the memory of those nights of alternate screaming and laughing. She didn’t know which was the worse, her screams or her laughter. The doctor said it was shock. When it stopped, she had gone back into that strange silence, and in it she spent hours, even days going over her life. At the end, her m
ind would

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  always ask herself the same question: What had she had from her life? And the answer would be ... nothing, because nobody had ever really loved her. She excluded from her thoughts her supposed father because he hadn’t loved her, what he had done all the vears while bringing her up was hug to himself the dream of the woman who was her mother. Yet she could still think it strange that a horrible little man like that could love with such intensity.

  That was the word that had been missing from her own love, intensity. She had loved Abel, but not with intensity; at least not when she married him she hadn’t, and not during all those fruitless years either; not until now. Dear God! not until now, for now the feeling she had for him was all consuming. She should be hating him. She did hate him, but all the while she wanted him, she needed him, she loved him, and with intensity now, and for the first time she knew that this feeling was real love and so different from anything else she had experienced in her life. She loved him in such a way that she’d be willing to live in the house with him even if he never came within a yard of her again, but what was more telling still she would gladly live with him on his own terms, the terms that he had laid down about loving.

  She rose from the chair and, going to the fire, she put more coal on it; then poured herself out a second cup of tea and sat down again. Today was the day, likely his last day of freedom; surely his last day of freedom. What would they give him? Would what she had done shorten it in any way ? She had asked Dick to take the letter to his solicitor. He had hesitated, asking, ”You’re not going to make it harder for him, are you ?” and all she answered to that was ”No; it should help.”

  She knew she would have a struggle today to stop herself from going to the court in Newcastle, she longed to look on him just once more; but she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing that woman again, or their Florae. . . . But if their Florae was wise she’d keep away. This last statement reflected the old Hilda, the authoritative Hilda, the condemning Hilda. But there again, too, her feelings towards their Florae had changed. During her screaming period she had seen herself springing on Florae, bearing her to the ground and beating her until she lay still, after which she had taken hold of the child and thrown it - her mind had always shut down in the scene showing where the child landed. But now her mind seemed to have put a cocoon around 229