The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Aye.’ Rory moved his head slowly downwards.

  ‘You’ve had a good night.’

  ‘You all had the same chance.’

  ‘I would argue about that.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I think you had a trick or two up your sleeve.’

  ‘What! Then search me if you’ve got a mind.’

  ‘Aw, no need for that, I wasn’t meanin’ the actual cards. But you’re a bit of a clever bugger, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m bucked that you think so.’ He stood buttoning his coat, and noted that the half-caste was no longer in the room. He picked up his hat from a side table and went towards the door, saying, ‘So long then.’

  The brothers didn’t speak. When he pulled at the door it didn’t open. He tugged at it twice before turning and looking back into the room. The three men had risen from the table. He stared at them and now the fear swept over him like a huge wave and his stomach heaved.

  ‘What you standing there for? Can’t you get out?’ The big fellow was approaching him, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. But strangely it wasn’t the fellow’s arms or his face that Rory looked at, but his feet. He hadn’t noticed them before. They were enormous feet encased in thick hob-nailed boots. The boots had the dull sheen of tallow on them with which they had likely been greased.

  When the arms sprang up and grabbed at his shoulders Rory struck out, right, then left; right, then left, but his blows were the wild desperate punches used in the back lanes or among the lads in a scrap, as often happened in a works yard.

  He remembered hearing the big fellow laugh just before the great fist struck his jaw and seemed to snap his head from his body.

  He was on the floor now and he screamed when the boot caught him in the groin. Then he was on his feet again, somebody holding him while another belted into him, the big fellow. They left it all to the big fellow. He was still struggling to hit out but like a child swapping flies when the blow came under his chin, and once more he was on his back. But this time he knew nothing about it. He didn’t feel them going through his pockets, nor when the three of them used their feet on him. He was quite unaware of being hoisted across the big fellow’s shoulder and being carried past the half-caste who was standing in the doorway now and up the area steps into the dark side street, then through the back alleyways towards the river.

  That he didn’t reach the river was due to the appearance of two bulky figures coming through a cut between the warehouses. One was a dark-cloaked priest who had been to a ship to give the last rites to a dying sailor. The man accompanying him was the dead man’s friend who was seeing the priest safely back into the town. But to the three brothers their shapes indicated two burly sailors or night-watchmen, and both types could do some dirty fighting on their own, so with a heave they threw the limp body among a tangle of river refuse, broken spars, boxes, and decaying fruit and vegetable, and minutes later the priest and the sailor passed within six feet of it and went on their way.

  6

  They were all in the kitchen, Bill Waggett, Gran and Janie—Janie still had her outdoor things on; Collum Leary and Kathleen and with them now was their son Pat; Paddy Connor, Ruth, Jimmy; and lastly Lizzie; and it was Lizzie who, looking at young Pat Leary said, ‘Talk sense, lad. ’Tis three o’clock on Sunday afternoon an’ he left the house round six last night. Who would be playin’ cards all that time I ask you?’

  ‘It’s true, Lizzie. ’Tis true. I’ve heard of games goin’ on for twenty-four hours. They win an’ lose, win an’ lose.’

  ‘He would never stay all this time; something’s happened him.’

  Nobody contradicted her now but they all turned and looked at Janie who, with fingers pressed tightly against her lower lip, said, ‘You should have gone down and told the polis.’

  ‘What should we tell the polis, lass?’ Paddy Connor now asked her quietly. That me son was out gamin’ last night an’ hasn’t come back? All right, they’ll say, let’s find him an’ push him along the line. Where was he gamin’? I don’t know, says I. Lass—’ his voice was still gentle—’we’ve thought of everything.’

  Grannie Waggett, who was the only one seated, now turned in her chair and, her pale eyes sweeping the company, she said, ‘If you want my advice the lot of you, you’ll stop frashin’. It’s as Pat there says, he’s got into a game. He’s gamin’ mad, always has been. It affects some folks like that, like a poison in their blood. Some blokes take to drink, others to whorin’. . .’

  ‘Gran!‘

  The old woman flashed a look on Janie. ‘Whorin’ I said, an’ whorin’ I mean, an’ for my part I’d rather have either of them than one that takes to gamin’, ’cos with them you’re sure of a roof over your head some time, but not with a gamer for he’d gamble the shift off your back an’ you inside it. There was this gentleman who used to come to the house when I was in service in Newcastle. Real gentleman, carriage an’ pair, fancy wife, mansion, he had. One day he had everything, next day nowt. I tell you, me girl—’ she turned and stabbed her finger towards Janie—’you want to put your foot down right from the start or get used to livin’ in the open, for I tell you, you won’t be sure of a roof . . .’

  ‘Be quiet, Ma.’

  Grannie Waggett turned on her son. ‘Don’t you tell me to be quiet.’

  ‘Be quiet all of you, please.’ It was Ruth speaking gently. ‘What I think should be done is somebody should go down to the Infirmary, the new Infirmary. If anything had happened to him they’d take him there.’

  ‘And make a fool of themselves askin’.’

  Ruth now looked at her husband. ‘I don’t mind lookin’ a fool, I’ll go.’

  ‘No, Ma.’ Jimmy who had not opened his mouth so far went towards the bottom of the ladder now, saying, ‘I’ll go, I’ll change me things an’ I’ll go.’

  As he mounted upwards Collum said, ‘It’s odd it is that he made no mention of whereabouts he’d be, now isn’t it? But then again perhaps it isn’t; if he’d got set on in a big school the least said the soonest mended, for you can’t be too careful: the polis just need a whisper and it’s up their nose it goes like a sniff to a bloodhound.’

  Up in the loft Jimmy went straight to a long wooden box and took out his Sunday coat and trousers, but he didn’t get into them immediately. For quite some minutes he stood with them gripped tight against his chest, his eyes closed, his lips moving as he muttered to himself, ‘Oh dear God! don’t let nowt happen our Rory. Please, please, don’t let nowt happen him.’

  As he came down the ladder again, Janie said, ‘I’ll go with you.’ But he shook his head at her. ‘No, no, I’ll be better on me own. Well, what I mean is, I can get around the waterfront. If he’s not in the hospital I can get around and ask.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  He turned to Lizzie and nodded, saying, ‘Aye; aye,’ and as he went to let himself out, Ruth followed him and, opening the door for him, said quietly, Don’t stay late, not in the dark, not around there.’

  ‘All right, Ma.’ He nodded at her, then went out.

  He ran most of the way into Shields and wasn’t out of breath. He took no notice of the urchins who shouted after him:

  ‘Bow-legged Billy,

  Bandy-randy,

  One eye up the chimney, the other in the pot,

  Poor little sod, yer ma’s given you the lot.’

  At one time the rhyme used to hurt him but he was inured to it now. Nothing could hurt him, he told himself, except that something should happen to their Rory. He’d want to peg out himself if anything happened to their Rory. What was more, if it had already happened he would be to blame because if he hadn’t yarped on about the boatyard Rory wouldn’t have gone gambling . . . But, aye, he would, he would always gamble. But not at this new place, this big place he had gone to these past few Saturdays. He hadn’t let on where it was. He had asked him, but the laughing answer had been, ‘Ask no questions and you’ll get no lies . . .’

  The porter at t
he Infirmary said, ‘No, lad, nobody the name of Connor’s been brought in the day. Then they don’t bring people in on a Sunday less it’s accidents like.’

  ‘Well, I was thinkin’ it could’ve been an accident.’

  ‘Well, there’s no Connor here, lad. Neither mister nor missis.’

  ‘Ta . . . thanks.’ He didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved.

  He was going down the gravel drive when the porter’s voice hailed him, saying, ‘Just a minute! There’s a fella, but I hope it isn’t the one you’re lookin’ for. There was a bloke brought in round dinner-time, no name on him, nothing. He was found on the waterfront. Not a sailor. His clothes were respectable, what was left of them, but I expect by now he’s kicked the bucket.’

  Jimmy walked slowly back towards the man, saying as he went, ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Oh, lad, his own mother wouldn’t be able to recognize him, he’s been bashed about worse than anybody I’ve seen afore.’

  ‘Had he brown hair, thick, wavy . . . ?’

  ‘Whatever colour this fellow’s hair once was, lad, I couldn’t say, but the day it was dark red, caked with blood.’

  Jimmy stood looking up at the man, his mouth slightly agape. Then closing it, the words came dredged through his lips as he said, ‘Could . . . could I see him, this . . . this fella?’

  ‘Well. Well, I’ll ask the sister. Come on back.’

  ‘Sit there a minute,’ he said a moment later, pointing to a polished wooden chair standing against the painted brick wall of the lobby.

  Jimmy sat down, glad to get off his legs. He was feeling weak, faint, and frightened, very frightened.

  The porter came back and beckoned to him. Then with his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, he pointed and said, ‘Go down there, lad, to the end of the corridor, turn left, an’ you’ll see the sister.’

  The sister was tall and thin. She put him in mind of John George. He had to put his head back to look up at her. She said to him, ‘You’re looking for your brother?’

  ‘Aye, miss.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-three, comin’ up twenty-four next month.’

  ‘There’s a young man in there,’ she nodded towards the wall. ‘He’s in a very bad state, he’s been badly beaten. But . . . but you may be able to recognize him, if he is your brother.’

  She turned away, and Jimmy followed her towards the figure lying on the bed. It was very still. The head was swathed in bandages, the face completely distorted with bruises. He found himself gasping for breath. He had once seen a man taken from the river. He was all blue, bluey black and bloated. He had been dead for days, they said. This man on the bed could be dead an’ all. He didn’t know if it was their Rory. The sister was whispering something in his ear and he turned and looked dazedly at her. Then he whispered back as he pointed to his thumb. ‘He had a wart atween his finger an’ thumb towards the front. He’d always had it.’

  The sister gently picked up the limp hand from the counterpane and turned it over; then she looked at Jimmy as he stared down at the flat hard wart that Rory had for years picked and scraped at in an effort to rid himself of it.

  The sister drew him backwards away from the bed, and when they were in the corridor again she still kept her hand on his shoulder as she endeavoured to soothe him, saying, ‘There now. There now.’

  The tears were choking him. Although they were flooding down his face they were packing his gullet, he couldn’t breathe.

  She took him into a room and said, ‘Where do you live?’

  When he was unable to answer she asked, ‘In the town?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Tyne Dock?’

  He brought out between gasps, ‘Up . . . up Simonside.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a long way.’

  He dried his face now on his sleeve, then took a clean rag from his pocket and blew his nose. After some minutes he looked up at her and said, ‘I’ll bring me ma and da,’ then added, ‘Will he . . . ?’

  She said kindly, ‘I don’t know, he’s very low. He could see the morning, but then again I don’t know.’

  He nodded at her, then walked slowly from the room. But in the corridor he turned and looked back at her and said, ‘Ta,’ and she smiled faintly at him.

  He didn’t run immediately, he walked from the gates to where the road turned into Westoe and as he looked down it he thought of Janie. Poor Janie. Poor all of them. In their different ways they’d all miss him, miss him like hell. He had been different from them, different from his da and Mr Waggett and Mr Leary, and all the women had looked up to him. He had become something, a rent collector. There were very few people from their walk of life who rose to rent collectors . . . And himself? He stopped in the street. If Rory went then his own life would come to an end. Not even boats would bring him any comfort. This feeling he had for Rory was not just admiration because he had got on in the world, it was love, because he was the only being he’d really be able to love. He had another love, but that was in a secret dream. He’d never have a lass of his own for no lass would look the side he was on; but that hadn’t mattered so very much because there’d always be Rory.

  As if he were starting a race he sprang forward and ran. He ran until he thought his heart would burst, for it was uphill all the way after he left the docks, and when finally he staggered into the kitchen he dropped on to the floor and held his side against the painful stitch before he could speak to them all hanging over him. And when he did speak it was to Janie he addressed himself.

  They walked quickly, almost on the point of a run, all the way back with him into Shields in the dark, Paddy, Ruth, Lizzie and Janie, and for hours they all waited in the little side room. It was against the rules, but the night sister had taken pity on them and brought them in out of the cold.

  Janie left the Infirmary around eleven o’clock to slip back to her place, and the look on her face checked the upbraiding from the cook and her master and mistress. The master and mistress were deeply concerned over the incident and gave her leave to visit the hospital first thing in the morning.

  Fortunately it was not more than five minutes’ walk from the house, they said, so she was to go upstairs and rest, as she would need all her strength to face the future.

  It was a term that ordinary people used when a man had died and a woman was left to fend for herself and her family with no hope of help but the questionable charity of the Poor House. It was as if Rory were already gone. Well, the family expected he would go before dawn, didn’t they? Men in his condition usually went out about three in the morning.

  She asked politely if she could go back now because she’d like to be with him when he went.

  Her master and mistress held a short conference in the drawing-room and then they gave her their permission.

  Rory passed the critical time of 3 a.m. He was still breathing at five o’clock in the morning, but the night sister informed them now that he might remain in a coma for days and that they should go home.

  Ruth and Paddy nodded at her in obedience because they both knew that Paddy must get to work; and Ruth said to Janie, ‘You must get back an’ all, lass. Don’t take too much advantage an’ they’ll let you out again.’ And Janie, numb with agony, could only nod to this sound advice. But Lizzie refused to budge. Here she was, she said, and here she’d remain until she knew he was either going or staying. And Jimmy said he’d stay too, until it was time to go to work.

  So Ruth and Paddy nodded a silent good-bye to Janie when their ways parted at Westoe and walked without exchanging a word through the dark streets that were already filling with men on their way to the shipyards, the docks, and farther into Jarrow to Palmer’s. But when they had passed through the arches and came to where the road divided Paddy said, ‘I’d better go straight on up else I’ll be late.’

  ‘You’ve got your good suit on.’

  ‘Bugger me good suit!’

  Ruth peered at him through the darkness before sh
e said quietly, ‘If he goes things’ll be tight, think on that. There’ll be less for beer and nowt for clothes. I depended on him.’

  ‘Aw, woman!’ He swung away from her now and made for the Simonside road, saying over his shoulder, ‘Then stop skittering behind, put a move on. If they dock me half an hour it’ll be less on the mantelpiece, so think on.’

  Think on, he said. She had thought on for years. She had thought on the pain of life that you managed to work off during the daytime, but which pressed on you in the night and settled around your heart, causing wind, the relief of which brought no ease. She had loved him in the early years, but after Rory was born she hated him. Yet her hate hadn’t spread over Lizzie. Strange that, she had always liked Lizzie. Still did. She couldn’t imagine life without Lizzie. When Nellie was born a little wonder had entered her life, yet she had actually fought him against the conception. Every time he had tried to touch her she had fought him. Sometimes she conquered because he became weary of the struggle, but at other times after a hard day at the wash tub and baking and cleaning, because she’d had it all to do herself then as Lizzie went out daily doing for the people down the bank, she would surrender from sheer exhaustion. When Jimmy came life ran smoothly for a time. She felt happy she had a son; that he should have rickets didn’t matter so much. As he grew his legs would straighten. So she had thought at first. Then came the day when hate rose in her for Paddy again. It was when he tried once more to take Lizzie. She had come in from next door and found them struggling there in the open on the mat and the bairns locked in the scullery. There had been no need for Lizzie to protest ‘I want none of him, Ruth, I want none of him,’ the scratches on his face bore out her statement.