The Gambling Man

by Catherine Cookson

  From then on the dess bed in the kitchen became a battleground. Finally he brought the priest to her; and she was forced to do her duty in the fear of everlasting hell and damnation.

  She had never asked herself why Lizzie had stayed with them all these years because where would a single woman go with a bairn? Anyway, it was his responsibility to see that she was taken care of after giving her a child.

  And now that child was lying back there battered and on his way to death. What would Lizzie do without him? He had scorned her since the day he learned she was his mother. But it hadn’t altered her love for him; the only thing it had done was put an edge to her tongue every time she spoke to him. Funny, but she envied Lizzie. Although she knew she had Rory’s affection, she envied her, for she was his mother.

  Rory regained consciousness at eight o’clock on the Monday morning. Lizzie was by his side and he looked at her without recognition, and when his lips moved painfully she put her ear down to him and all she could make out was one word, which she repeated a number of times and in an anguished tone. ‘Aye. Aye, lad,’ she said, ‘it is a pity. It is a pity. Indeed it is a pity.’

  He would rally, they said, so she must leave the ward but she could come back in the afternoon.

  Without protest now she left the hospital. But she didn’t go straight home. She found her way to the Catholic church, which she had never been in before; on her yearly visits she patronized the Jarrow one. She waited until the Mass was finished, and then approaching the priest without showing the awe due to his station and infallibility, she told him that her son was dying in the Infirmary and would he see that he got the last rites. The priest asked her where she was from and other particulars. He showed her no sympathy, he didn’t like her manner, she was a brusque woman and she did not afford him the reverence that her kind usually bestowed on him, nor did she slip anything into his hand, but she did say that if her son went she would buy a mass for him.

  He watched her leave the church without putting a halfpenny in the poor box.

  The priest’s feelings for Lizzie were amply reciprocated. She told herself she didn’t like him, he wasn’t a patch on the Jarrow ones. But then she supposed it didn’t make much difference who sent you over to the other side as long as there was one of them to see that you were properly prepared for the journey.

  It was around half-past one when Lizzie, about to pick up her shawl for the journey back to the hospital, glanced out of the cottage window, then stopped and said, ‘Here’s John George; he must have heard.’

  By the time John George reached the door she had opened it and, looking at his white drawn face, said quietly, ‘Come in, lad. Come in.’

  He came in. He stood in the middle of the room looking from one to the other; then as he was about to speak Ruth said softly, ‘You’ve heard then, John George?’ and he repeated ‘Heard?’

  ‘Aye, about Rory.’

  ‘Rory? I . . . I came up to find him.’

  ‘You don’t know then?’

  He turned to Lizzie. ‘Know what, Lizzie? What . . . what’s happened him?’ He shook his head, then asked again. ‘What’s happened him?’

  ‘Oh lad!’ Lizzie now put her hand to her brow. ‘You mean to say you haven’t heard? Jimmy was going to tell Mr Kean at break time.’

  ‘Mr Kean?’

  ‘Aye, sit down, lad.’ Ruth now put her hand out and pressed John George into a chair, and he looked at her dumbly as he said, ‘Mr Kean’s not there. Miss Kean, she . . . she came for a while.’ He nodded his head slowly now, then asked stiffly, ‘Rory. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s down in the hospital, John George. He was beaten up, beaten unto death something terrible.’

  When John George now slumped forward over the table and dropped his head into his hands both women came close to him and Lizzie murmured, ‘Aye, lad, aye, I know how you feel.’

  After a while he raised his head and looked from one to the other and said dully, ‘He’s dead then?’

  ‘No.’ Lizzie shook her head from side to side. ‘But he’s as near to it as makes no matter. It’ll be one of God’s rare miracles if he ever recovers, an’ if he does only He knows what’ll be left of him . . . Was Mr Kean asking for him?’

  It seemed now that he had difficulty in speaking for he gulped in his throat a number of times before repeating, ‘He wasn’t there, won’t be; won’t be back till the night, his father died.’

  ‘Ah, God rest his soul. Aye, you did say he wasn’t there. Well, you can tell him when you do see him that it’ll be some time afore Rory collects any more rents, that’s if ever. It’s God’s blessin’ he hadn’t any collection on him when they did him. Whatever they took from him, an’ that was every penny, it was his own.’

  John George’s head was bent again and he now made a groaning sound.

  ‘Will you come in along of me and see him, I’m on me way? It’s the Infirmary.’

  He rose to his feet, and stared at her, then like someone in a daze, he turned and made for the door.

  ‘Aren’t you stayin’ for a cup of tea, lad?’ It was Ruth speaking now.

  He didn’t answer her except to make a slight movement with his head, then he went out leaving the door open behind him.

  They both stood and watched him go down the path. And when he was out of sight they looked at each other in some amazement, and Lizzie said, ‘It’s broken him; he thought the world of Rory. It’s made him look like death itself.’

  ‘Get your shawl on and go after him.’ Ruth pointed to where the shawl was lying across the foot of Lizzies bed which was inset in the alcove. But Lizzie shook her head, saying, ‘He wants no company, something about him said he wants no company.’ She moved her head slowly now as she stared back at Ruth. ‘God knows, this has hit everyone of us but in some strange way him most of all. It’s strange, it is that. Did you see his face, the look on it? It was as if he himself was facing death. Me heart’s breakin’ at this minute over me own, yet there’s room for sorrow in me for that lad. Poor John George.’

  7

  Janie sat by the bed and gazed down on the face that she had always thought was the best looking of any lad in the town and she wondered if it would ever go back into shape again. Oh, she hoped it would, for, being Rory, he’d hate to be marked for life. And she couldn’t stand the thought either of him being disfigured; but as long as he was alive that’s all that really mattered. And he was alive, and fighting to keep alive.

  He had opened his eyes once and looked at her and she thought that he had recognized her, but she wasn’t sure. His lips were moving continuously but all he kept saying was ‘Pity. Pity.’ There must be something on his mind that was making him think it was a pity, and she thought too that it was the greatest of pities that he had ever gone gaming because she had no doubt but that he had been followed from wherever he had played, and been robbed, and by somebody in the know; likely one of them he had played against. But as Jimmy said last night, they mustn’t breathe a word of it because if it got to Mr Kean’s ears that would be the finish of his rent collecting. You couldn’t be a gambler and a rent collector . . . And then there was this business of John George.

  Eeh! she was glad to the heart that Rory didn’t know about that because that would really have been the finish of him. Of all the fools on this earth John George was the biggest. She couldn’t really believe it, and if the master hadn’t told her himself she wouldn’t have, but the master’s partner dealt with Mr Kean’s business. Odd, but she hadn’t known that afore. But still, she asked herself, why should she? Anyway, he had pricked his ears up when he heard that one of Mr Kean’s men had swindled him because, as he said, he knew that her intended worked for Mr Kean.

  Rory’s head moved slightly on the pillow, his eyelids flickered, and she bent over him and said softly, ‘Rory, it’s Janie. How you feelin’, Rory?’

  ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Pity.’

  The tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks and she whispered, ‘Oh,
Rory, come back from wherever you are.’ Then she said softly, ‘I’ve got to go now, I’ve got to get back, but I’ll come again the night. The mistress says I can take an hour off in the afternoon and evening. It’s good of her.’ She spoke as if he could understand her, then she stood up, whispering softly, ‘Bye-bye, dear. Bye-bye.’

  Five minutes later she was turning off the main road and into Westoe when she saw the two dark- clothed figures of Ruth and Lizzie approaching. She ran towards them, and immediately they asked together, ‘You’ve been?’

  ‘Aye, yes.’

  ‘Any change?’

  She looked at Lizzie and shook her head, then said, ‘He opened his eyes but . . . but I don’t think he knew me, he just keeps sayin’ that word, pity, pity . . . Have . . . have you heard about John George?’

  ‘John George? Was he in?’

  ‘No, Mrs Connor—’ she always gave Ruth her full title—’he’s . . . he’s been taken.’

  ‘Taken?’ They both screwed up their faces while they looked back at her. ‘Yes, for stealin’.’

  ‘John George!’ Again they spoke simultaneously. She nodded her head slowly. ‘Five pounds ten, and . . . and he’s been at it for some time.’

  They were speechless. Their mouths fell into a gape as they listened. ‘Mr Kean was away and Miss Kean came early on, earlier than usual to collect the money. She was on her way to some place or other an’ she just called in on the off-chance. She had her father’s key and she opened the box and . . . and there was five pounds ten short from what was in his book. Apparently he had been doin’ a fiddle.’

  ‘No! Not John George.’ Ruth was holding the brim of her black straw hat tightly in her fist.

  ‘Yes. Aye, I couldn’t believe it either. It made me sick. But the master, he heard it all in the office. The solicitors, you know. He . . . he said he was a stupid fellow. I . . . I put a word in for him I did. I said I’d always found him nice, a really nice fella, and he said, ‘He’s been crafty, Janie. He’s admitted to using this trick every time he was sure Mr Kean wasn’t goin’ to collect the Saturday takings.’ Apparently he would nip something out then put it back on the Monday mornin’ early, but this time he was too late. And then he said nobody but a stupid man would admit to doing this in the past, then try to deny that he had taken five pounds ten. He wanted to say it was only ten shillings, and he had that on him to put back . . . He had just been to the pawn. They found the ticket on him.’

  ‘Oh God Almighty! what’ll happen next? Rory and now John George, an’ all within three days. It isn’t possible. But this accounts for his face, the look on his face when he came up yesterday. Eeh! God above.’ Lizzie began rocking herself.

  ‘It’s this lass that he’s caught on to, Lizzie.’ Janie nodded slowly. ‘Rory said he was barmy about her. He bought her a locket an’ chain at Christmas and he takes her by the ferry or train to Newcastle every week, then round the buildings. He’s daft about buildings. I never knew that till he told me one night. Then last week he gave her tea in some place. Yes, he did, he took her out to tea. And not in no cheap cafe neither, a place off Grey Street. An’ Rory said Grey Street’s classy.’

  ‘Women can be the ruin of a man in more ways than one.’ Lizzie’s head was bobbing up and down now. ‘But no matter, I’m sorry for him, to the very heart of me I’m sorry for him ’cos I liked John George. He had somethin’ about him, a gentleness, not like a man usually has.’

  Ruth asked quietly, ‘Do you know when he’ll be tried, Janie?’

  ‘No, but I mean to find out.’

  ‘Somebody should go down and see him, he’s got nobody I understand, only those two old ’un’s. And you know, it isn’t so much laziness with them—’ Ruth turned now and shook her head at Lizzie—’it isn’t, Lizzie, it’s the rheumatics. And this’ll put the finish to them, it’ll be the House for them. Dear, dear

  ‘Lord!’—Ruth never said God—’You’ve got to ask why these things happen.’

  The three of them stood looking at each other for a moment. Then Janie said, ‘I’ve got to go now, but I’m gettin’ out the night an’ all. The mistress said I can have an hour in the afternoon and in the evenin’s. She’s good, isn’t she?’

  They nodded at her, and Lizzie agreed. ‘Aye, she’s unusual in that way. Bye-bye then, lass.’

  ‘Bye-bye.’ She nodded from one to the other, then again said, ‘Bye-bye,’ before running across the road and almost into a horse that was pulling a fruit cart, and as Lizzie watched her she said, ‘It only needed her to get herself knocked down and that would have been three of them. Everythin’ happens in threes, so I wonder what’s next?’

  8

  Janie had never before been in a court. She sat on the bench nearest the wall. At the far end of the room, right opposite to her, was the magistrate; in front of him were a number of dark-clothed men. They kept moving from one to the other, they all had papers in their hands. At times they would bend over a table and point to the papers. The last prisoner had got a month for begging, and now they were calling out the name: ‘John George Armstrong! John George Armstrong!’

  As if emerging out of a cellar John George appeared. The box in which he stood came only to his hips, but the upper part of him seemed to have shrunk, his shoulders were stooped, his head hung forward, his face was the colour of clay. One of the dark-suited men began to talk. Janie only half listened to him, for her eyes were riveted on John George, almost willing him to look at her, to let him know there was someone here who was concerned for him. Poor John George! Oh, poor John George!

  . . . ‘He did on the twenty-fourth day of January steal from his employer, Septimus Kean, Esquire, of Birchingham House, Westoe, the sum of five pounds ten shillings . . .’

  The next words were lost to Janie as she watched John George close his eyes and shake his head. It was as if he were saying, ‘No, no.’ Then the man on the floor was mentioning Miss Kean’s name . . . ‘She pointed out to the accused the discrepancy between his entries in the ledger and the amount of money in the safe.’

  Rory had always said they hadn’t a safe, not a proper one. She looked towards Miss Kean. She could only see her profile but she gathered that she was thin and would likely be tall when she stood up. She wore a pill-box hat of green velvet perched on the top of her hair. She looked to have a lot of hair, dark, perhaps it was padded. Even the mistress padded her hair at the back, especially when she was going out to some function.

  ‘The accused argued with her that he was only ten shillings short and he had the amount in his pocket, and he had intended to replace it. He asked her to recount the money. This she did. He then admitted to having helped himself on various previous occasions to small sums but said he always replaced them. He insisted that there was only ten shillings missing. He then tried to persuade her to accept the ten shillings and not mention the matter to her father . . . When taken into custody he said . . .’

  Oh John George! Why had he been so daft? Why? It was that girl. If she ever met her she’d give her the length of her tongue, she would that, and when Rory came to himself and heard this he’d go mad, he would that. But it would be some time before they could tell Rory anything.

  The magistrate was talking now about trusting employers being taken advantage of, about men like the prisoner being made an example of; about some men being nothing more than sneak thieves and that the respectable citizens of this town had to be protected from them.

  ‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t take five pounds, sir.’

  ‘Answer the question. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘I didn’t take five . . .’ John George’s voice trailed away. There was talk between the magistrate and one of the men on the floor, then Janie’s mouth opened wide when the magistrate said, ‘I sentence you to a total of twelve months . . . .’

  She shot to her feet and actually put her hand up to try to attract John George’s attention, but he never raised his head.<
br />
  A few minutes later she stood by the door of the Court House. The tears were running down her face. Her hour was nearly up and she wanted to call in at the hospital. That’s where she was supposed to be. She didn’t know what she would have done or said if the master had been in the court, but he wasn’t there. Oh, John George! Poor John George!

  A policeman came through the door and looked at her. He had seen her in the court room, he had seen her lift her hand to the prisoner. He said, not unkindly, ‘He got off lightly. I’ve known him give three years, especially when they’ve been at it as long as he has. He always lays it on thick when he’s dealin’ with men who should know better. He had the responsibility of money you know an’ he should have known better. Anyway, what’s a year?’ He smiled down at her, and she said, ‘Would . . . could . . . do you ever allow anybody to see them for a minute?’

  ‘Well now. Aye, yes, it’s done.’ He stared at her, then said quickly, ‘Come on. Come this way. Hurry up; they’ll be movin’ them in next to no time. There’s more than a few for Durham the day and he’ll be among them I suppose.’

  She followed him at a trot and when he came to an abrupt stop she almost bumped into his back. He opened a door and she glimpsed a number of men, definitely prisoners, for the stamp was on their faces, and three uniformed policemen.

  Her guide must have been someone in authority, a sergeant or someone like that, she thought, for he nodded to the officers and said, ‘Armstrong for a minute, I’ll be with him.’

  ‘Armstrong!’ one of the policemen bawled, and John George turned about and faced the door. And when the policeman thumbed over his shoulder he walked through it and out into the corridor.

  The sergeant now looked at him. Then, nodding towards Janie, said, ‘Two minutes, and mind, don’t try anything. Understand?’ He poked his face towards John George, and John George stared dumbly back at him for a moment before turning to Janie.