Catherine Cookson - The Gambling Man

The porter at the 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.’