The Gambling Man

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.’