THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND
Chapter eight: Tails you lose

On almost every Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday afternoon our island became a poor-man's casino; a place where the lucky and the luckless gathered to woo the fickle Lady of Fortune. Times were tough, money was scarce - 'twas the ideal climate for desperate men to try to supplement their miserable incomes. Although few were they who walked away from the island with pockets full and hearts uplifted.

Week after week, month after month, even year after year, they would wend their various ways to congregate among the ruins of the old chemical works. Some would approach from the west, others from the east, and still others would come by the more circuitous route around the marshlands. In all seasons, rain or shine, they would trudge along to the game dressed in the obligatory cloth caps , tattered jackets, and baggy trousers; they were the uniforms of the times.

And what was it all for? Why, none other than the game of "pitch and toss", or "two up" as it is sometimes called. The game where, if one were blessed with the luck, one could be like a rich man, at least for a short time. But most of the hapless men went home from the game with the bitter taste of defeat in their mouths; with empty pockets and frantic minds searching for yet more feeble excuses to give to their wives and families.

Perhaps for some the rent money had been frittered away, for others even the money to buy food had disappeared in one lousy run of bad luck. And still they came back time and time again, chasing the dream, hoping for that one big break which would free them of their shackles.

Occasionally the pressure of never-ending poverty became too much for some and their pathetic bodies would be found washed up on the bank of the river or floating in the cold waters of the canal. They at least were free, but their families, in times like these, were doomed to even greater hardship. Such was the cycle of life in these times. What else was there to hope for? They were slaves to a system which seemed not only harsh, but cruel, perverse even. Who can really blame them for wanting to escape this unendurable treadmill?

It was not unexpected, therefore, that on certain occasions tempers would crack and violence would erupt among the players. After all, there was much to fight about. The loss of a week's wages in that climate was indeed a serious business. Mike and I used to watch the players almost every weekend. We would climb up on to the exposed rafters of the damaged buildings and look down on the proceedings, hoping to spot any stray coin for collection later.

We never really knew what was going on, or what the game rules were, at least I didn't, but we could always tell when the game was coming to an end. First, the shouting and swearing increased in volume, then the circle would begin to shrink and swirl around as the excitement grew.

On the last throw, or "toss" the crowd would suddenly fall silent as the coins spun and flipped in the air. Then, as they landed, the throng would lean forward, like a choreographed movement in a Busby Berkley movie, to see what Fate had decreed. There would then follow the shout of elation from the winner, accompanied by the strangled groans of the losers.

Now came the moment where great caution on the part of the winner was most needed. He would invariably have to gather his winnings in haste and push his way out of the circle, fighting off the many grabbing hands as he did so. Once outside the circle he would make a run for it as the rest of the crowd chased after him, some threatening him, others begging for the "lend of a quid". Usually, as he was running away, the winner would toss a handful of coins over his shoulder in order to slow down his pursuers - it always worked. It was sad, it was hopelessly pathetic, to see grown men fighting each other over a few coins.

From time to time there would develop a more serious argument and when this happened it was usually followed by a one-to-one fight. Some of these battles were awesome in their ferocity, but the one I remember most clearly was between two characters equally matched in stature. They were both big and lumpy fellows with muscles like footballs; they had muscles I hadn't even discovered yet!

It took place one bright, sunny Saturday afternoon right outside our house and I had a ringside seat, as it were. Well, these two chaps went at it hammer-and-tongs from the outset. They both stripped down to their singlets and pants and proceeded to batter each other from one end of the promontory to the other while the crowd looked on and shouted encouragement to one or the other of the combatants.

This magnificent struggle lasted for all of an hour, or so it seemed at the time, as the protagonists pummelled each other's bodies and faces into bloody, battered jelly. They fought like tigers as the rest of the men looked on with that peculiar fascination a great contest has for people.

The sound of fists striking flesh, the grunts and groans, the dazed looks as a particularly good blow landed; it was all there. A movie producer would have been most contented with the display. And then at last it was over. The fighters had worn themselves out, there was nothing more either of them could do. There was no further pain they could inflict on each other; no one had won; no one had lost. They shook hands, threw their arms about each other's shoulders, and flopped by the side of the canal to wash away the blood and the dirt. Ah, what a good fight it was! And what a gentlemanly finish! But what, you may ask, was the point of it all? I think, in the end, the fighters themselves would have been hard put to remember what the whole thing had been about.

The game of "pitch and toss" was, of course, illegal and the police were forever devising ways to stamp out the practise. They would occasionally come in ones or twos to try to arrest the whole mob of gamblers but of course in the main they were spectacularly unsuccessful.

The gamblers would always have their "lookouts" for just such an incursion by the constabulary and whenever a bobby's helmet came anywhere near, the crowd would scatter in all directions leaving the coppers once again frustrated and empty-handed.

The lack of success on the part of the police to apprehend the gamblers must have come to the notice of the higher command because in the space of two months in one particular year they launched a series of raids that would have done justice to films like: "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" or even, on one occasion, "The Keystone Cops".

One Saturday afternoon Mike and I were playing cricket on the patch of dirt at the back of our house. Mike was bowling and fielding and I was batting and wicket-keeping - when only two play, those are the sorts of things you have to do.

Well now, I must have been close to my century, at least that was about the number of swipes I'd had at the ball, and Mike had still not managed to get me out. All of a sudden we noticed men running everywhere; some along the canal bank, others towards the marshlands, and still others past our cricket pitch and away over the railway lines.

Soon they were followed by a posse of truncheon-bearing coppers dashing every which way in their attempts to catch the gamblers. One of the gamblers, dressed in a ragged raincoat and a floppy hat, came over to Mike, took the ball from him and proceeded to bowl to me. It had begun to rain, the pitch was wet and at the bowling-crease there was a small puddle. The gambler approached at a run. He raised his arm, took his final stride and planted his foot in the puddle and promptly fell over in a tangled mess of legs, raincoat and hat.

Just as this happened two policemen came over and nabbed him. Our new-found bowler of course protested vehemently. Had he not been playing with us all afternoon? he said to them. "Isn't that right lads?" he added, and called on us for support.

"Yes, mister," we cried in unison. But the policemen were not to be fooled. They began to march him away as Mike and I trundled after them. As the three of them neared our house they came upon another gambler who was lying on his back by the canal bank, his hands behind his head and his legs crossed.

"Just what do you think you're doing then?" said one of the coppers.

"I'm sunning myself, can't you see?" said he, as the rain fell happily on his face.

"Get up, yer daft bugger!" said one copper, wryly "We're taking you in too."

With that the quartet departed. They were soon joined by other policemen who had in tow other luckless gamblers and they all moved off together. The game of "pitch and toss" was over for that weekend, so was the cricket match. And to think I could have scored a hundred!

On another occasion, once again a Saturday, Mike and I were standing on our doorstep watching the gamblers as they stood in a ring about twenty yards away from the house. The game had been going for some time and the men seemed quite animated. I happened to glance over to my right across the canal to the far bank. Running along this bank there was a wall approximately ten feet high which extended along the bank as far as the eye could see. Why I was looking in that direction I cannot say, but suddenly I saw a ladder appear over the top of the wall. Then another; and another; and yet another. I was intrigued! What could it be? Mike saw me looking across the canal and followed my gaze. Just as he focused on the object of my curiosity a whole host of bobby's helmets popped up.

Over the wall they swarmed; young coppers, old ones, and some in between. It was like the Charge of the Light Brigade, for Heaven's sake!

Mike yelled, "Coppers!" over to the gamblers and it was bedlam. The men dashed all over the place. The cops came charging over the bridges as those who had had money on the ground tried frantically to gather up the notes. The coins would have to be left to fortune, or two little boys who might happen along when the raid was over.

Once again the police managed to nab a handful of gamblers and marched them off to the lock-up, there to face the wrath of the law. It was not enough that the poor blighters usually lost their money at the game anyway, now they would face a stiff fine or go to prison for a while. And once again, their families would be the ones who would suffer most when all was said and done.

But nothing could deter the men from risking not only their money, but the likelihood of being caught by the cops, in their efforts to break free from the ever-present, numbing poverty. Each week you could see the familiar faces. Some would come on Fridays only, some on Saturdays or Sundays, but many of them came on all three days. Quite a few of them resorted to theft in order to finance their habit. Among the regulars there were some well-known figures of the criminal world. But in the main the transgressors were merely petty thieves who would pinch a bike, or steal the lead off church roofs just to get a couple of quid to tide them over until their next pay, or until their dole money became due, or both.

The raids continued. The police became trickier by the day. To Mike and I watching it all seemed quite funny; we were not really mindful of the seriousness, the desperation on the part of the gamblers, or the determination of the police. It was only in later years that I began to think of the plight of those foolish, reckless men.

The last raid the police made was of Hollywood proportions. It took place once again on a Saturday afternoon. It was a bright, sunny day with a gentle breeze gambolling across the promontory; ideal weather for tossing the coins. The gamblers were in their favourite spot near the pump-house: the only thing between them and the old building was the railway track, at the end of which was a great barrier to denote that this was the end of the line.

The game was well in progress and the shouting was at a reasonable level. No one as yet had managed to sweep the pool and the betting was lively. Mike and I were on our doorstep again and Dad was inside sleeping off a wet lunch. All in all it was an idyllic day as we lounged around and watched idly as the game progressed. We sometimes found the gambling a great source of income for after it was over we would hunt around for stray coins and quite often we would be rewarded for our vigilance. Perhaps today we'd be lucky too.

As the game continued a line of wagons was being shunted along the track towards the barrier. The wagons were the covered kind with rounded roofs and sliding doors. We used to call them banana wagons, not for their shape but because occasionally we would break into them and find, among other goodies, luscious bananas. The wagons eventually came hard up against the barrier, their buffers clanging and the chains rattling. The gamblers took no notice of this operation; they had seen it many times before. At last the clatter ceased as the wagons settled on the track and all was back to normal, or so it seemed.

Several minutes passed. The game was coming to a climax. Everyone was shouting at once as the coins flew up in the air and the bets were called. All at once the doors of the wagons were thrust open and out jumped about thirty coppers and surrounded the culprits.

The gamblers to a man tried to make a run for it, but for most of them it was hopeless. The police had them dead in their tracks. A few managed to break through the cordon and ran like hell away from the fracas.

One man ran straight into our house and in the process woke Dad from his slumber not a good thing to do at the best of times, and this wasn't the best of times. However, the man's skin was saved by the very fact that a couple of policemen tried to follow the gambler into the house. If Dad was annoyed by the gambler's intrusion he was positively in a fury over the cops' barging in. So it became a case of fury winning over annoyance. He ordered the policemen out of the house and stood like a titan on his doorstep.

There followed a monumental argument between the law and Dad, and Dad won. He kept them at bay for quite some time as they threatened him with all sorts of legal proceedings. But Dad remained steadfast. He told them that the man inside was a friend and that he had every right to be there. When one of the policemen asked the name of the man inside Dad made hurried excuses and left them standing on the doorstep as he went into the house to find out the name of this long-lost friend. He came back out again, after having elicited the name and also striking a bargain with the gambler, and announced most brazenly the name to the policemen.

Another argument then followed but Dad still refused to let them in. After a while it became obvious to everyone, including Dad, that if he continued to stand his ground he would find himself in deep trouble.

And so, with great reluctance and much cursing, Dad finally let them in. They went from room to room searching for the gambler but he was nowhere to be found. They went out of the back door and there by the sink in the lean-to they found him. He was washing the dishes!

That was the bargain Dad had struck. It made no sense, but it had the desired effect. The two policemen broke out laughing, so did Dad. The gambler, however, was not the slightest bit amused. The coppers must have decided between themselves that this poor wretch had suffered enough and left him to it. They halted on the doorstep before leaving, shook hands with Dad to show there were no hard feelings, and went to join the rest of the squad.

The haul had been a good one. It had been carried off most spectacularly and they had bagged themselves over twenty gamblers. The game fell away for a while after that. For weeks our island became deserted except of course for the residents. But as time passed a few of the men drifted back looking for starters. Within a month things were back to normal, except that now they had more "lookouts" and the games were conducted inside the old buildings rather than outside. Nothing really had changed, save for the arrest of many hopeless individuals. But the people on high had been seen to do their lawful duty, they had had as many scalps as necessary in order to keep the public happy.

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