Faded Glory (8 page)

From back-pedalling, he now moved forward on the offensive. Toe to toe with his opponent, sweat and blood covering his face, his fast hands started to push Anderson back. The crowd sensed the battle was on. In a way, the gloves were off.

The two men fought as if their lives depended on it. Blow after blow, both boxers giving as good as they got. Danny fought on grimly. His punches were landing more accurately than Anderson’s manic onslaught.

The mood in the hall began to change. Before Danny started bringing the fight to Anderson, the local crowd had thought that their boy was going to be the easy winner. But Danny had other ideas, and they could sense it.

“Box!” Patsy screamed. “Don’t brawl!”

“Keep going, Danny!” shouted Lenny. “Keep landing them punches!”

Danny was matching Anderson’s aggression punch for punch. Patsy threw his hands in the air. This was a powerhouse of a fight rarely seen in the amateur boxing world, and the crowd loved it.

Anderson was in retreat, backing off for safety, when a right hook from Danny caught him like a hammer blow, smack on the chin, visibly shaking him. Sensing his moment, with a left and a powerful right Danny sent Anderson crashing through the ropes and into the crowd.

Anderson wasn’t the only thing giving up the fight. The ring was collapsing too. Danny grabbed for the ropes as the structure fell apart beneath his feet. Anderson was out cold, sprawled across the laps of two front-row punters, as chaos descended. The referee gave up trying to call for order and went to consult with the judges. After a brief and confused conversation, the referee waved his arms.

“Draw!” he yelled. “In the circumstances, we call a draw!”

Albert, Patsy and Lenny went ballistic. Even the local crowd were booing the decision. Danny had clearly won, well before the ring had collapsed. After giving his all, fighting the kind of fight Anderson had wanted and beating him, Danny had been cheated.

The travesty of justice left a bad taste in his mouth.

*

“We should demand a return match,” Albert said, angrily pacing in the changing rooms as the officials did their best to reassemble the ring for the rest of the bill.

“Cheating bastards,” said Lenny.

“Told you this was a piss hole,” Patsy said.

“Next time you’ll beat him,” Albert swore, lifting Danny’s chin up to look the dejected boy in the eye. “Don’t worry, son, you’ll get your revenge.”

As a semblance of calm began to settle, the door was suddenly pushed open and the smell of aftershave lotion wafted in. Albert narrowed his eyes at the two well-groomed newcomers in mohair suits who had waltzed in unannounced.

“Who the bloody ’ell are you?” he said.

The men looked around the changing room like they owned the place.

“The name’s Costa,” said the taller of the two, producing a business card. No one moved to take it. “Tommy Costa. And this here is my business partner Jack Cohen.”

“No one asked you in here,” said Albert.

“Steady, old fella,” Costa replied. “You don’t want to have a heart attack. Who are you anyway?”

“This man is the ex-army middleweight champion, Albert Kemp,” Lenny bit out, “and you need to show some bloody respect.”

“What do you two want?” Albert said bluntly.

Cohen looked at Albert with a slightly patronising smile. “Nice fighter you have there Albie boy,” he said.

“Good-looking boy too,” said Costa, his eyes lingering on Danny. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

Cohen smiled, showing sharp little teeth. “Now, I’m sure you want the best for the boy,” he said.

“The best for the boy,” echoed Costa.

“He needs proper management,” Cohen continued.

“Someone to nurture, to care,” added Costa.

Albert was reminded of a comedy double act, but not a very funny one.

“Someone to open doors,” Cohen went on.

“Get him the right fights,” Costa put in.

Costa’s eyes glinted. “Perhaps get him a shot at a professional title.”

“And is that you, Albert?” said Cohen, a little too close to Albert’s face for comfort.

Cohen was wearing a grey well-tailored suit, pink tie, striped shirt and what seemed to be a gold ring on every finger. The straight man, serious, perpetually glum, with very black hair, greased and swept severely back.

He spoke quickly and sharply with an almost middle-class accent. Tommy Costa looked like a Greek Cypriot, with a five o’clock shadow, long curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows and big brown eyes. His black mohair suit would have fitted fine, if Tommy had not put on a few pounds living the good life. More casual than Cohen, he wore an open-neck white shirt and a pair of very shiny Cuban-heel boots.

“Why don’t you call him over,” suggested Costa now, his eyes flicking towards Danny. “So we can have a little chat?”

“Go get changed, Danny,” said Albert, not taking his eyes off Costa and Cohen. “Len? Patsy? Look after the boy.”

“It’s all about you, ain’t it Albie?” said Costa.

“Standing in the way of a young man’s dream,” said Cohen.

The men pushed past Albert and headed for Danny. Lenny and Patsy hovered uncertainly.

“Danny boy,” said Cohen. “Allow me to present my card.”

Albert gritted his teeth as a bewildered Danny took the business card from Cohen’s fingers.

“He did well Tony, didn’t he?” said Cohen. “Came back strong.”

“Yes Jack, a brave boy,” confirmed Costa.

“We have been watching you, Danny,” said Cohen.

“Like a hawk,” Costa put in. “We think, if you have the right people around you, you could have a future.”

Danny glanced at Albert. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’ve already got the right people around me.”

Patsy stepped up to Cohen, nose to nose.

“I think you should leave now,” he said. “The boy’s tired. Leave it to another day.”

“We can open doors for you, Danny,” said Cohen, ignoring Patsy.

Albert didn’t like what he was seeing and hearing.

“There’s a door over there you can open,” he said. “Just close it after you piss off.”

Cohen smiled. “Steady there, Albie,” he said.

“Just saying hello, that’s all,” said Costa, with a smile that revealed a prominent gold tooth.

Cohen hadn’t taken his eyes off Danny. “I’m sure you think you’re in good hands, Danny,” he said, “but if you need a little help, give us a call.”

As the door closed, everyone breathed again.

“You wanna stay away from people like that, Danny,” said Patsy, shaking his head.

“Like I said, I’ve got a good team,” Danny said, and he smiled at Albert as he spoke. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The tension in Albert’s shoulders eased a little. “I’ve heard their names, Pat, but I’ve never seen ’em,” he said, turning to the stocky Irishman. “They’ve got a bit of a reputation, ain’t they?”

“Dangerous, the pair of ’em,” Patsy confirmed. “And I’ve heard that Costa fella is one of those sausage jockeys.”

“Blimey,” was all that Albert could think of as a reply.

He sat down on the slatted bench in the changing room. Jack Cohen had come across as a shifty chancer. Costa seemed more gregarious, more outgoing than his partner, but his overpowering personality and buckets full of smarm, in some ways, made him that bit more worrying.

Not that Albert was worried. He’d seen their type before. They took kindness for weakness, used lies for truth and bullying for strength. Danny wouldn’t go near them. He was too bright for that.

*

Danny had planned to stick around and watch the rest of the fights. However, his own traumatic fight and decision, plus the downbeat mood in the changing room, saw him heading off to Wendy’s instead to try and lift his mood.

At the bus stop, Danny thought about the meeting with Cohen and Costa. He had kept their card, and for the first time, he now took it out of his pocket and read it.

Cohen & Costa Boxing Promotions and Management. Promoters that Pack a Punch!

“Promoters that Pack a Punch,” Danny repeated to himself. It had a certain ring.

His first thought was to deposit the card in a nearby rubbish bin. After all, he already had his team, his boxing family. Why would he need this pair? But, something stopped him. Not really knowing why, he put the card back in his pocket.

There was now a growing queue at the bus stop. Several men clustered round him.

“Well done, son,” said one.

“You was robbed,” said another. “You won that fight.”

The memory of the injustice still hurt. “Yeah,” said Danny, shaking the hands that were offered. “Nothing I can do about it though, is there?”

The trolley bus arrived, its two long pole-like arms sparking and clinging to the electric cables overhead. Too often, the arms of the buses became unattached, and a man would have to come to the rescue with a very long pole to re-attach them. The first time it happened, Danny had been a boy travelling on the bus with his mum.

“Is he called a pole vaulter?” he’d wanted to know.

Rosie hadn’t bothered to answer.

This bus seemed to be behaving itself. Danny went upstairs and found a seat by the window. Watching the streets, shops and houses pass slowly by, he reflected on the night’s events. It was seven years since he’d first taken up boxing. Seven long years. It was crazy still to be fighting at an amateur level. Maybe these Costa and Cohen characters could help him get paid, become a professional. It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

His body was still aching from the brutal fight, but all of a sudden Danny felt elated and couldn’t wait to tell Wendy about the evening. He had won that fight after all, albeit with one eye bruised and practically closed. He might not look like the victor, but he was. And maybe in more ways than one.

By the time he got to Wendy’s, her mother and father had gone to bed. He could see Wendy through the net curtains, sitting up waiting for him. He tapped three times on the stained-glass window in the front door, an attractive piece of glass with the figure of a sail boat etched in it.

“I won Wend,” Danny said, grinning, as his girlfriend opened the door. “Although it was given as a draw. What a night. Wait till you hear about it.”

“Oh my God Danny, look at your face!” Wendy’s eyes were wide as she took in Danny’s bruises. She grabbed his hand. “Come in. We need to talk.”

For women, “talking” meant emotion and feelings. Words that spelled terror to most men, Danny among them. His gut lurched as Wendy ushered him into the living room and closed the door.

“Sit down, Danny,” she said.

Danny sat nervously on the sofa. “What’s the matter, what is it?” he asked, feeling like he’d been summoned by the headmistress.

That’s when the bombshell landed.

“I’m pregnant,” Wendy said.

“What?” said Danny.

“I am pregnant,” Wendy repeated with a touch more volume. “Having a baby.
With child
.”

“Oh, pregnant,” said Danny, stunned. “Right.”

A strange mixture of emotions flooded through him. Shock, pride and fear, all at the very same time.

“Right,” he repeated.

“I’ve not told Mum and Dad yet,” said Wendy anxiously.

“Right,” Danny repeated.

He was beginning to sound like a broken record stuck in a groove. His head was bursting with thoughts. Searching, thinking of options, thinking of consequences.

“What shall we do?” Wendy said, her voice small and scared.

Suddenly for Danny, everything was clear. This baby was a confirmation of their love for each other from way back when they were just children, when Danny had defended Wendy from the ginger jibes. The beautiful crowning glory for two childhood sweethearts who had turned into adults and were still deeply in love. Soulmates, as Wendy often said.

Danny put his arms around Wendy and held her close. He felt her relax against him. They were having a child of their own. That very special bond of parenthood was going to be theirs now. It was time to jump into the unknown.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said. “I love you, Wend.”

*

They talked well into the night about all the changes they would need to make. They discussed a few names for the baby, both girls’ and boys’. They talked about money, and how they would cope.

“I met these two fellas tonight,” Danny said as Wendy rested her head on his shoulder. “They reckon I could turn professional with their help, maybe make some money. I’ll meet them, talk to them.”

They were both aware that the most immediate hurdle was to tell Wendy’s parents. Danny was no coward, but the thought of confronting Wendy’s strait-laced folks with the news of a baby conceived out of wedlock was nerve-racking. But he realised that if they were going to have this baby, goodwill from Wendy’s folks was an important factor.

“So you’ll come over tomorrow?” said Wendy as Danny kissed her good night. “We can tell Mum and Dad together.”

He was twenty-three, but Danny had always felt like a boy. For the first time tonight, he truly felt like a man, facing all the responsibility that a baby would bring. He felt ready for it, ready to take it on, whatever the outcome, whatever Wendy’s parents thought.

“Of course I will,” he said, holding Wendy tightly. “I’ll be here at six.”

*

Danny spent most of the next day thinking about how Wendy’s folks might react. He practised little speeches, tried to imagine the questions they would be asked and what answers he would give. He guessed Wendy was doing more or less the same on her shift at the sugar factory. It seemed a longer day than usual, as Danny longed to get everything over with and out in the open.

On the dot of six, Danny arrived at the Bristows’ looking as smart and responsible as he could. He knew that his shiner of a left eye might take the edge off his carefully thought-out presentation, but it couldn’t be helped.

Wendy greeted him with a reassuring hug and kiss.

Danny patted her back. “Don’t worry Wend,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

Mr Bristow had not made it home from work yet. Wendy and Danny waited tensely in the living room as Mrs Bristow bustled around the kitchen peeling potatoes for the evening meal.

“That’s quite a bruise you’ve got there, Danny,” she said. “Did you win the fight?”