Authors: Emily Bullock
F
ight night had arrived. Jack’s cheeks burned as the cold wind pinched at him. He crossed at the fish and chip shop, turning on to Camberwell Road. He always took the long way round to the gym. He couldn’t risk catching a glimpse of Albany Basin through the arches; its smell of washed-out bonfires, and the last sulphur tang of a match, was enough to make his breath run short and the back of his knees sweat.
Pearl trotted behind, wrapped up in his mum’s old rabbit fur. He should be making sure she didn’t twist an ankle on the wet cobbles; she already had a burn on the palm of her hand from filling the tin bath last night. But Pearl would be all right. She never asked about the long-cuts he took, but it wasn’t as if she could remember back to that night. His footsteps echoed around the deserted street like applause ringing in his ears. The only light in the road was from the top inch of the gym windows that weren’t painted out; the shadows ran like deep scars across the bombed-out warehouses on the other side of the alley.
He beat out a victory drum on the wall as he went in. He parked Pearl in the corner. The noise pounded his ears as if he had tumbled into the public baths on Tanner Street. Men everywhere: in the ring, lounging on the benches, darting between hanging punchbags. Long trousers frayed at the hem and braces stretched tight. The energy made Jack’s step bounce; chalk dust stirred in the air. He licked his lips, swallowed the taste. Eyes watching him; Jack straightened his arms to hide the lumpy darn on the elbows of his jacket. He passed a fight at the first bag, twisting in and out of
its swinging arch. The two men sparring in the ring were bundled up in sweaters and scarves, wearing more clothes than Pearl. He wondered if they even noticed the landed punches; that must be how she felt, as if blankets had been swaddled around her and she was hidden somewhere inside. Voices called out to him but he didn’t have time tonight. All the colours and faces bobbed around in front of him but Jack’s eyes were drawn to the only thing that wasn’t moving: Frank, dressed in a thick turtleneck and baggy slacks.
‘Hello, Jack. I’m all ready.’ Frank pulled at the top of his sweater.
Jack stood and took him in: still in the middle range, about a hundred and fifty pounds; on weight for the night, and easily two inches taller than the opponent lined up.
‘You look more than ready. You look like a winner.’
Jack pressed his hand down on Frank’s neck; his muscles poked through the woollen knit. They were the same height but the boy was thickset, the length of his shoulders straining against the knitted seams, standing to attention like George Sanders. They walked towards Pearl. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, tried to press it into a curl but it didn’t work.
‘Hello, Frank.’
Frank nodded and shuffled his feet. Jack pointed at the old duffel beside Frank and Pearl bent down to get it. Frank clung to the bag, the shadow of his eyebrows hiding his eyes. ‘Jack said you’d burnt your hand. Does it still hurt?’
‘Don’t worry about Pearl. She’s stronger than she looks. But we can’t have you straining something before the big fight.’
‘No need for Pearl to carry it. I want to take it. It’ll help keep me warm on the journey over.’ Frank looked at Pearl and smiled. It was a lopsided smile, as if he had never seen himself in the mirror and wasn’t sure of the muscles to pull. Strange that such a boy could be such a man in the ring. Frank lifted the bag into a clinch against his chest. Jack gave it a prod.
‘Looks full to me. Remember we said we’d wait to see about you moving in until after the fight.’
Frank kept smiling, not at Jack but at her. Pearl grinned back. What a pair.
‘Get a move on, you two.’ He ushered them outside.
Open liniment bottles singed the air, the smell of Royston Hall changing rooms powerful as a jab to the face.
‘Let’s get you sorted, it’ll be us up soon.’
Jack laid out Frank’s shorts and gloves, unwrapped the new boots from their cardboard box. Jack had spent the last of his money on those black boots, but they would be coming out of Frank’s share tonight. The leather smelt fresh but Frank had taken his advice and broken them in during training: chalk dust settled in the stitching and the soles scuffed.
‘They’re the best boots, Jack.’ Frank watched everything Jack touched, ready to give thanks or soak up advice. He thought Jack was bloody Father Christmas.
‘You’ve got to be the part. Can’t have you looking like a second-rate fighter – got to look like what you are.’
‘Who am I tonight?’
‘Frank Bull – good English ring to it. Don’t worry, once you’re more established you can pick a name and we’ll stick with that one.’
‘My own?’ Frank’s voice rose in excitement.
‘Well, no. There’s a time and place for Irish names but they don’t always go down too good. It’s like having a stage name, ain’t it?’
‘But Pat O’Connor is up tonight.’
‘Don’t worry about what other folks are up to. Trust me. You ain’t Irish enough to play that part.’
Jack took out the powder, dusted his hands; it was just like acting only he knew the pain was real enough. He couldn’t even remember what the boy’s surname was, O’Kearney or O’Keefe, but it didn’t really matter. Frank laced up, fresh
black socks rolled over the top; he squatted and jumped. The creak of leather could be heard in the room but soon the noises from the hall would wipe out all sound. It always surprised him, the quiet preparations – as if the fighters, with their constant rituals, were praying to something Jack would never understand. Frank wasn’t in double figures for proper fights but his routine was set already. It was the same deliberate habit that he performed before every sparring bout and Jack took this as a good sign. It was one of the main reasons he’d picked the boy up. He might not be able to read a newspaper all the way through but he knew his own body; knew the reach of his arm, knew how to perfectly balance his weight while springing from foot to foot.
Frank went to get his bandages signed off. Jack sat on the bench and waited. The boxers with trainers started to arrive. He envied their managers sat out in the best seats of the house, bookies’ runners swarming around them. Too much money to be seen backstage where tailored suits and soft leather could catch dirt. Frank’s opponent for the night was the last one in. Jack gave a nod as he went past, wrapped in three jumpers, scarf and woolly hat. Ernie was a pro: in and out, no hanging around. He took himself off to the furthest corner. Frank came back in and Jack tested his gloves: sweaty as skin. He didn’t want a punch slipping straight off Ernie’s chin. He wiped up some grit from the floor, worked it into the tough hide.
‘Just get on with what you got to do. Never fight your opponent’s battle. Make him fight your way.’
He laid a towel over Frank’s shoulders like a cape. But all the time his eyes fluttered over the other fighters, taking in weights and measurements. Pat O’Connor, touching six foot, and Johnny Hall, shorter but solid as a wall, were doing the Grand Ten-Round Contest, on after Frank. Pat was still a concussive puncher but Johnny was on his way out, hands shaking so much that his trainer had to tie up his shorts.
Frank punched out his arms next, sizing up the distance from his fist to the coat pegs, then slowly retracted them –
measuring out his muscles like knots on a piece of string. He didn’t notice anyone else in there.
‘Stretch those tendons out proper, or your opponent will snap them for you.’
Frank nodded and slowly started hopping on the spot, hands firmly swaddled in his gloves. They were hauling in the remains of the first match. One of the men was bleeding from a gash on his cheek. The other was being dragged in, his boots squeaking behind him on the polished boards. Jack didn’t know which one was the winner.
It was their turn at last. Jack pulled away the towel; the boy was warm underneath, not sweating but slowly simmering in the chill air. They marched out into the hall. They had to smash through this fight and they would be on their way up. Bodies were packed on to the benches, lining every wall, zigzagging in front of his eyes. They were there to see Frank fight Ernie. Usually seats stayed empty before the main contest, but tonight word had got around, he’d made sure of that; everyone would see what type of manager Jack Munday was. The empty canvas of the ring was the only space left. Red bruises marked the surface where blood had been worked into the grain. Everybody pushed for a better look at Frank. Jack didn’t care if they squeezed so tight that he jumped clean out of his own skin. He tested the spring of the ropes – just enough give. Frank swung himself into the ring. Jack paced the sides, measuring with his steps. Satisfied, he sat down in the front row; Pearl had saved him a spot. Frank searched the crowd for something, turning to look across to the benches. Jack felt as if someone was clutching his lungs, squeezing and releasing out of rhythm. Frank had to win; that grasping need was like falling in love. He tried to steady his breath. Frank stood in his corner. Jack waved and a raised glove saluted him.
The fight began. Frank came out fast, landing blows before Ernie had even left his corner. The peppering shots were to test Ernie. Frank circled, driving Ernie around the ring. But
Ernie was a battler, came back with a left Frank couldn’t step out of. He rolled his shoulders into it, landing a punch on Ernie’s beezer; it was just for show but the crowd cheered.
Ernie’s legs were thickened with age and overwork; he couldn’t twist and jump out of the way of Frank’s oncoming blows. Now wasn’t the time to knock out his opponent in the first round, and Frank held back enough to leave Ernie standing. The first bell went and Jack leapt up to Frank’s corner. His skin glistened like a basted joint and a small red welt was forming on his upper left arm, a shadow of the only punch that had made hard contact.
‘Keep dodging around him and they’re going to think you’re yellow. Let him get up close, keep your head covered, take a couple. It ain’t enough to beat him. Got to play him, let him think he’s getting somewhere then take him out. That’s what they’ve paid to see.’
Jack crouched in front of Frank’s stool, wiped sweat from the boy’s face with the white towel. The voices and shouts in the hall, the laughter and clapping around him, and all Jack heard was Frank’s breathing. Regular and strong, like listening to a baby in a crib. The bell for the second round was going to ring any second but Frank’s eyes were already focused, his sweating beginning to slow. It was Jack who felt as if a train was thundering inside his veins.
‘Your folks wouldn’t half be proud.’
Jack stood up and took himself out of the ring. But he caught the look in Frank’s eyes – those words did the trick every time. It was part of their routine. He sat down next to Pearl.
‘What do you think?’
‘They love him, Jack.’
Jack saw it as they stamped their feet and shouted out, some of the men around him on the benches already leaning over each other, trying to get his attention, calling out encouragement. But Jack didn’t care; the bell went, he was lost in the next round. Frank caught a couple of good hits in
the second: one to the ribs, one to the back. A small cut opened up under his left eye; that would need seeing to.
Frank managed to control himself until the fourth; the longest he’d been out there on his own, and every minute must have felt like an hour. With a right upper cut he stunned Ernie. Jack saw the old fighter’s eyes as they flickered white. Frank glanced over. Jack squeezed his hand around the base of his neck. Frank pressed closer, forcing Ernie’s curling spine up against the ropes.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A burst of hooks so fast that Jack wasn’t sure if he counted three or four. He landed one last blow to the right temple. Frank stepped back as his opponent spun in a half-circle then crashed down on to the canvas: KO. No need for the referee to count to ten.
For one moment Jack tasted the frozen silence of the hall; it fizzed and crackled on his tongue. Then the place exploded, louder than the feeble clapping of the other fight. Some even began to throw coins into the ring. It was just as Jack had imagined it would be.
‘Frank. Frank!’ He fought his way through. Hands tugged at his clothes, slapped at his back, but he had to get to the ring. The smart managers, the shine of silk thread in their jackets, hair slicked into place, began to circle his fighter. Jack made it to the ropes and up to Frank’s side. He breathed in the coppery smack of blood, the taste of success. Frank was his fighter.
‘We… did it… Jack.’
Sweat ran into the boy’s eyes; he tried to flick at it with his gloves. Jack held his head back and wiped his face dry with the greying towel. He dabbed at the small cut, but it was going to need Pearl’s attention; she could stop bleeding as good as any cornerman. Together they climbed down and into the crowd.
A thin man in a dark blue suit stood next to Jack. ‘That’s quite a fighter you’ve got there. But we all know where good gets you – too much to handle, that’s what. My boss might be interested in helping you out.’
All the others with their pushing and shoving but no one banged up against the Thin Suit, a space around his body like someone had taken a lathe to him, sharpened up all the edges. The Thin Suit stretched his arm through the mass and slipped a small bottle of Cutty Sark whisky into Jack’s pocket; he did it as smoothly as if he were paying the clipper. Jack was too caught up in the throb to care about having to return the favour some day.
‘Pick up the nobbins,’ Jack shouted across to Pearl.
He held the rope for her as she climbed in to scoop up the coins, and he and Frank made their way back to the changing rooms. Cards were slipping all over the place, falling like soot from the chimney. Some asking for tips, plans for the next fight, promoter’s details, but others were brazen poachers. Jack guided Frank through them all. By the time they made it to the changing room, it was empty. The Grand Ten-Round Contest had started.
‘That’ll be you out there soon, headlining the big comps.’
‘I did… all right?’ Frank panted and propped himself on a bench.