Fair Fight (21 page)

‘Have you been having much success, Webber?’ I asked him.

He answered so slowly it was as though he had not spoken to me countless times over the years, at the door of an easy house.

‘I’m doing as best I can, sir. My luck holds to now.’

‘Not luck,’ Granville said. ‘It is hard training and perseverance that smiles upon you. You shall see soon enough, George. He will fight this very evening, for the pleasure of all assembled. For which reason, Webber, you should not eat anything more,’ and he took the bread from the cove’s hand and laid it back upon the plate.

‘You are a hard master,’ I said.

‘Not I! I have given Webber everything in my power to assist him. I paid an enormous sum to free Mendoza from prison, that he might teach Webber science.’

‘Mendoza? The Jew?’

‘The former Champion of all England, George. The father of boxing science.’

‘Turned criminal, you say?’

Granville waved a hand. ‘Debtor, only.’

‘Ha, I hope you take heed, Tom,’ I said, to Webber. ‘England’s Championship will not gain you a fortune. You will rot in debtor’s prison, unless Mr Dryer keeps by you.’

‘Pay no attention to this dunderhead, Webber,’ Granville said. ‘Mendoza managed his finances badly. It is of no consequence – he managed his fists. It is all he need know.’

‘And which has he taught you, Webber,’ I asked, ‘finance or fisticuffs?’

Webber looked at his own fists, laid out on the table like hamshanks.

‘He’s shown me about science, sir.’

‘Excellent news. I look forward to meeting the fellow. Is he here?’

‘Gone back to prison, sir.’ The cove sounded ashamed.

I could not help but laugh. ‘More bad debts, then? You should have given him something for his pockets, Granville. Will you spring him once more?’

‘It is not in my power to do so,’ Granville said. ‘Mr Mendoza has been held on charges of forgery. Tom learnt a good deal while he had the chance, and I feel sure it will be enough. He has a natural aptitude for the ring.’

Webber’s neck had turned red, though whether through shame or pride I could not have said.

‘That’s the spirit,’ I said. ‘I care nothing for famous names. I only wish to see Webber raise his arm in victory. I am laying almost everything I own upon it.’

Granville looked as though he were a maiden I had kissed; his eyes softened and shone.

‘From a man as fond of chance as you, George, that is the highest praise. Your confidence will be rewarded and we shall be all of us rich.’

‘You are rich as a lord already.’

‘A man can always be made richer.’

‘Amen,’ I said, and raised my glass.

Soon enough came Webber’s time upon the stage. It was a tense moment – Webber had bested so many of London’s heavyweights that the fancy had all agreed: he need only win this last fight in order to qualify as a contender for the Championship. If he could only be victorious now he would go on to the greatest match of all. If he failed . . . but of course, I would not think of that.

By then the fancy were all arrived and the room was packed so close that we were all mopping our brows. Had I not been by Granville’s side I might not have secured a view.

Webber’s bare-chested appearance in the ring brought resounding cheers from the majority of throats. The fellow was in peak condition and soon set about proving it by knocking seven kinds of hell from the beefy cove they set him against. Webber drew back his fist and repeatedly pounded it into that clunch’s skull. With each hit made, my heart soared ever higher. The meaty thud of each fib landing was like a coin chinking into a pile of its fellows. Webber would indeed make me rich; I could have kissed him.

PART FIVE

Ruth

13

I
came to in our own bed in the cellar, where the sagging mattress rose up on either side of me so high as to keep me trapped. I’d woken in the same way so many times that for a moment I didn’t know what mill had sent me there. When I did recall the fair and the bout that was never theatricals at all, well, then I moaned aloud. The sound brought Tom’s mug, appearing over the wall of mattress.

‘How d’you fare, my Ruthie?’

I couldn’t answer. Just the moaning had been pain enough; my lips were stuck together, swollen and stiff, my ribs moved sharp as knives with each breath. When once these pains started up all the rest wanted to join; each piece of me woke and began bawling. My hand was especially piercing in its cries. I tried to flex it and was rewarded by such torment that I jerked in a spasm, which set off my ribs. In moving I also had the first tidings of the wound to the back of my head. I was a sorry creature.

‘Don’t move so,’ Tom said, and sitting upon the bed, caused the ditch I was in to level out.

My ribs shattered into a hundred hot pieces in my breast. A shriek rose within me but was trapped by my swollen lips and became a dog’s whine.

Tom looked intently into my face.

‘You ain’t dying.’ He didn’t sound as sure of it as I expected he meant to.

He coaxed me into parting my lips and with a dropper he fed me some of Ma’s medicine. This, too, was so familiar after a pounding that I fell into it as I would Tom’s arms, and the pain on my chest became a shifting crimson shape that settled at last behind my eyes and sent me into sleep.

The next time I woke I was alone. I needn’t look to know it. Tom’s warmth was gone; my skin felt clammy as a frog’s. The sharpness of the pangs had faded off into a banging stiffness. I lay and gingerly began to count my ailments. The inside of my lips were shredded raw and tasted of copper and meat; three of my teeth were loosed. I could barely breathe; I’d a notion that blood might be pooling in my throat, though I knew enough to tell that it was more likely that the swelling of my nose and lips meant I couldn’t draw enough air. My ribs burned. My hand was so painful that in flexing it I couldn’t tell if it moved or not. My neck was stiff and even raising my head a very little was like taking a fib to the back of the head.

More to me than these injuries was a leaden feeling in my belly, in the knowledge that I’d angered Mr Dryer. I couldn’t fathom what had happened. I was meant to take the fight; how then did I come to be here, so broken? I felt a creeping dread that would have become a flapping fit, if only I could’ve moved much.

I began to feel I must sit up. I had to know what state I was left in, I had to find Tom, I had to know what had happened at the fair. Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to raise myself. I found I could push myself up with my left arm without too much misery, excepting my ribs and head. I managed, in a poor and unsteady way, to get myself up onto my left elbow. Just doing this was enough for me to have to close my eyes a moment. Then I shuffled the rest of myself up just enough that I was half sitting, propped against the bedstead with the metal rail tucked under the base of my skull. Here I rested again. The room was as empty as I’d thought it, just the damp-streaked walls and our few things. There was only a very little light from the high window; morning or dusk, I couldn’t tell. It could’ve been midday, if the day were cloudy. It could’ve been any time at all but night. If it were light out, the house would be asleep – but if the house were asleep, then where was Tom?

Now I saw that my hand had been put into splints, lashed into a kind of frame. It was become a paddle for beating carpets, though that was a joke; I’d not be beating anything with it for a good while. Seeing it so sorry for itself brought tears to my throat in a hot lump. We’d be hungry now, Tom and I. Hungry or thrown upon Dora’s charity, which might be worse. It was in this pitiful condition, propped up, swollen and about to weep, that I heard Tom’s boots upon the stairs.

I struggled then, to swallow my tears. I’d not wept for years and I was damned if I’d do it in front of Tom. Blinking, I found that my left eye was swelled up too. I’d not cry. I’d not cry. Here came Tom’s boots. I knew his step so well; slow and uneasy with its own weight.

Before the handle turned there came Mr Dryer’s voice.

‘Oh, Webber?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said my husband, and up the stairs went his boots.

What was this about? I felt myself grow fearful again. Time went by. I couldn’t stay sitting up, yet the thought of lying down again made the panic grow wings to beat against my breast. At last the metal rail behind my head was too much. I slid back down to my mattress trough and lay like a chicken with its feet tied. Still Tom didn’t come and didn’t come. Though I thought I wouldn’t, my body decided the matter and I slept again.

I dreamed that our Ma came and stood over me, and clucked her tongue like she was sorry. Then I blinked and she was Dora, still clucking, pushing a spoon of gin between my puffed-up lips. My throat seized and I tried to tell her,
Stop, I’m like to drown
, but in trying to speak I swallowed, and the gin went down. The fire of it got lost amongst the heat from my sorry ribs. Then Dora was gone, and I was waking again.

I woke to the sound of the door closing and my husband’s feet again tramping up the stairs. The affinity of this moment with the other made me feel devilish queer; dreams were tangled in with the sounds of boots and pain and I couldn’t have told you how long I’d slept, nor be sure I’d slept at all. I tried then to call out but my voice wouldn’t obey me and I only lay and heard his boots disappear upstairs.

It was as I tested the stiffness of my body that I knew some time must’ve passed; the quality of the aches was settled, as though the pain had made itself a home in my limbs and meant to stay a good while. When I began again to sit up, I found my throat foully bitter and knew I’d been dosed as I slept. I’d no idea if it’d been by Tom’s hand, or if my dream of Dora had been a true one. Though it’d been gin, not Ma’s medicine, that she’d spooned me in the dream – and she’d never in her life been fashed to nurse anyone.

When I sat up I found that my head felt muffled and putting up my left hand to it, I found the back of it set in plaster and the whole wound around with bandage. The scent of the vinegar came to my notice then, as a sting in my nostrils.

I missed my husband. I was thirsty as the devil. I began to get up, of course I did. I’d never been one to lie abed.

I knew well enough then that my ribs had been broke, for each movement gave me a sharp reminder. Even drawing in breath was a lesson in suffering. If rising from the bed was painful enough, getting into my gown turned out a terrible business. I left off stays, for that seemed too difficult with only one hand to pull the laces, but pulled my gown on over my shift. My poor right hand I pushed through the sleeve first, working the cloth over the splints with the other, to prevent it getting stuck. Then, before I could think better of it, I raised the whole, to pull it over my head. Raising my arms like that was pure wretchedness, and there was a moment, with my head inside and my arms trapped in the sleeves, when I felt that the effort of forcing my head out would be more than I could bear; I had to rest a moment, half in and half out of it, my head inside and my arms at a painful angle, before I could draw enough courage to force it on. I was glad then to be alone, with no one to see how foolish I must’ve looked, though I suppose it never would’ve been the ordeal it was, with other hands to help me. The bit of crocheted lace I’d sewed to the neck raked my tender mouth and I pulled the gown too hard, snagging the bandage on my head. When finally my head popped through the neck of the gown I jarred myself hard enough that I cried out. I lay for a moment, sideways across the bed, and whispered the most terrible curses I knew. I knew some curses, too. I knew words that could send you straight to hell, I shouldn’t wonder.

Next I’d to pull on my boots, and this was worst of all, having only my left hand to grip with. I should’ve done it slow, I knew, but by then a kind of fever had gripped me, and I pulled at the laces and leather impatiently, sweating with the torment of it. Again I jarred myself when my foot slid in, but by then I was almost glad. I was in a rage; with Tom for not being there, with myself for my own weakness, with Mr Dryer, with the shit-sack who’d beaten me so. I wanted to spit and kick. I was glad to cause myself pain, there being no one else to hurt.

I found a shuffling step that didn’t bump my ribs too badly and made my creeping way across the floor and then, slowly, up the stairs. The light at the top, dim as it was, made my eyes blink and water. It being day time there was no one much about in the hall or parlour but clear as anything I could hear thuds and footsteps in the kitchen. I opened the door. The room was empty save Dora’s rat of a son, Jacky, standing at the open back door. It was from the yard that the thumps came.

Jacky, being the sly-boots he was, stood half behind the doorframe and tilted his head to peer out. He was jiggling about on his feet and had his fists clenched by his sides. I could see quite clearly past him – my husband was bare to the waist, mufflers upon his hands, beating the dummy so hard that it was leaking its straw, and clouds of dust and chaff billowed about his head.

My heart filled with a great tenderness to see him. I’d never seen him set to in quite that way. He trained with me often enough but he was always set upon furthering my fight. Here he was pounding that dummy like a warrior, and oh my days, he looked fine doing it. He was powerful as a dray horse. He was rippling and rage.

I was shuffling painfully forward all this time. When I reached Jacky he looked sulkish and drew his head back so that I might pass him. As I came out into the dust and daylight I spied Mr Dryer, leaning against the wall to the left of me, watching my husband sweat and mill.

Tom caught sight of me then, and his hands stopped in mid-air. He wobbled on his feet, he stopped so sudden. The cloud of dust about him came down, glittering in the light, and stuck to his shoulders and chest.

‘Ruthie,’ he came to me and took me gently by the elbows as though I might fall. ‘You shouldn’t be out of bed.’

There was dust in his eyelashes.

‘You beat that dummy near as bad as I’m beat.’ It came out in a whisper. I was so dry.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s get you inside. You need to sit. Oh, you shouldn’t be up.’

He turned me gently and I let him. Jacky’s head had appeared at the edge of the door again and as we turned I saw it disappear. Tom stood, holding my elbow.

‘By your leave I’ll take my wife inside, sir,’ he said.

I looked at Tom but his eyes were on Mr Dryer. Slowly I turned my head.

Mr Dryer nodded. ‘Yes, Tom, take Mrs Webber inside and return to me. We are not done, you know.’

Mr Dryer’s eyes went to me. He didn’t look angry. That was my first thought.

‘I am going to make your husband Champion of all England,’ was all he said to me. He didn’t ask about my injuries. He only declared this wild notion and then turned away and scanned the sky as though looking for patterns in the clouds.

Oh, it was a strange mixture for me. I was bitter and I couldn’t help it. Mr Dryer had turned away from me as a cully would his regular miss when a pretty new creature came to the convent; I was cast aside the moment Tom threw his fist at the fair. I’d been fighting for Mr Dryer for near my whole life, and now he didn’t even feel the loss of me. My days, but I felt it. My hand was broke, and badly; if Mr Dryer hadn’t taken a fancy to Tom, what should we have done? I couldn’t fight for months, if ever again. I must be glad; I was glad. And here was the most bitter piece of it; Tom was to try for a dream so great I’d never have thought of wanting it for myself; it was impossible, of course, for a woman. But I’d done things most women couldn’t do. I’d brought in the money, I’d stood upon the stage. Now here was Tom, taking all I’d done and doing it, and more. If he should succeed we’d be risen further than we’d ever dared dream. I couldn’t help but be proud – but what painful pride it was.

And so Tom’s training began. Mr Dryer came ever more often to the house, but now he came for Tom. Sometimes he had him thumping at the dummy in the yard but most often he took Tom away with him, to run for miles beside the carriage or to fight. Sometimes, after a mill, Tom came home with his pockets jingling, and if Dora thought herself entitled to a cut of it, I never heard her ask. But then, Tom knew my sister well enough to keep her sweet; he brought home cider enough for the house in jugs from The Hatchet, he brought in whole joints and gave them over to Dora without a blink, and watched her serve herself first when the meat was cooked.

‘We should be saving, Tommy,’ I said. ‘Keep your coin. We should have something laid by.’

‘In case I lose? You’d have me jinx myself,’ Tom said, and wouldn’t keep a penny back.

One afternoon he turned to me as I fumbled with my boots, and taking me by the wrists – to be sure he didn’t hurt my injured mauler – he gently pulled me up to stand before him.

‘Mr Dryer’s waiting for you,’ I said.

‘Let him wait, then,’ he said. ‘I’ve a present for you. I meant to wait till tonight, but I can’t say how late I’ll be. Besides, I’m bursting with it!’

‘Do not you burst, my love,’ I said, ‘but you shouldn’t spend your money on me.’

‘What else is there in the world to spend it on?’

‘You’re too good,’ I said. ‘Our dinner last night, and our bacon this morning, that was enough for me.’

‘It wasn’t enough for me,’ Tom said, and he went to the trunk at the foot of our bed and fetched out a folded cloth. This he gave to me with such high pride I felt my chest tighten even before I saw what it was.

It was a dressing gown, pinkish, with white embroidery at the neck and cuffs. It was of softest damask, so soft that I couldn’t stop stroking it. It ran through my hands like warm milk. I couldn’t take my eyes from it.

When at last I looked up, he was looking at me with eyes as soft as the cloth between my fingers. I couldn’t find words to thank him, but I knew my mug showed what I felt.