The Longest Fight (12 page)

‘This is Harry Starr. He runs some business out on the Mile End Road.’

Harry sniffed in Jack’s direction but kept his hands firmly clasped around his walking stick; a bronze dog’s head reared up from under his palm. Jack had seen him on the scene before. He dressed to match his name: sparkling. Vincent put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

‘What do you say we all have a chat some time?’ He smiled. ‘Harry’s got a few interesting stories, Jack. I think you’d like to hear them. Not here, though, the noise gives me a headache.’

‘My boy’s in the ring now. Fighting fit.’ Jack glanced over: Frank’s head ducking and swaying, his body hidden by the crowd.

‘Showboating, Jack. I don’t take any notice of it. I’m here for a pleasant evening with old pals. Come to the club and I’ll introduce you.’

The Thin Suit flicked out a bright white card, scissored between his fingers. He raised an eyebrow at Jack. But Jack didn’t need any encouragement; he grabbed it. He couldn’t have done much better if Solomon himself had been there – promoter of champions. Vincent downed the drink and handed back the glass. Jack watched them leave as Bert sidled up next to him. He wouldn’t have to wear old-style jackets and darned socks for much longer.

‘We’re in the big time now, Bert.’

‘Don’t give up more than you have to, don’t let them get one over on you, and don’t ever cheat them.’ Bert squeezed his folded arms over his chest, forcing out the words in one long breath.

‘I know how to take care of my interests.’ Jack laughed at the lines on the old man’s face. ‘You only have to keep your eye on bringing Frank’s left hook back faster.’ He pointed at the ring. Champagne had the power, muscles thick as brick walls, but he was slow; he got an uppercut in but Frank spun off and came back with a jab from the right. Champagne went down. A roar went up.

‘Knockout in the first round. Hope Vincent caught that on his way out. Frank don’t know how to go easy.’

‘It won’t just be about Frank no more. Sign up with that lot and it’s about you too, Jack.’

The waiting fighters helped Champagne out of the ring, and threw a towel over Frank’s shoulders. The next pair was up on the canvas before the blood had hit the ground.

‘If I get in with Vincent we’ll all be rich. Money’s my business. You want to see him be a middleweight champion, don’t you? Well, we can’t do that without them backing us.’

Bert put his arm around Jack’s shoulders, hauled him closer until all Jack could hear was Bert’s voice in his ear; he still had quite a pinch on him.

‘Remember what I said to you. Vincent’s only about the money.’

Bert let him go. Jack watched him take a seat at the side of the ring; he didn’t know when to relax. Jack could outsmart any of those old cocks. He dropped the glasses on to a trestle table by the door. Bert spent all day and night fretting about his fighters – the cuts and strains. But Jack had it bang up to the Elephant; nobody stood a chance of getting one over on him. Laughter and shouts of encouragement filled up the hall to the high glass ceiling. None of them knew what Jack could do. He had missed opportunities in the past, taken the knockback, but this time he would beat the lot of them to the punch.

A
nother win for Frank; he beat down Jimmy Flash in a four-round walkover. Jack rubbed the white card in his pocket. Vincent had been waiting a week now, and Jack would make him wait some more; it didn’t do to look too keen. A bottle of Courage clinked against his knuckles. Frank would be back at the house already, but Pearl would see he was all right; they deserved a drink. Two boys thundered past him, towels flapping over shoulders, boots kicking up the dust of Addington Square, straight over the brown mound of earth, no railings to keep them out. Pink clouds leaked across the sky above them like streaks of blood tingeing a water bucket. Jack checked the card again to make sure it hadn’t slipped through a rip in the lining. The warm evening made the streets sweaty with children: chasing tyres and pushing prams, high fluttering voices rolling out from alleyways.

Mrs Bell was balanced on a chair outside her house, a broom handle shaking above her head, trying to knock down the framed picture of the Queen above the door. Her cat cried as it zigzagged between the wooden legs.

‘Evening, Mrs Bell.’

‘Oh, dearie. Get this down for us, would you?’

Jack nudged the ginger tom out of the way. The rickety seat creaked as she got down and he stepped on. The bedroom curtains trembled and a hand disappeared. Jack didn’t care if Mr Bell never got out of his pit again. He pulled at the nail sticking from the brickwork. Mr Bell used to be friends with his dad, as short and fat as his dad was tall and thin. They were always chatting over the side fence or walking to the
pub, deep in conversation. Jack never understood how no one else saw his dad for what he really was: the way he swished side to side faster than a cat’s tail and you never knew which side of the whip you were going to be on. One final yank, and the picture came free.

‘There you go, Mrs Bell.’ Jack jumped from the chair and handed her the frame.

The name suited her too: pinhead then flaring out to a round body and trunk legs. The cat clawed at the grey socks around her ankles. She rubbed the glass against the fat roll of her breasts.

‘Agile, even with your flat feet, aren’t you, dear? Coming in for a cuppa?’

‘I’m due back, sorry.’

The cat followed him, slip-sliding between his feet, trying to trip him up.

‘I haven’t seen much of Pearl lately. I’ve noticed a boy hanging about, though. Had a letter from the Winnies, they were asking after her. She keeping all right?’

‘Fine, fine.’

Georgie was walking down from the other end of the road. She waved, her tight jacket and blouse lifting up as she raised her arm.

‘I didn’t know that you’d thank me for telling you about…’ Mrs Bell lowered her voice, elbow against the bricks for support ‘…the boy.’

‘Nothing to worry about.’

None of your bloody business
was what he should have said. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, clutching the frame, edging closer. But those neighbours still had something over him: memories that stretched back past the bombs and the skeletal remains of Camberwell. Jack waited by the front door for Georgie, so he could have someone to go in with.

Mrs Bell picked up the cat, placed it on the windowsill between them. ‘Your mother was such a good woman. I was only saying so yesterday to Mr Bell.’

Jack had never brought girls back to the house, not since Rosie. The cat sprang down and trotted towards him. It wasn’t anybody’s business what he did inside his own home. The cat clawed at the doorframe by his leg. Georgie bent down to rub it behind the ears. ‘Hello, Jack. Who’s your ginger friend?’

‘Come in, neighbours are on patrol.’ Jack ushered Georgie through the front door. She looked out of place on the street with its aprons, hairnets and parade of dirty children. He didn’t want anything dulling her edges.

Mrs Bell peered over from her doorstep, the framed face of the Queen staring at him from under her arm.

‘That mog gets in my house again, I’ll snap its mangy neck.’ Jack aimed his foot but the cat was too quick.

He slammed the door, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hallway. Georgie took off her hat. ‘Ashamed of me or something?’

‘Course not, but it’s none of her beeswax what we get up to.’ Jack slid his hand down the back of her blouse. ‘You know – the sort of thing that means you’re too tired to go home after.’

She was breathless from striding down the road, a pulse beating in her throat; that heat surprised him every time, so raw, as if life itself was draining from her skin. He let her surface for air. Her hands went into his pockets, took hold of the bottles.

‘I’m guessing this means you won your fight.’

He nodded, and landed a couple of play punches to her shoulder. She moaned in mock agony. ‘My landlady will kick up a right stink if she thinks I’ve been up to no good.’ Georgie handed back the bottles and shrugged off her coat. ‘Long as I’m back before morning, suppose it’ll be all right.’

She rocked forward in her heels and kissed him on the chin. That was when he wanted her most – in the mornings, when he stretched out his arm, and he could pretend, for a moment, that he’d dragged Rosie out of those dark dreams and into the daylight with him.

‘Only about fifteen hours until morning, Georgie. Let’s get started, then.’

He grabbed her arm, waltzing her towards the front room, the bottles tinkling percussion. He pushed through the door with his shoulder; Pearl and Frank were dim shapes in the corner.

‘What you two up to? Playing statues in the dark?’

He plopped down in the armchair, toppling Georgie on to his lap. Her blouse was untucked; the draught they stirred up flapped the buttons against his chest. Pearl drifted over to the wall and turned the gas. The lights hissed and ballooned to life.

‘It was such a nice evening, didn’t think we needed lamps on, Jack.’

‘My head’s a bit sore from that right hook.’ Frank swivelled a loose thread from his shirt around his finger.

‘Pearl cleaned you up good, has she?’

Jack stretched out his arm and let the bottles sink to the floor. Pearl rolled up two strips of cotton and handed them to Frank; he plugged up each nostril.

‘There’s some swelling over Frank’s ribs, and that cut under his eye has opened up again –’

‘What?’ Frank rubbed his head.

‘– and his right ear’s blocked.’

‘What?’ Jack mimicked Frank.

‘It ain’t funny, Jack.’

Frank paced in front of the fireplace, distracted as he was in the days before a fight; but that was over for now. Or maybe Pearl with her chattering and fussing was unsettling him, as if the rose tendrils on the wallpaper weren’t enough.

‘Frank, don’t you go putting up with her strange ways. Put the lamps on when you want to, mate.’

‘Will do, Jack.’

Frank scooted past Pearl as if her dress was on fire and took a seat. He tapped his fingertips around the edge of the cut under his eye. Pearl frowned and shook her head at him;
his hands slipped under his backside. Sometimes the girl didn’t know when to stop.

‘I’ve got news will put a smile back on your face, Frank.’ Jack shifted Georgie in his lap.

He put the card on the table; it shone so bright it made the white starched cloth look dingy. Frank picked it up, held it closer to his left eye, and turned his good ear towards Jack.

‘You’ve got me another fight?’

‘Better than that – we’re going to have one arranged for us. Vincent and Harry will handpick you an opponent. I’ve decided to go and see them next week.’ Jack tasted the salty bite of excitement.

‘What if they pick the wrong fighter?’ Frank slid the card back.

‘Don’t fret over that. I’ll sort it. Anyway, you’re ready to be pushed.’ He nestled the card into his pocket.

‘He needs longer between fights, Jack. That scar will rip open. And what about his ribs? He’ll have marks all over him like mine.’

Jack rolled his eyes. ‘That’s different. This is boxing, Pearl, not pillow-fighting.’

Frank ducked his head and rubbed the back of his ear, avoiding the swollen side of his face.

‘Don’t even think about sulking. This is a celebration.’ Jack opened the bottles. ‘Get us something to drink out of, Pearl.’

‘These are pretty.’ Georgie held up the engraved glass Pearl handed her; leaves and petals caught the light.

‘They were Mum’s favourite. Dad won them at a fair.’ Pearl beamed and straightened the ends of hair that fell over her shoulder.

‘Is that them up there?’ Georgie nodded towards the photographs above the fire. ‘Lose them in the war, did you?’

‘No, our dad fell down the pub cellar, broke his neck in the fall. That was before I was born. He would have been off fighting otherwise.’

‘If he weren’t six feet under.’ Jack spoke into his beer but they weren’t looking at him.

‘He worked at the Bible Factory. They printed up ration books during the war.’ Pearl took a card out of her pocket. ‘Funny really, to think this might have come from the same place he worked all those years.’ She turned the paper over in her hands. ‘Our mum only passed four years and five –’

‘We’ve all got to go some time. Pass me the bottle.’ Jack didn’t wait for a response; he snatched up the Courage.

‘Thought it felt cold when I was collecting crates down the cellar. Cold strange, I mean.’ Georgie rubbed her arms.

‘That’ll be Dad.’ Jack emptied the beer into his glass; Georgie stretched her arm around him and they sank deeper into the cushions.

‘Is your hand all right, Pearl? There’s blood.’ Frank passed her a tea cloth; she wrapped her palm in it.

‘I must have nicked it cutting up those bandage strips. It’ll be fine.’ She smiled.

‘Best put some cream on that, to be sure. Didn’t go and use it all up on the cut under my eye, did you?’

‘She’s tougher than you, Frank. Pearl’s stronger than any fighter. Do your trick for him.’ Georgie nudged Jack in the ribs.

Frank’s large eyes swallowed light from the room. Jack shrugged; he was too full of beer to move.

Pearl rubbed the pattern of white scars on her arms. ‘I ain’t got time to mess around here. I’m going to fill the bath for Frank to have a soak.’

‘Think a woman can’t take some pain.’ Georgie sat forward and took hold of Pearl’s wrist as she went past. ‘Who’s got a cigarette?’

‘What’s she going to do with the ciggie, Pearl?’

‘It ain’t going to hurt her, Frank.’ Jack sighed and wanted it to be over.

‘Come on, Pearl. Show these men what you’re made off.’ Georgie laughed.

Pearl sank against the arm of the chair.

‘I promised I’d meet some mates for a drink.’ Frank rubbed his ribs as he stood up, stuffed the bloodied nose plugs into his pocket. The front door banged behind him, the loose flaps of rose wallpaper slithered lower. Georgie pressed her other hand to Pearl’s waist.

‘I didn’t mean nothing by it. I just wanted to show him it’s only –’

Pearl pulled free; Georgie twisted in the chair, neck straining to watch, as Pearl rushed from the room.

‘If you wanted to send the children out to play, you could have just asked them, Georgie.’

‘When was the last time you saw her messing with dolls?’

‘She’s all long socks and comic books.’ Jack yawned. ‘Frank, granted, might look like a man, but he’s got the mind of a child.’ He tapped his head.

‘Maybe you see what you want to. I’m going up to speak to her. Me and my big mouth.’

He unhooked her top button, ran his tongue along the base of her throat. ‘Well, I’m building up to my second wind. So, make it quick.’

Jack jumped up from the chair, only just caught Georgie in time before she slid to the floor. Pearl was pacing upstairs; the ceiling squeaked every time she reached the floorboard by her bedroom door. When his mum first got ill, he and Pearl used to practise all the time by rolling a cigarette on her arm.

‘And one more thing, Georgie. About that ciggie thing –’

‘Trust me. I ain’t even going to mention it again.’

Jack went out to the toilet at the back. It was cool in there, untouched by the sun. He left the door ajar so he could see the houses opposite. One was missing like a pulled tooth from a rotten row; the frozen ghost of a staircase shone on the exposed brickwork. When he was a boy he used to hide in the bog after a beating (forty-eight seconds of crying – the time it took the cistern to gush and fill up). He used to wish
that he belonged behind one of those windows opposite: no tear-streaked faces pressed to the glass. He ran his fingers under the lip of the bench:
kiss my hairy arse.
Jack scratched that with a pin when he was fifteen, the last time his dad ever caught hold of him. Jack had let a friend store a sack of potash in the yard; it must have been one of Mrs Bell’s cats that ripped it open.
Look out for yourself in life, son, because no one else gives a fuck.
That was what his dad had said as he kept his hand squeezed around the back of Jack’s neck, made Jack scrub the yard clean with a flannel until his nails cracked. Later that night, when Jack soaked his hands in soapy water, his broken thumbnail had floated up to the surface. As he’d rubbed the raw nail-bed, he’d made a wish:
let me wake up with a new nail and let him be dead, let him be stone dead.
The nail never did grow back.

His dad was wrong again: there was a houseful of people who gave a damn about Jack now. He separated leaves of paper from the Izal Germicide box, shiny and sharp as glass; he preferred newspaper. But soon it wouldn’t matter if Pearl wanted to waste money on stuff that sounded like some foreigner’s name. A few more fights, then they would be eating chocolate every day and driving giant gleaming cars like the Americans. Georgie would be with him, wearing the best fur from Oxford Street. But he had to have a minute before he went back inside: his body needed longer to recover these days, time to remember he was still young. Up through the cracked tiles of the roof, a swift somersaulted and dived at insects humming in the evening air. When he was younger, stamina had never been a problem; he smiled and closed his eyes.