The Longest Fight (8 page)

T
he armchairs were pushed back to their usual positions and Frank’s bedding lay rolled up in the corner beside the sideboard. A red apple balanced, dead centre, on the blanket; Jack gave it a quick punch and it disappeared down into the folds. He opened the sideboard drawer: the bright white paper of Frank’s contract sat on top of his dad’s souvenir Luger and his mum’s wedding ring; the house was overflowing with dead husks. Even his pyjama bottoms were old as a relic: wearing thin, the blue stripes as faded as the veins beneath his skin, and a cold draught ate away at his ankles. But none of that mattered as long as he had that contract. Jack carefully closed the drawer.

‘Shut that door,’ he yelled out to Pearl.

The back door slammed as he stopped to pick his mac off the coat-stand. It was supposed to be May but the house hadn’t caught up, it still held the damp of constant April rain. The house was bloated, doors didn’t close and windows were swollen shut. Jack used to think if he pulled up the carpet runner that started at the front door, reached along the hall, up the stairs and touched the threshold of every room, then he could yank out the spine of that place.

He propped himself against the kitchen door. ‘Where’s Frank?’

‘Out running. He told me yesterday some boys followed him and threw mud.’

‘He’ll have to handle a lot more than roadwork if he wants to be a fighter. It’s all part of the training. What you doing?’

‘Porridge and golden syrup.’

She kept stirring and clouds of steam rose up around her; the walls were stained yellow from years of cooking.

‘I never eat that muck.’

‘You ain’t in training. This is for Frank.’

He and Frank were due at the gym soon but he still had time to sit and get warmed through by the fire, drive out the lingering sickness of last night’s beer. Georgie had kept him drinking in the pub all night, celebrating his winning bet on Bruce Wells getting gold against Max Resch in the European Amateur Championships – one in the eye to Germany again. Jack had lost some on young Cooper getting knocked out, but it didn’t matter; he was still quids in. He reached for the bread bin. His tongue felt raw and furry as if he’d been licking the rug in the front room – the dirty patch under the table that Pearl thought he never noticed. He tore off a chunk of bread; with Frank’s weekly money coming in now they could even afford Robertson’s Golden Shred, not the old stuff that ran off his knife like water. Pearl made sure that most of the money went into feeding up the boy: like breeding dogs, fighters had to be taken care of to get the best out of them. She was finally realising that they had to be together on this. They were a team.

Jack put the jar down on the cracked dresser, ran his finger down the break in the wood and smiled. Pearl paused with the dripping spoon in her hand.

‘Tell me where you’re off to – you’ve got that funny look. What you thinking?’

‘Can’t I even eat in peace?’

He hated the way she dug for information: what are you doing, what are you thinking, what was it like when Mum and Dad were both here? Always full of questions, always searching for stories. Well, some things were his alone.

‘Careful with that flame. I bet you’ve burned yourself now. Check it.’

‘It’s just another scar.’

Pearl dunked her hand in the sink. The old stone was fractured in places; teardrops of water swelled on its side.
Nothing much had survived in that house without being damaged, and that was true long before Hitler dropped his bombs.

‘What do you think about doing this place up once the money starts rolling in, Pearl? We could start again: fresh paint, bright colours. A new kitchen like the ones in Georgie’s American magazines. White walls and wire furniture, a new white cooker.’

‘A white cooker? I like the place as it is, just like it used to be when Mum was here. She said Dad picked out all the paper. It’d be like getting rid of them.’ She checked her palm for blisters.

Every time he heard Pearl talking about his mum and dad, Jack felt Rosie’s small hand tapping him on the shoulder, pulling at the hairs on his neck.
What about me, Jackie?
He had to concentrate on Pearl, she was still talking – if he could just make out the words, the walls of the room would come back into focus.

‘… some new clothes maybe. My frocks don’t fit and I ain’t much good at taking in Mum’s stuff, even though Georgie said she’d help me.’ She held up her sleeves for a closer inspection.

‘Don’t listen to everything those girls in tight tops and fake pearls tell you.’

‘Georgie says everyone’s got permanent waves these days. Do you think I should get it done?’ She pulled at a loose strand of hair.

‘No, I bloody don’t.’

Rosie’s curls sprang so tight when they were wet that they seemed to be climbing back into her head. He swore he still found her hairs sometimes, draped over the back of the chairs, in his sheets. Pearl didn’t need curls.

‘But Georgie –’

‘No.’

The back gate closed with a bang and Pearl jumped up. ‘Frank’s back. I ain’t finished his breakfast yet.’

Footfall echoed through the alley; he almost felt the vibrations in the bricks. No one had run through that passageway for years.

Pearl called out to him, ‘Frank, come and sit by the stove.’

‘I just… need… to cool… first.’ He clutched his sides, woollen jumper and serge trousers splattered with black mud.

‘I’ll leave the door open for you.’ Pearl went back to the porridge.

‘I can close… it if you’re… cold, Jack.’ Frank’s breath raced away from him; forehead beaded with sweat, dark patches staining his old sweater.

‘You’re all right, mate. I’ve got the beer chills – nothing’s going to warm me up but another pint.’ Jack shivered.

‘If… you’re sure.’

Frank dragged a chair into the doorway, sat half in, half out of the room; he hesitated as Pearl handed him a mug of tea and the bag of sugar. He rubbed the pink scar under his left eye with his thumb. The boy couldn’t even make his mind up about which way to stir his spoon, as if he’d given himself up to fighting and everything else was only a confusion. Pearl perched on the edge of the table. Frank leaned over, pressed the back of his hand to her mug.

‘Bit hot… for you.’

‘Thanks, Frank.’

‘How far did you get this morning?’ The manager in Jack was waking up.

‘To the warehouses… the canal. Back up the green. I didn’t stop… once.’

‘Good, about another half-mile on last week. But stay away from the canal. Those paths are slippery.’ Jack stood up. ‘We’re seeing that new coach of yours later, so save something for him. I’m off to get dressed then we’ll head to the gym.’

It wasn’t so bad having Frank at the house all the time. He stayed out of the way, worked hard at his training. It was nice to know that on the evenings when Jack made it home there would be someone else sitting in the front room. Another
body sprawled in the armchair, someone to cover the hours of quiet when he and Pearl had nothing to say to each other.

Jack could hear them downstairs, chatting in the kitchen: Pearl’s small voice, the odd low response from Frank. He smiled and felt sorry for Frank. Pearl had a habit of talking at people, blathering away like one of those birds that learned to repeat sentences.
Who loves you, who loves you?
The parrot used to cry the words over and over, banging its beak against the cage outside the back door. It had belonged to his dad’s uncle, left to them in the will instead of the money his dad had always thought they were owed. Feathers grey as a stormy day and a crown of red perched on its head. The bird had lasted a good few years, longer than most things in that house ever did.

Jack slid off his pyjama bottoms, sat on the bed to get changed. He hated the room, and Pearl was always asking him to swap, she liked the blue flowered paper and the twisted brass of the bedstead, but he wouldn’t let her have it; the room had a bad feel to it, a sulphur smell in the air. His dad used to sneak them aside, whisper lies in there.
You’re my favourite. The others are no better than a pack of worms. But don’t tell them, they’ll only be jealous.
Even now Jack heard that voice inside his head; the screeching of the damn bird had drowned it out for a few seconds, but it was Jack who silenced it for good.

‘S
omeone close that door, or am I going to have to get up and do it myself?’

The kinds of questions his dad asks never have answers that John wants to wait around to hear. But it will only be worse if he doesn’t show his face. John goes into the front room, closes the door behind him. His dad sits at the newspaper-covered table, making two piles of coins. John rubs at a grass stain on his sleeve.

‘Better keep those paws to yourself, boy. I know how much is on the table.’

John stands up straight, wedges his hands deep inside his pockets. His dad fingers each coin in turn, nails tap-tapping as he tallies up the count. All John’s sub money is spent. He crosses his fingers, hoping his dad won’t ask him for change. His thumb gets caught in a hole in the left side of his trousers; something his two brothers must have left behind during the time they had spent in that hand-me-down woollen pair. But neither of them has ever had the day he just did, his cheeks burning from the sun and the taste of sugar on his lips – worth every penny. Being with Rosie is worth whatever is coming. She sent him back to the house but she wouldn’t have if she knew.

His dad opens his mouth but he just swallows down air and doesn’t speak. John frees his thumb; he’ll need his balance if his dad makes any sudden move. His dad stacks a handful of coins, patting the top with his palm.

‘This pile’s for your mother. It’s short because of your slacking today. Think work grows on trees, do you?’

‘No, Dad.’ John keeps his eyes on his dad’s hands.

‘Well, printing on paper all day, now that does grow on trees, don’t it?’

John raises his eyes to his dad’s chest. ‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Look at me, boy. All the way now.’

John does as he’s told; his dad’s eyes narrow as he grins. John may only be fifteen but he knows that however much is on the table it won’t be enough to get them through the week without eating porridge for every meal. The door opens and Tommy is standing there, arms and legs poking out of a suit long past ready for the rag-and-bone man. And the other dad is back, the one that gives him pennies and ruffles his hair; the dad who only appears when other people are in the room.

‘A little bird told me you were out with some girl today. Well, I can understand that, even if your mother wouldn’t. But us men have got to stick together. This is for you, son – go and buy your girl something nice.’

His dad slips him a coin. Maybe today will stay a good day after all. But that smile is tightly sewn into place, pulling the lips back to reveal sharp pointed teeth. Those dark eyes and that spiked mouth catch hold of Tommy.

‘What you doing skulking around? When I was in the Great War…’ His dad is pointing above the fire.

Tommy obediently looks at the picture but John catches him sneaking sly glances at the grubby hand holding the coin. John creeps from the room then darts out the front door when he knows they can’t see him any more. He is nearly as big as Tommy now, but he still needs to get to the shop before anyone tries to take the money away from him; Simmonds’ Grocers is closest, but Potter’s has nicer things. He runs along the street without stopping.

On the way back, the yellow pocket mirror he has bought Rosie sits, cool and smooth as an apple, in his hand. The taste of toffee hangs on his tongue; he sucks out a last fragment caught in his teeth and remembers the warmth of the day. It is getting late but he doesn’t even care that there will be
porridge for dinner. He needs to hide the mirror under his bed before anyone sees it. He is going to scratch
from Jackie
on the back. He makes his way through the alley before the darkness can pull him down into the muddy ground. But he isn’t a boy now; thoughts like that only belong in nightmares. He stands by the parrot cage at the back door; the feathers glow like a ghost hovering inside. John presses his face to the wire – the bird blinks then goes back to staring at its reflection in the saucer of water. He only looks away when he sees his mum through the kitchen window.

‘John. Any later and you’d have missed dinner, then what would we do?’

She beckons him with her finger, lifts up a steaming spoon of porridge, her cupped hand ready to catch any drips. He is too old for things like that, what he feels for Rosie proves it, but he lets his mum have her little boy stuff one more time at least; he sucks a burning lump into his mouth. He sniffs soap and the sweet charcoal smell of fire on her fingers. She winks.

‘I put some butter in, just for you. You’ll be big as your father soon.’

‘Can’t come soon enough.’

The parrot chatters in its cage, his mum stirs the bubbling porridge, and no one hears Jackie’s voice. He slips the mirror away. Strands of hair escape from the bun at the back of her head and lie like straight threads of black cotton over her shoulders. He turns to watch the flames. But someone else comes into the kitchen.

‘There you are.’

His dad has him by the arm. The face pushes closer, nose pressed to John’s forehead. Wet breath hits his eyelashes and John stares at his boots.

‘Where’s the money, boy? I’ll give you one chance to give it back.’

Rarely is there shouting in the house but the constant drip of lies eats away at John like rain weathering the doorstep.
His dad’s grip tightens. ‘The little thief skived off today and stole your housekeeping money too.’

‘Why do you do these things, John?’ His mum shakes her head; the spoon plops down into the copper pan.

He is losing sensation in his arm, hand hanging limp; he wants the numbness to spread through his body. His dad grabs hold of his shoulder, nails digging through material into skin, jarring the bones together. ‘I’ll get the truth out of him, Ada.’

But his dad can’t lift him high into the air, can’t make him feel as if he is dangling above a big hole – not any more. He is shoved towards the stove instead. The back of John’s calf catches the edge of the grate; the scream is molten in his throat.

‘It’s no good crying now, boy. Lying, thieving little bastard. I bet he spent all the money on sweets. Show me.’

John tries to keep his jaw locked but his dad prises his lips apart. A finger is inside his mouth, the blackened nail scraping at his teeth, trawling for evidence. John swallows down the bitter taste of Bible Factory ink that has soaked into that skin over the years. Another finger reaches into his pocket and starts up a search.

‘Maybe he’s hidden the money.’ His mum turns to him. ‘John, tell us where it is.’

Tommy walks into the kitchen, attracted by the sound of a row. He stands in the corner by the dresser, smiling, and waits his turn. John tries to cough up the taste of ink.

‘Tommy, son, you were there. What did you see?’

‘I saw him do it, Dad.’ He chews his nail and passes the lie without blinking.

John knows every debt has to be paid, knows this will be over quicker if he keeps his mouth shut, but Rosie’s smiling face, her grey eyes glow in the embers of the fire beside him. He can be what she thinks he is. He can be strong. He can try.

‘I never done it,’ John whispers.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ His dad’s voice is cold and low. ‘Are you calling your brother a liar?’

He slides the yellow mirror out of John’s back pocket; lifts it up for the room to see. Light catches the glass; it winks. His mum reaches out for it, holds it up to her face.

‘My birthday’s next week. Maybe it’s for me.’

‘No, Ada. It’s for some tart, ain’t it, boy?’ His dad shakes John’s arms until the tremor spreads up his neck.

‘Turning against your own mother like that.’ His mum bends down, pushes the mirror between the bars of the grate. ‘It’s only bad luck if I smash it.’

The fire licks and consumes it, cracking and snapping. The grip on his arm slackens; John drops to the floor. His mum keeps her back to him, warming her hands by the stove. He has let them both down, Rosie and his mum. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to look at him. He blames his dad.

‘Get out, I need a word with the boy.’ His dad speaks and everyone leaves.

John waits but the belt doesn’t come. The parrot is talking to itself, loud enough to be heard down the corridor. His dad opens the back door, throws the porridge spoon at the cage. The parrot is shouting now.

‘Damn bird. You better shut that bloody creature up or I’ll whip you in front of that girl. Won’t be such a cock of the walk then, will you?’

John pulls himself up; he could run for it but his dad is still fast; he’d have John by the neck before he made it to the street.

‘I mean it, boy. Now.’

John tries to hush the bird, puts his fingers inside the bars. But it pecks and scratches. The parrot plummets from its chewed wooden perch to the newspaper-covered floor of the iron cage. It bangs its beak into the bowl, trying to join its reflection. Water spills; shredded paper and dust swirl in a dark cloud around the bird’s wings. Alone, it begins to scream.

‘I can still hear it,’ the voice rings out. ‘Bring that bloody thing here.’

John unhooks the cage, but he knows that isn’t going to make the bird quiet.

‘I’m going to teach you a lesson, son. You might think you’re the big
I am,
going round with girls, but you’ve got responsibilities, debts you owe me and your mother. It’s about time you learned to be a real man, ain’t it?’

‘Yes.’ John stands with the cage in his hands. The bird screeches, its cries getting raspy.

‘How you going to shut that creature up?’

‘I could feed it something.’

It is the wrong answer; his dad’s eyebrows are still hunched together.

‘I could cover its cage up.’

A blast of wet air explodes from his dad’s nostrils. Still wrong. John has to be a man. He puts the cage on the dresser, opens it up. The metal door gives a loud cry of its own as he reaches inside. His dad peers closer.

‘That bird’s never been nothing but bad luck – take, take, take all the time. Never gives us nothing but shit and hot air.’

The parrot screams and screams. John doesn’t feel the clawing, but the feathers stick like needles. ‘Shut up, shut up,’ he hisses. But the parrot won’t listen. John squeezes his hands around the thin body, traps its wings. The battering of its heart is faster than the spin on a motorcar wheel.

‘That’s it, boy. Show it you won’t take no more. Stand up to it.’

Shut up, shut up.
He sees the nod of his dad’s head and the rustle of newspaper as he settles back in the chair by the stove.
Lying, thieving little bastard.
John tightens his grip; the parrot fights against him.
Shut up. Shut up.
The parrot’s black eyes blink. He has to make it stop. He squeezes until his knuckles crack, until bones crack.

‘What have you done?’

His mum is behind him; he can’t make himself turn around. The parrot won’t stay still, rolling, but it is his hands shaking not the bird waking up, rustling its feathers, plucking at itself as it did in the mornings.

She pokes his shoulder.

‘John. Show me.’

John the son, not John the father. She has it all wrong.
He
did this. John turns, offers up the lifeless little body. Something cold and sharp as the bird’s beak about the look his mum gives him. She takes the parrot, holds it gently against her cheek, its claws curled up like snapped fingers; listening for something: a heartbeat, a whisper?
Who loves you, who loves you?
The broken neck swivels back but the dead eyes are still on him.

‘I told you we never should’ve taken that thing in, Ada.’ The voice is angry again. ‘You haven’t got time to take care of all of us.’

The paper drops down, sheets drifting across the room, a finger points at his mum and John steps in front of her. The porridge steams and pops behind them. She knocks against John to get to the stove; pushing the bird back into his hands as if it is scalding, but he won’t touch it, not again. Grey feathers flutter; the body bounces once as it hits the floor.

‘That parrot never lied and cheated me out of what was mine, not like my own son.’ She lifts the pan and sniffs for burning.

His dad laughs. ‘You better get that cage cleaned out. I can sell it down the pub, seeing as we can’t ask for money back on the mirror. Every debt has to be paid…’ The voice trails out of the room.

The bird lies by the empty chair. John pokes a wing with his boot; it fans out like the pages of a freshly printed book. ‘I’m going to kill
him
one day.’ The chair shakes as he grips it tight.

‘Don’t speak about your father like that.
He’d
never give my birthday gift to someone else. I thought you were different
from your brothers and the Winnies. Thought I was enough for you.’ She bangs the pan in the sink.

‘I’ve been saving up for your present, honest I have.’ He wipes his sleeve under his nose. His mum points at the floor.

‘Stop snivelling. It’s your mess. Clear it up.’

John gets down on his knees, scoops up the paper and covers the bird. He sees her brown leather boots leave the room: no hand to tap his cheek, no soft brush of her apron. She is gone. And he is gone.

Footsteps thump around upstairs, trampling him. He runs out of the house into the alley. He shudders, watching the shadows from the bedroom as they slither across the muddy yard. Nothing left for him here. John Munday is dead. Hot sick hits his boots and brown lumps lie in his hand. The remains of that sweet toffee apple sink into the dirt under his feet.