Tommo & Hawk (53 page)

When we reach Parramatta Town, several of the passengers get off, including the Aborigine tribe. Yowling brats is taken by one arm and dragged off the boat by cursing gins, some still bleeding from their wounds. The old chief strikes willy-nilly at the brats and the dogs and the motley mob tumble together down the gangplank.

The rest of us continue two or three bends upriver, some four miles southwest beyond the town. Here we pulls into shore and the steamer moors beside a crude wharf made up of a few slippery logs.

The skipper announces that the Billy steamer can't go no further as the river ahead is silted up. We has to walk from here. The countryside about us is heavily timbered, scrubby terrain. The captain points to a small hill what has been cleared of trees, atop of which sit two fair-sized buildings -neither showing no sign of life. He explains these be a school and a church for the Irish navvies what's building the railway west to the Blue Mountains. Their camp lies beyond the hill, and cannot be seen from the river.

We're told to walk around the hill to the Katoomba Road, turning right to A'Beckett's Bridge and the Vauxhall Inn half a mile or so away. There we is to turn left into Dog Trap Road, what we're to follow beyond the Irish camp. And so we sets out with two or three dozen others to find the location of the prize fight.

Hawk and me is dressed in coats and collars and Maggie turned out in all her finery. We ain't dressed for a hike and are most uncomfortable trudging along. Soon our coats are placed on top o' Maggie's basket what Hawk carries, and our collar studs loosened. To our surprise, Maggie - never the sensible one - has brung old boots to wear until we gets to the ring. It's wet and muddy underfoot and by the time we reach the road the hem of her dress is soaked all the same.

The road when we gets to it is busy with folks walking from Parramatta Town railway station. Added to those of us on foot are the hacks, sulkies, drags, carriages and carts all headin' for the fight. A coach filled to the gunnels with merry punters passes us by. The coves inside laugh and joke at us what walks, and many an insult is hurled back in return.

It is only when we reach Dog Trap Road that we see the true size of the crowd. It be so full o' punters that we must walk at snail's pace. Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred has chosen their venue with a good knowledge of the district. The Irish are all around here and these merry punters pours out of their shacks to join the Sydney and Parramatta Town throng. There never were a keener sportsman than an Irishman with a dram or two o' whiskey in his belly and a week's wages in his pocket.

The navvies' camp on Dog Trap Road is a miserable sort o' place, with huts made mostly of slab and bark. Mangy dogs, snotty children and hard-faced women comes out to stare at us. Many of the smaller brats are naked and much in need of a wash. These are the people brought in by the government to meet the labour shortage what's been caused by the colony's men flocking to the goldfields. Some folks now reckon the bog Irish, as they's known, is lower than all but the Aborigines, but I wonder who they be to judge!

Dog Trap Road is rutted and rocky and the many conveyances what have thundered down the Katoomba Road are having trouble travelling along it. They hinder our progress and gets a fair amount o' curry from the mob on foot. The road ends suddenly, well short o' the spot where the fight will take place. The various vehicles can go no further, and the toffs and sporting gentlemen will need to huff and puff a good quarter of a mile through thick scrub.

The place Fat Fred and Mr Sparrow has picked for their fight is an inspiration. It turns out to be a sort o' treeless hollow, what Hawk calls a natural amphitheatre. The prize ring lies at the centre and there is room all about for several thousand folk to look down upon it. Fat Fred has built a roped enclosure directly about the four sides of the ring for the swells. It must have took a good many hours to get the place ready for the sporting gentlemen. Compliments of three red tickets given to me by me lord and master Mr Sparrow, Hawk, Maggie and meself is numbered among 'em.

As we make our way to the enclosure, Hawk with Maggie on one arm and the basket on the other becomes the focus of the crowd's attention.

'Who's the nigger on stilts?' someone calls out.

'It's two niggers, one atop the other, dressed in a suit!' some wit replies.

'No, it's Red Riding Hood and the big bad wolf!' cries another.

'Look, he's got his dinner on her bonnet, the last o' the four 'n' twenty blackbirds!' offers the first, all to the merriment of the crowd.

Hawk smiles but I know all this attention don't sit well with him. Still, the crowd is friendly enough. Hawk stands two foot taller than most, a black giant with Maori markings on his phiz and a young tart on his arm with a magpie nested in her hat. We must make a funny old sight as we join the fat sportsmen what's paid good money to be here.

Maggie has her pretty nose in the air and wears a big smile. She knows she's watched by folks on every side of the enclosure and acts every inch the respectable woman. All the other working girls in their ribbons and bows is here to troll for sporting gents what might take a girl to one of the inns along the Parramatta Road for a glass and an hour or two o' dalliance. Today Maggie ain't working. When a gentleman sportsman tries to catch her eye, she ignores him, giving a superior sniff. I laughs, thinking to meself that her just being at a prize fight tells all there is to know about her. She's happy though, and as we take our seat, she flashes me a smile.

The ring is twenty-four foot square, roped in two spans and raised two foot from the ground so all can see. It's hard to believe the Parramatta traps could miss an occasion of this size, and I chuckles when I recalls Mr Sparrow saying how two of the three troopers responsible for law and order in town found an urgent need to visit Newcastle this very day. The one left in charge has had a severe attack of the trots and may not move further abroad than the shit-pit in the backyard.

Much of the excitement about today's fight is because it be between two heavies - most fighters being in the range of eight and nine stone, little fellas like meself. But today, Ben Dunn, the Sydney heavy, takes on a Welsh miner by the name of Thomas Thomas. The Welshman is but a week in the country, though Bell's Life in Sydney declares him a serious contender. He has eight fights to his credit and all of them won against well-known English opponents.

The betting is heavy on Dunn, for his form is well known. Among the heavies, there ain't no boxer in the colony that he ain't defeated, and several more than once. But some in the crowd reckon that the local heavies be soft, backwater fighters, and that Dunn has yet to face a real opponent. They think a bloke from the old country will give the currency lad a lesson in the art o' fisticuffs. Today's fight will prove them right or no.

The two fighters are called to the ring at three with the noonday heat now gone but with plenty o' daylight left. Mr Sparrow is ever present, clasping mawleys and spouting opinions, ever the jovial host. He is as busy with the nabobs and toffs as a one-legged man in a kicking contest and has no time to greet the nigger, the tart and the cardsharp.

Fat Fred is the referee and announcer and stands in the ring in a lather o' sweat. He holds a hailing funnel and constantly wipes his gob with a large, red, miner's bandanna. We all stand as the fighters enter the ring.

Maggie is on her feet at once, hopping from one leg to another. She's on tippy-toes with excitement, having given up all show o' respectable womanhood. Her bet of five pounds is on the Welshman, what's at long odds and I reckon a risky gamble. He is only a week off the ship and must be out of condition after the two-month voyage.

The two men is stripped to the waist and wear spiked boots to hold their grip in the ring. The fight is at catch weight so their weights ain't announced. The Welshman is much bigger than Dunn, what ain't large for a heavy, being estimated at around thirteen stone with no lard on any part o' him. This can't be said of his opponent what looks a stone and a half heavier and carries quite a belt o' fat about his waist. His titties wobble as he jumps about the ring to warm up.

'It don't look good for your man, Maggie,' I says. 'Ben Dunn be much the better lookin' specimen.'

'It's the heavies, Tommo. Speed don't count. Reach and power is what does it. The Welshman's got three or four inches on Dunn and he's a miner, ain't he?' She points to Thomas. 'Look at 'is arms - they can pump all afternoon!'

I has a quid on Dunn but there's something to what Maggie says. 'Nah, he'll not be able to take it in the bread basket,' I says hopefully, patting me stomach. 'Look at Ben Dunn, every inch the wild colonial boy!'

'Wild! Jesus, Tommo, he be about as wild as a nun's confession!'

'What d'ya mean?'

'Can't get it up for the girlies!'

I look quickly at Hawk to see how he takes this but in the middle of all the excitement he's sitting reading a book. He ain't taking no notice o' nothing 'til the fight proper begins.

'You'd know about that, o' course,' I says now, sarcastic-like.

Maggie ain't the least offended. 'Oath I'd know!' she agrees. 'I went to Johnny Sullivan's Sparring Rooms in Pitt Street. You know Johnny, the Champion of the Light Weights, we's good mates .. .'

'Mates? Ha, ha!' I laughs. 'Come off it, Maggie, yer talking to old Tommo here!'

Maggie stares at me hard. 'You know what's your problem, Tommo Solomon? You've got a dirty mind! Mates! That's all. Johnny and me grew up together, in the same bloody gutter. We're mates, and always will be!'

I takes another glimpse over at Hawk, to see if he's heard Maggie tellin' me off, but his eyes is fixed on his book. 'Sorry, Maggie,' says I.

'No need,' Maggie replies. 'If Johnny wants it from me, he can 'ave it for free any day 'cept Sunday when it belongs only to Hawk. Johnny's a champ o' more than fisticuffs!'

'So, what about him?' I asks, pointing to Dunn what's standing in the middle of the ring, throwing punches in the air and snuffling like a prime porker. 'What's he got to do with yer mate Sullivan?'

'Oh yeah, him. Well, he were working out at Johnny's rooms last summer, see, and I hears about it. At the time, he were my hero and I figures I'll drop by - see 'im in the flesh so t' speak. It ain't unusual for a tart to be seen 'anging around a prize-fighter. The cove at the door what knows I know Johnny says he ain't there. But I tell him I've come to see, you know, Ben Dunn, so he lets me in.'

Maggie stops and sniffs, as though she's about to tell what she'd rather not. 'I goes in and there's a few fighters sparrin' and workin' at the bag and so I sits at the back o' the room. Ben Dunn's in the ring, sparring with a big hairy bugger, a fighter what I've never seen before. Then after a while he climbs down from the ring and goes into the changing room.'

Maggie gives a little smile. 'It were stupid an' all, but you know me, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I walks in behind him.

'"Hello," says I.

'He turns about. "Who are you?" he asks.

'"Maggie. Maggie Pye," I says smiling. "I'm one o' ya greatest admirers, Mr Dunn."

'"You a whore?" he asks.

'I'm in me glad rags, showing everything I've got, ribbons and bows, and tits near poppin' out. "Well, I ain't the governor's wife," I says cheeky, giving him another flash of me pearly whites.

'"How much?" he wants t' know.

'"This ain't a business visit, Mr Dunn. It's just that I admires ya very much and wanted to tell ya in person!"

'But Dunn's got a look in his eyes what I've seen often enough when a man's goin' to do something bad, and suddenly I'm frightened. He spits on 'is hands and rubs them together. By now I'm walkin' backwards towards the door. Quick as a flash he's moved 'round me and stands blocking the doorway.

'"Not so fast, Maggie Pye!" he says, smiling, but it ain't the right sort o' smile and believe you me, I knows every kind o' smile a man can give. "If you're not to be paid and you're here on a social visit, then you wouldn't mind obliging ..." He wiggles his hips and thrusts 'em forward to show what he means, holding his hands out like he's hangin' onto me hips.

'"It ain't convenient. I don't do knee-tremblers, I ain't that sort o' whore!" I says. "Lemme go, please!" I try to push him aside so I can pass by.

'But he sticks his arm across the doorway and looks over his shoulder. "Lads!" he shouts. "Come 'n' get yer Christmas box!"'

Maggie looks up at me. 'Don't need to tell yiz the rest, do I? They rapes me, all ten of the bastards!' She is quite matter o' fact as she speaks, though her voice is soft. She points to the ring where Ben Dunn is still snuffling and punching the air, glaring at the Welshman. 'All 'cept him, your wild colonial boy. He's sittin' on a bench against the wall with his dick in his hand!'

'The mongrels - they's always there waiting,' I whispers to meself.

'What's you say?' asks Maggie.

'Nothing. He's a mongrel, Maggie. I put a quid on him but I hopes he gets the daylights knocked out o' him by the Welshman!'

Maggie laughs. 'Thank you, Tommo. But I ain't finished yet. You know what he says? After them what's raped me has scarpered, when I'm trying to put me torn dress in order?'

I shake me head. 'Please Maggie, you've told enough.'

But she goes on. 'He says, "Maggie, if you wants tickets to me next fight, come see me again."

'"Fuck off," I tells him. "I might be beaten, but I ain't broke."

'"What did you say, girlie?" he asks and grabs me nose between his finger and thumb and twists it. His 'arf hard cock's still hanging out o' his pants.'

Maggie shrugs and grins. 'I know I should've kept me gob shut. I can either cry or lose me temper, so o' course I gets it wrong, don't I? I lose me temper.

' "Fuck off, arsehole, I wouldn't shit in your mouth 'case I got bit by somethin' poisonous!" I screams at him, scratching at his face. I feel the first haymaker to the side of me head and down I goes. I know well enough to stay down, and so I plays possum and he kicks me 'til he thinks I'm out to it.