There was nothing for Amy and no mention of her from the children. To Molly, that was a sad, sad thing.
* * *
When the day was over and Rosie gone, with her dad and Sandra, too, Molly put the weary children to bed and sat by the fire, thinking of her mam and the way she had sent money to the door. ‘I won’t need your money now, Mam,’ she said bitterly. ‘Not while I’ve got health and strength and two good arms to work with.’
After a while, her thoughts turned yearningly to Alfie.
Going to the dresser she took out the bottle of elderberry wine, bought by Rosie and half-emptied by Alfie’s grandaddy. Pouring herself a drop, Molly raised the cup with the greeting, ‘Happy Christmas, Alfie, wherever you are.’ She took one sip and placed the cup in the hearth.
Then she softly cried. For all the loved ones here, and all those now gone.
At ten minutes past midnight, Frank came home and found her curled up in the chair. ‘You needn’t have waited up,’ he told her and, to Molly’s surprise, for once he didn’t seem drunk.
‘Happy Christmas, Dad,’ she said.
‘Aye, lass.’ He seemed oddly embarrassed. ‘You, too.’
When, a short time later, she went to bed, he sat on the sofa, his head bent into his hands. ‘Goodnight, God bless,’ she murmured. When he seemed not to have heard her, she went on up the stairs.
It occurred to Molly how lonely her father must be.
Moreover, Frank Tattersall had some thinking to do. And not before time either.
Chapter Sixteen
New York was a mad, exciting place.
Since coming here, Alfie had worked harder than he had ever worked in his life. He was up with the birds and on his feet from dawn to dusk. He put his every ounce of energy into his work, and heeded the trainer’s every word. The days sped by; he trained, he fought, he earned a formidable reputation. But still his heart wasn’t in it.
Now, just two days from the biggest fight of his career, he tried hard to push Molly from his mind. ‘Keep sharp!’ his trainer Gus Baines warned. ‘You ain’t going up against small fry this time, Alfie boy! This one’s a real killer. An’ he ain’t looking to lose – you can be sure of that.’
Taking a swig of water, Alfie got ready for his run.
A few minutes later, with Gus Baines cycling alongside, he ran several miles around Central Park, met at every turn by fanatics who knew that, on 2 January, in two days’ time, this young Englishman would be up against one of the all-American best. ‘He’ll make mincemeat of you,’ they taunted. ‘After one round, you’ll wish you’d never been born!’
There were others, more encouraging, but Alfie turned a deaf ear to all. One thing he had learned: it was fatal to leave yourself open to doubt before a fight, big or otherwise.
When the run was over, they headed back to the gym. Here, Alfie showered and changed.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he told Gus, and before the trainer could say it, Alfie said it for him, in his best New York accent. ‘“No boozing, broads or partying. I want you here, four o’clock sharp… looking like you mean it.”’
Gus grinned. ‘You got it in one,’ he said, wagging a finger at him. ‘But look, I got something to ask you.’
‘Oh?’ He hoped Gus wouldn’t keep him too long. He had a letter to write.
Gus beckoned him closer. ‘I think you should tell me what’s on your mind, son.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t gimme that shit!’ Gus had a reputation for being a bastard when needs must. ‘Something’s got you by the balls, and I want to know what it is. There’s a lotta money at stake here, Alfie.’
Alfie’s hackles rose. ‘Nothing’s bothering me, Gus.’
Chewing his gum, the trainer looked him in the eye. ‘You ain’t afraid, I know that.’
‘I’ve never been afraid in my life,’ Alfie retorted. ‘I wouldn’t know how to be afraid.’ Yet he was afraid; not of the imminent fight, but of never again having the chance to tell Molly how much he loved her.
Gus saw the look in his eye. ‘Jesus! I figured as much.’
‘What?’
The ex-boxer’s battered old face broke into a grin. ‘If it ain’t the fight, it must be a woman. If that’s the case, I’m telling you now, son,’ the grin turned into a scowl, ‘forget her! Keep it on ice, until this is over. You already know the rules. No dancing, no boozing and NO BROADS! There’s too many people got too much money riding on you.’ He slapped Alfie on the shoulder. ‘D’you hear what I’m saying, son?’
Alfie nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Gus. You can count on me.’
‘I hope so, son. I sure as hell hope so!’
As Alfie walked away, an old boxer by the name of Buster Tyrell came up behind the trainer. ‘What’s the verdict on this new British boy then?’
Gus took a deep breath, then nodded his head and gave his verdict. ‘He’s got the makings of a champion,’ he said proudly. ‘He’s young and strong, and he has the heart of a lion… talented, too. He has a natural right hook that could floor the best of them.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing! He’ll win on the second. I ain’t got no doubt about that.’
‘You’re worried about something though, I can tell.’
Gus gave an almighty sigh. ‘Dames!’ he muttered. ‘That’s what I’m worried about. They sure as hell complicate things.’
* * *
Alone in his apartment, Alfie lay on the bed, arms crossed under his head and eyes closed, his mind back in Blackburn, with Molly.
Plagued by all manner of misery and suspicion, he wondered aloud, ‘Where are you now, Moll? Who is he? How could you let me go on believing we had a future, when all the time you were seeing somebody else?’ The questions never went away.
In his mind’s eye he saw her face, laughing at him the way she used to; looking serious whenever he took her in his arms. And those pretty blue eyes, seeming so sincere, when all the time they were lying to him… cheating.
These past weeks he had told himself the same thing over and over, and he still couldn’t bring himself to believe it of her.
He couldn’t sleep. All he could think of was Molly. She was in his blood, in his every nerve-ending. In his heart for all time.
He got up and paced the floor. Then he lay down again. Restless. Angry. Wanting to shake her until she told him the truth; needing to hold and protect her. It was impossible.
After a while he forced himself to lie still. He closed his eyes and pushed all thoughts of Molly away. ‘The fight,’ he reminded himself. ‘The fight is all you have to keep in mind. Nothing else.’ He parroted Gus. ‘January second… Arnie Wild. The big fight. Got it, son?’
After all, wasn’t that the reason he was here?
‘Stay with it, Alfie,’ he told himself. ‘If you don’t win this one, you might as well give up now!’
* * *
The big day dawned and Alfie was ready.
In the stadium, the atmosphere was tense and exciting.
Now, as Alfie walked into the arena, he kept his eyes straight ahead. He felt the thumps of encouragement on his back as he made his way through the crowds, and the buzz as he climbed into the ring. Suddenly, the spotlight fell on him, cheers and boos rang out and the crowd went wild.
The bell sounded and there was no one else in that ring but him and his opponent, a mountain of a man, black as coal and mean as they come. ‘Go on, son,’ Gus’s voice echoed in his ears. ‘He ain’t as dangerous as he’d have you believe.’
The fight was on. The crowd roared with every punch, and twice Alfie went down. ‘GET UP, DAMN YOU!’ Gus kept him on his toes.
Round one was easy-paced, with each man assessing the other’s strength.
Round two was fast and furious.
In round three, Arnie Wild took a hard blow to the jaw and stayed down for the count of four. Seconds later, it was Alfie’s turn, only he was back on his feet in two.
After
round four, they returned to their corners, where Gus had some advice. ‘Keep low,’ he suggested. ‘Go up to him, son. The jaw… go for the jaw! It’s his weakest point.’
At the end of round five, both men came off bloodied and bone-tired, the sweat pouring down their bodies. ‘You’ve got him on the run!’ Gus was sure of it. ‘Keep at him. Don’t let him crowd you.’
But Arnie did crowd him. For a time in round six, it looked as though the black boxer had the fight in the palm of his hand. Clever and quick on his feet, he sensed victory. Then he made a mistake.
Just when he thought the fight was in the bag, Alfie swung a right hook and caught his opponent on the jaw. He went down – hard.
With the crowd baying for blood, Arnie stayed down for the count, and then the whole stadium was on its feet, the noise deafening.
Alfie was declared the winner, and it was all over. ‘You did it, son!’ Gus was trembling with excitement. ‘I knew you were a champion the minute I set eyes on you.’
* * *
In the dressing room, they treated Alfie’s cut eye and people crowded in to congratulate him. ‘You’ll go far,’ they said, and drank to his health. When the chips were down, they wanted a winner and they got one.
After the furore abated, Alfie was ready to leave. His first port of call was to see Arnie Wild. ‘You almost took the fight in three,’ Alfie said. ‘You’re a formidable opponent.’ They shook hands. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet up again.’
The other man laughed, his perfect teeth like pearls against his black skin. ‘You won fair and square, man,’ he said softly. ‘But like you say… there will be a next time. I look forward to it.’
The two men parted without animosity.
The night’s excitement over, Gus called a cab and accompanied Alfie back to his apartment. When the young man got out, his trainer stayed inside. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Take some time out. You’ve earned it.’
Alfie watched him go before turning not to his door, but into the night and the awful loneliness. Head down and shoulders hunched, he walked the length of the block before coming to a bar. There was only one man there and he took little notice of Alfie. ‘A Scotch,’ he told the barman.
When it came, he didn’t touch it. Instead, he stared at it for what seemed an age, then pushed it away and went out, back into the night. He circled the block and walked the busy streets of Manhattan. When he came to the gates of Central Park, where he had run his heart out day after day, he began to wonder what it was really all about.
‘Hey!’ A man with his sweetheart stared Alfie in the face. ‘Ain’t you the fighter?’
Shaking his head, Alfie walked away. He needed to think. He needed to get away from the bright, busy streets into the quietness of the park, where he could lose himself.
Tonight he had won his biggest fight so far. He had made a name for himself here in New York, and now they were toasting his health and future.
It was his dream come true. A wonderful victory, long in the making. But it was an empty victory. Without Molly, the joy had gone from his life.
He had a choice. He could either go back to England and see if there was a chance for the two of them after all. Or he could stay here in America and work his way right to the top. His father would have been proud. His grandaddy would be over the moon when the news of his win reached him.
Time and again, Alfie turned all this over in his mind, and always he came to the same conclusion.
He wanted Molly.
More than anything else in the world, he needed her. But what to do? Which way to turn? If she was happy with another man, what right had he to try and come between them?
Torturing himself, he walked until he was too weary to walk any more, then he hailed a cab and made his way back to the apartment.
But still he didn’t sleep. Instead, he looked out of the window and let his thoughts drift to England and Molly, asking, always asking, ‘Where are you, Moll? Who is he?’ And then the agonising question, ‘What should I do?’
There were no easy answers.
Chapter Seventeen
News of Alfie’s win spread rapidly, and the whole of Blackburn town was out celebrating. ‘Sure, I knew he could do it, so I did!’ Michael Noonan was so proud, he was fit to burst.
Slapping a note on the counter of his favourite public house, he told the landlord, ‘A pint for everybody, and I’ll have a drop of the hard stuff for meself.’ He winked at the man and got a whiskey in return.
When the second one was ordered, the landlord shook his head. ‘Take it easy, old fella,’ he said. ‘You’re not used to spirits.’
‘He won!’ Michael was so excited he couldn’t keep still. ‘My grandson Alfie went to America and beat the Yankee, so he did!’ And everyone raised their glasses to Alfie. ‘Our lad!’ they chorused.
* * *
Three days later, Michael was still in bed, recovering from the after-effects of his celebrations.
‘Honest to God, Molly, wouldn’t ye think the silly old sod would have more sense than to be off boozing all the night long!’ Rosie was up in arms. ‘Sure, anybody would think he was in his twenties, instead of his late seventies.’
Strapping Eddie into his pram, Molly looked up apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I wasn’t listening.’
Something in the girl’s eyes made Rosie pause. ‘No, darlin’. It’s me that should be sorry.’
‘What for?’ Straightening up, Molly put on her coat and tied a scarf round her head.
‘For going on and on like a fool, about me da coming home paralytic the other night, when all the time you’ve not heard a word I’ve said.’
‘Is he no better this morning, Rosie?’
‘Huh! If ye ask me, the old bugger’s still drunk as a skunk. He’s got a head as thick as a plank, and his hands can’t be still long enough to hold a cup, never mind the amount o’ whiskey he musta swallowed. An’ on top of all that, he’s up and down to the lavvy all the night long, so’s I can’t get a wink o’ sleep.’
Throwing her hands up in frustration, she groaned, ‘Honest to God, I’ll throw him out the window if he doesn’t stop, so I will.’
Molly laughed. ‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ she pleaded. ‘He’s so proud of what Alfie’s done.’ She hesitated. ‘And so am I.’
‘Aw, sure don’t I know you’re proud like the rest of us, but in your case, it might be better if the boxing was out of his blood altogether.’
Putting on her own coat and scarf, she followed Molly along the passage to the front door. Here she helped her lift the pram down the steps. ‘Ah, will ye look at that!’ she cooed, peering into the pram. ‘The wee soul’s fallen asleep, so he has.’
‘That’s because he was awake half the night with an upset tummy,’ Molly explained. ‘But he seems to have settled down now, thank goodness.’ Turning the key in the lock, she came down the steps to take charge of the pram. ‘Bertha played me up this morning an’ all,’ she said. ‘Before you came round, she was throwing tantrums and upsetting Milly. And even as far as the classroom door, she was giving me grief.’
Rosie was surprised. ‘That’s not like her. Mind you, when I think about it, I could see she was in a mood straight off. You, too, if ye don’t mind me saying.’
Molly didn’t mind at all. ‘I didn’t mean to be grumpy,’ she apologised, ‘but I’d had a bad night myself. When them two started on each other it put me out of my stride, that’s all.’
‘What gave you a bad night then?’
Molly shrugged her shoulders. ‘Something and nothing.’
‘Don’t give me that, lass.’
Molly knew there was no use trying to keep anything from Rosie. ‘All right. I couldn’t go to sleep for thinking of Alfie. God only knows what he must be feeling like, out there all on his own, thinking I cheated on him with another fella.’ She dropped her gaze to the bairn. ‘When nothing could be further from the truth.’
Rosie agreed. ‘If it weren’t for the boxing, you
and Alfie would still be together. Married even.’
Pushing the pram across the street, Molly thought about what Rosie had said. ‘No, we wouldn’t,’ she answered. ‘First of all, it wasn’t the boxing that took him away. It was me mam, and her fancy fella. The reason Alfie went away alone was because I made him do so.’
She touched Rosie on the hand in a gesture of friendship. ‘You helped me to convince him, and I’ll be forever grateful for that. If he’d stayed, we’d have got wed like you said. Alfie would have been lumbered with all the kids and spent his life working to support us.’ She shook her head. ‘Much as I love and miss him, Rosie, I couldn’t let that happen, and that’s why he had to go away.’
‘Aye.’ Rosie had seen it all. ‘But it seems a sad thing all the same… you here and him in America, and the pair of youse head over heels in love. It’s a cruel old world, so it is.’
Thrusting thoughts of Alfie out of her mind, Molly urged, ‘Come on, Rosie, get a move on or we’ll have Granny Arkwright and the others out getting their own shopping. And we don’t want that now, do we?’
‘No, we certainly don’t!’ And Rosie put on a spurt that had Molly almost running with the pram.
* * *
It was a busy day, with two customers down Penny Street, one down Bent Street and an old fella from Back Lane. ‘Mind you tell the butcher to skin the chicken leg for me,’ he croaked. ‘I don’t want choking.’
Granny Arkwright wanted meat from the butcher, so Rosie and Molly combined the two errands. ‘You’re an enterprising pair, that you are,’ the butcher said in admiration. ‘Keep the customers coming, that’s all I ask.’ And he swung his cleaver with such force it had Rosie ducking.
Outside, Rosie asked, ‘What’s enterprising mean?’
Molly wondered how best to explain. ‘It means you go out and do things,’ she said. ‘You know… to make a better life.’
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