By the fourth week Branson was throwing combination punches at a training dummy held aloft by his father. He was told constantly to pay attention to his feet. He gave a one-two, then a little shuffle, a little bounce, then another one-two, then a one-two-three. By week five he was bouncing solidly, landing combination strings of five or six punches in quick succession. He was beginning to look frightening. If those punches were to hit the target of an opponent’s head, instead of the training dummy, they would surely knock him out. Then he was back at the speed bag, attacking it ferociously, punching at below shoulder level now, agonizing combinations left and right around the kidney area, piston-like thumping, then onto the standing punchbag, which gave him the chance to practise some uppercuts. A flowing rhythm began to develop in his fighting; he began to combine long strings of different punches, while always moving on his feet. By his sixth week he was in the ring with a sparring partner, a beginner like himself. They were of equal size, but on his first short bout Branson had the upper hand, dominating his opponent, who stepped backwards onto the ropes.
‘A natural,’ George assured her. ‘I’ve never known anyone pick it up so quickly. From not even knowing how to stand up he has developed in less than two months into an extremely promising fighter. World-champion material, definitely.’
And then Branson said she no longer needed to come to the gym with him, he was happy to go on his own. This took Tory a little by surprise, though she had long been wondering what on earth she was doing there.
‘Good, well, I’m sure you’ll be fine …’ She turned to George. ‘In which case we’ll not be seeing each other again.’
‘Well,’ he said, taking her aside, out of Branson’s earshot, ‘there’s no need to look at it like that …’
‘Goodbye, George. You just concentrate on looking after Branson. I know you’ll take care of him.’
On their way home, on the No. 217B, she wondered if she had done the right thing. She had no one in her life now, apart from her children.
‘I will wonder that always, about everything,’ she concluded, looking fondly across at Branson in the fairy-light glare of the upper deck, still damp from his bout, his hair shiny with sweat, clinging to him. As always, he was oblivious of her attention and interest. He just didn’t realize that to her he was the most interesting thing in the world.
It was dark when they got back. There was a letter on the mat from Albertina who was halfway through her first term at King’s. It must have come by the late post. Tory loved getting letters from Albertina – they were always so full of wit and energy. She wrote of a world Tory herself would have loved to know, of eccentric professors, gauche, brainy young men, dusty libraries and lectures on subjects nobody in the world cared about.
Well, at least now she could look forward to spending an evening writing a letter in reply. Albertina was a good correspondent. Tory intended to write many letters to various people. Many, many letters.
Letters From an Unknown Woman Page 32