by T. S. Easton
‘PLEASE come to Battle tomorrow,’ Blossom pleaded. ‘We want to see you properly.’
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘I really miss it, but I’m loving boxing at the moment. I just feel as though I need to be committed.’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ Blossom said. ‘I was so bored last week I even texted Magnet. I actually texted my boyfriend, Fleur.’
‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty,’ I said.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘It won’t hurt for you to miss one Saturday, will it?’
‘Next Saturday,’ I said. ‘I promise I’ll come next Saturday.’
Because the thing was, as much as I missed farting about in Battle, as much as I missed spending time with Pip and Blossom.
I wanted to go to boxing more.
Mum and Dad have found something new to argue about. Yay! She’s been on at him to replace the rotten old gate for ages, and he’s bought a new one. The only thing is they can’t agree on which way round it should go. ‘You know I hate the fact that the old gate opens outwards,’ Mum said. ‘The new one should open in. Gates should open in, everyone knows that.’
‘If it opens in, it’ll bash into the camellia,’ Dad pointed out.
‘So move the camellia.’
‘I can’t. It’s established.’
‘Oh, so you’d rather it opened out again, into the road? What if it swings open and a car hits it?’
‘That never happened to the old one. We get maybe three cars a month going past, it’s not the M25. It’s Badger Lane.’
‘It’s dangerous,’ Mum says.
Anyway, Dad’s refusing to back down. The situation is ongoing, and very, very tense. I’ve taken to referring to the issue as Gate-gate.
No one laughs.
So it was a blessed relief to escape on Saturday. I’d decided to run to the club. In my head I had this idea that I’d have a nice, gentle jog down the hill, with birds chirruping at me as I passed, and perhaps friendly waves from handsome farm boys. It didn’t quite turn out like that. I was exhausted by the time I’d got to the church. Farmer Palmer nodded at me as I puffed past, my legs aching, my lungs straining. I didn’t hear any birds chirruping, but I did see a murder of crows pecking at the carcass of a fox in the middle of the road. So that was nearly as good. Nor were there any handsome farm boys. Just a carful of teenagers in a tiny Nissan Micra on their way home from clubbing. One stuck his head out and barked something at me, making me jump.
Also, I realised halfway there that I hadn’t brought any water. ‘Keep hydrated,’ Ricky’s voice shouted at me.
I managed to get to the Memorial Hall without further difficulty. Luckily there was a long wait at the lights on the bypass which enabled me to get my heart-rate under control. Even so, I was pretty shattered when I got there. As we began going through the warm-ups I could see Ricky watching me struggle. When we stopped for drinks, he came over to me. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘I ran here,’ I said. ‘Trying to strengthen my legs.’
‘You do any other exercise?’ he asked. ‘During the week?’ I shook my head as I guzzled more water.
‘You see these other lads?’ he indicated the boys. ‘They come twice a week. They’re all here every Wednesday night. Even Simon, who has to race to get here after seeing his probation officer in Hastings. He makes the effort because he knows it’s important. Once a week isn’t enough, you see?’
‘I can’t do Wednesdays,’ I said. ‘It’s Date Night.’ Wednesdays would probably stay as Date Night right up until George’s dying breath.
‘Well,’ Ricky said, ‘maybe you could do something on another night. Tuesday? Try and do some cardio, something to build up your stamina.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, thinking of all the revision I had to do. Wondering when I was going to be able to spend time with Blossom and Pip. Ricky made to go, but then stopped and turned back.
‘Also, did you eat breakfast?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What did you have?’ he asked.
I shrugged, trying to remember. ‘Toast, a banana, cup of tea.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not enough. What do you put in your car when it’s empty?’
‘I don’t have a car.’
‘Fuel is the answer,’ he said patiently. ‘You want to box, you need fuel in the belly, and flesh on your bones.’
‘Well, what should I eat?’
‘You need protein. Calories.’
‘So like a whey protein shake?’ I asked, thinking of Mum’s stack of health magazines. ‘Some goji berries? Skinless chicken and brown rice?’ He looked at me as if I was mad.
‘Ever heard of bacon and eggs?’ he said. ‘It’s not rocket surgery, Fleur. Eat some food, get some pounds on.’
Date Night
Date Night that Wednesday was at a pop-up hipster restaurant near Hastings, close to the abattoir. I hadn’t even known hipsters had their own food but it turned out to be normal food, just described in a pretentious way. Hipsters especially liked bacon, it turned out. There was a bewildering variety of bacon-related dishes. Mac and cheese with bacon, bacon-wrapped meatloaf with home-made pickles, 24-day-hung blue beef burgers, with bacon. Crusty sourdough with bacon jam. And it wasn’t just ordinary bacon either. It was maple syrup-coated, hickory-smoked hand-cut back bacon. From free-range hand-fed, massaged pigs who’d had Belle and Sebastian played to them every day on a wind-up gramophone. There were maple-bacon doughnuts for dessert, of course.
There also seemed to be a lot of offal. Lardo, crudo, broiled bone marrow, haggis and sweetbreads. Most dishes came with foam of some description. I felt a bit sick just reading the menu. George was taking it all very seriously of course. A man with a magnificent beard approached. George ordered a Diet Coke for me, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer for himself, which is apparently the beer that all hipsters drink. He swallowed as we read through the menu.
‘I’m not sure the hipster movement is going to last very long,’ I said. ‘They’re clearly all going to die of heart disease in a few years.’
‘Oh come on,’ he replied. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘Stuffing doughnuts with hickory-smoked crudo isn’t adventurous,’ I said. ‘It’s carcinogenic.’
‘Sometimes you just have to try something a little different,’ he said as the bearded waiter came back and asked us if we’d like to look at the bread menu.
‘Could you please tell us what you have?’ I asked.
‘We have sourdough, gypsy bread, arugula stone-baked, tortilla-bread. Twisted poppy-seed, wood-fired brioche and glazed artisan.’
‘No bacon bread?’ I asked.
‘Err, no.’
‘Never mind, never mind,’ I said. ‘What about spleen loaf?’
‘I haven’t heard of that.’
‘It’s very big in San Francisco,’ I said. ‘But forget it. We’ll just have a French stick.’
George ordered the trout with bacon foam. I ordered the pork belly with polenta. ‘That’ll be quite heavy,’ he said.
‘I’m starving,’ I said. ‘I’ve been exercising a lot lately.’
‘Maybe you need to cut down a little on the exercise,’ he said. I blinked at him. Has anyone ever said that to anyone in the world before? ‘I just don’t think you need it. You’re in great shape, and you don’t want to get all … muscly.’
‘Have you been talking to my mother?’ I asked.
‘It’s great that you want to keep fit,’ he said. ‘But you shouldn’t overdo it. I knew a chap at college in first year who became obsessed with physical fitness. Always pushing himself. It didn’t end well.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He’s in jail for possession of illegal drugs.’
‘See,’ I said, triumphant. ‘I knew you Naval Academy boys were all off your faces the whole time.’
He shook his head. ‘OK. First, no we aren’t. It isn’t like that at all. And second, they were illegal steroids he had. Y
ou know, for body-building?’
‘Hmm,’ I said doubtfully.
‘Anyway,’ George went on, ‘you’ll get to see for yourself soon enough what all my naval officer friends are like. I’d like to invite you to the Mess Ball later in the year.’
‘What, at the college?’ I asked, a flutter of excitement in my tummy.
‘Oh yes. You’ll have to wear a gown, is that OK?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘And how would I get back afterwards? Or would I … stay over?’
‘We’ll sort something out,’ George said, flushing slightly. ‘Just put the date in your diary for now. Nineteenth July.’
‘Actually, while we’ve got our calendars out,’ I said, ‘I was wondering about changing Date Night to Tuesdays. Or Thursdays. It’s just that boxing is on Wednesday nights and I’d quite like to go to those sessions too.’
He gave me a look of shock and disbelief. As though I’d just suggested we slaughter a hyena and eat its still-beating heart with bacon jam.
‘Change Date Night?’ he said quietly. ‘But I thought you liked Date Night?’
‘I love Date Night,’ I said. ‘Even this one. I’m just saying we could maybe do it on a different night. Maybe even a Friday, or a Saturday. So you don’t have to rush back to Hove afterwards …’ The waiter arrived with our food at that point, the end of his beard dangerously close to the top of my pork belly.
‘I’ll think about it,’ George said, unhappily. I hadn’t meant to make him sad. I didn’t see why it was such a big deal. But I suppose George loves his traditions, and his nice, safe routines. I speared a red pickle on my fork and held it up.
‘Remember, George,’ I said, ‘sometimes you just have to try something a little different.’ I put the pickle in my mouth and began chewing as he watched me thoughtfully.
Then I spat the pickle out.
‘Oh God, that’s disgusting.’
Girls Can’t Hit
While I waited for George to ponder the weighty issue of whether or not we could change Date Night, I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands and do some extra form of exercise, if only to burn off all the polenta. Ricky was right, once a week wasn’t enough. There was no point going to a boxing class if I was too tired to punch a bag after the warm-ups. After my experience jogging to the class, I wasn’t anxious to do another long run during the week. I decided it was time to do something extraordinary.
‘Dad,’ I said on Thursday, after he’d got back from work, ‘can we go for a ride?’
‘Oh Fleur,’ he said, sighing. ‘I really don’t want to get back in the car.’
‘No, not in the car,’ I said. ‘On our bikes. Can we go for a bike ride together?’
He looked up at me as if I’d just offered him a set of his and hers dishwashers.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding and grinning like a muppet. ‘Yes of course.’ He raced into the house and came out a few minutes later looking resplendent in his cycle jersey and shades.
‘You look like Peter Andre in those sunglasses,’ I said.
His face lit up. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Hang on, I don’t mean Peter Andre, do I?’ I said. ‘Peter … Capaldi.’
‘Oh,’ Dad said.
We went out to the garage together, Dad almost running in case I changed my mind. A quarter of an hour later, we were out on the road. I possibly didn’t look quite so professional as he did, puffing and panting behind, trying to keep up, wearing baggy Lycra stretched tight over my trunk. But we were both out, on our bikes, sort of together. Father and daughter. And scoff if you like but it felt like quite an important moment. We didn’t go far on that first night. And we didn’t talk much. I was too puffed to talk and also about five hundred yards behind him most of the time, but I think Dad liked that I was there. And maybe I didn’t hate it so much.
‘Look at this punch,’ I said, showing Pip the phone. Pip squinted and watched Nicola Adams thump Michaela Walsh hard in the side of the head. We were in the library, supposedly revising, along with the rest of our tutor group, but almost everyone was watching YouTube, except for Blossom who was making notes in the margins of a book by Naomi Klein. Michaela Walsh’s legs buckled on the tiny screen and she only just managed to keep upright. Adams pressed home the advantage and came after her retreating opponent, dancing lightly. She got two more punches in before the bell rang for the end of the round.
‘Bosh,’ I said. ‘Look at the power.’ Blossom pretended she wasn’t interested but I suspected the idea of a female boxer achieving something astonishing in a patriarchal society must have been pressing one or two of her buttons really quite hard. I looked over at her, sitting in what looked like an uncomfortable splayed-kneeling position, her bottom resting on her heels. She never sits with her feet on the floor, Blossom. She’ll be in the lotus position, or sitting Japanese-style, or with an ankle wrapped around her neck or some other such position of karmic harmony.
‘She doesn’t look like a boxer,’ Pip said. ‘I saw her on The One Show. She seemed really lovely. I think of boxers as being the sort of people who never smile and who go around thumping animal carcasses.’
‘She is lovely,’ I said. ‘I watched an interview with her. She smiled a lot and didn’t thump any meat that I saw. She’s my new hero. She won gold at the 2012 and 2016 Olympics.’ Blossom looked up at this.
‘They have women’s boxing at the Olympics?’ she asked.
‘Come on, Dory, do you really not remember?’ I sighed. ‘They have three weight divisions: flyweight, lightweight and middleweight. But in amateur women’s boxing they have lots of divisions.’ I’d weighed in at boxing on Saturday and Tarik had told me I was in the lightweight category. ‘Tarik thinks I should bulk up and become a welterweight but that would mean putting on seven kilos, which is a lot of cashews.’
‘Wait,’ Blossom said, closing her eyes to try and process this information. ‘You’re telling me a man is asking you to put on weight? Without impregnating you first?’
‘Blossom!’ I said, feeling myself blush as an unexpected and not entirely unpleasant image involving Tarik popped into my head. I shoved it back down where it belonged. ‘Look, women’s boxing is a real thing. There are clubs all over the country. Thousands of women are members of boxing clubs.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes really, though most of them don’t spar. They just go to classes, you know, boxercise and that.’
Blossom grinned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Ladies’ Nite?’
‘Sure, but plenty do proper sparring as well.’
She reached over and grabbed my phone so she could have a look. ‘Is that Nicola Adams?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s black!’
‘Yes of course she’s black!’
‘But that … but that’s amazing. A woman, and black … achieving all that.’
I wondered if I should let Blossom know that Nicola Adams is also gay but thought that might send her over the edge. We watched the post-fight interview with Clare Balding and I turned up the volume a little to hear Nicola speak.
‘Oh my God,’ Blossom said. ‘She’s just so intersectional.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘So many things to overcome. She’s black, she’s a woman, she’s … from Yorkshire.’
‘So she does this for a living?’
‘She’s just turned pro. There are a few professional women boxers in the UK,’ I said.
‘How many?’
I hesitated before answering. ‘Four,’ I said.
‘Four,’ she repeated. ‘And how many male professional boxers?’
‘One hundred and thirty-six,’ I replied reluctantly. Blossom nodded, as though pleased to discover yet more evidence of the patriarchy.
‘One hundred and thirty-six to four,’ she said. ‘That sounds about right.’
‘Well, who knows?’ I said, suddenly feeling more confident than I had in ages. ‘Maybe I can make it one hundred and thirty-six to five.’
Routine
The next few weeks passed quickly as I settled into my new routine. Sunday of course meant lunch and an argument between my parents, or sometimes between George and Blossom. I’d try to stay out of the arguments and just concentrate on the lunch side of things. I’d found my appetite had continued to increase and I’d just sit and plough my way through two or three helpings of chicken and mashed potato, peas and carrots, sweetcorn and gravy while Blossom waved her fork at George and explained how she thought that the armed forces should be disbanded and the money spent on wind farms.
I noticed George stealing glances at me at these lunches, clearly astonished by how much I was eating. But muscle burns a lot of calories. Fuel in the belly and all that. And I felt great.
Monday and Tuesday I went straight home and got the books out for revision. Wednesday of course was Date Night, for now at least, usually at a slightly disappointing restaurant where I’d have to make my own fun. Thursday evenings I went out for a ride with Dad. The days were long now and we’d sometimes stay out until 9.30 p.m., going further and further every time. It was amazing how quickly you improve on the bike. The first couple of times I could hardly get up Badger Hill, but after three weeks I was going up in high gear. I could even keep up with Dad for a lot of the time: I caught him on the hills but he rocketed off ahead of me downhill where his extra weight was a bonus. On the flat he was usually a dozen feet ahead, pushing me. I don’t remember us talking much. On the few occasions when he’d stop for a drink and a snack, I’d be gasping and breathless, gulping water from my bottle.
Once he realised I was serious, he took me to the cycle shop. I’d never been in before. What I saw astonished me.
‘HOW much is that bike?’ I said, pointing to a bicycle that looked almost identical to the one next to it but was £6,000 more expensive.
‘It’s carbon fibre,’ Dad said, shrugging, presumably unaware that £6,000 was more than some people earned in a year.
‘HOW much is this helmet?’ I asked, pointing at a helmet that looked like the other helmets on the rack but which had a price tag of £799.