by T. S. Easton
‘Oh cool,’ I said, wondering why he was telling me. ‘Have a good one.’
‘So do you wanna come?’
I paused. ‘You want me to come to your stag do?’
‘Yeah, only if you’ve got nothing on.’
‘OK. Why not?’
‘Killa!’ Ricky snapped. I looked around. ‘You’re up.’ He held the ropes for me and I climbed into the ring. Joe climbed in behind me. We faced each other, both wearing head guards, mouth guards and 12-oz gloves. A bit heavy for me, a bit light for Joe, but Ricky was trying to even us up as much as possible. Joe and I were about the same height, but he was wiry and muscled. I think the word often used for men like Joe is ‘spry’.
My stomach churned like a cement mixer, though that might have been partly because of the second massive portion of porridge I’d had for breakfast. Is this how the Anglo-Saxons had felt on the eve of the battle? They probably weren’t wearing fetching black and cream boots with new pink sparkly laces but apart from that I felt a real kinship with those brave warriors.
The boys were pretending not to watch, just carrying on with their skipping or their bag work. But I could feel the sideways glances as I lifted my gloves and took up my stance. ‘Right,’ Ricky said. ‘Now take it easy and keep your guard up. I don’t want anyone knocked senseless.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Joe growled.
‘Not talking to you,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s already laid you out once.’ I laughed. Ricky was very good at making jokes to keep us buoyed. Joe stepped forward and jabbed once, softly. I blocked the punch. Then he jabbed with his right. I blocked that too.
‘That’s it,’ Ricky cried. ‘Just like the drills.’ I carried on blocking, moving backwards and circling as Joe kept up the jabs. It was hard work even without throwing any punches myself. But Joe couldn’t get through my defences.
‘Stop,’ Ricky called. Joe backed away from me. ‘What are you doing?’ Ricky asked.
‘What? I’m doing what you always tell me. Keeping my guard up.’
‘You have to try and hit him back,’ Ricky said. ‘It’s called boxing, not defending.’
‘But how can I hit him when he’s throwing punches?’
‘Block his jab, return his jab. Go again.’ This time I tried to do what Ricky had asked. I’d wait for Joe to jab once, I’d block it, then try to jab back. But by that time he was following up with a right and I had to block that too. My punches weren’t getting close to him. I couldn’t keep up my guard and reach out far enough to hit him at the same time. ‘Can you stop punching me for a sec and let me hit back?’ I panted.
‘I’m not falling for that again,’ Joe replied, and jabbed once more. Gradually I grew more and more frustrated. Eventually I decided enough was enough and took a wild swing with my right.
‘Are you all right?’ Ricky said, looking down at me. I seemed to be lying flat on my back.
‘Sorry,’ Joe called from somewhere nearby.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘You dropped your guard,’ Ricky said. ‘Big swing, no ding. You missed Joe completely and dropped your left hand. Joe tapped the side of your head and you went down.’
‘That was a tap?’
‘Afraid so.’
Ricky helped me to my feet and out of the ring. I sat down for a bit and Sharon brought me a cup of water. ‘How do you feel?’ Ricky asked after a few minutes. I blinked a couple of times and shook my head, testing it to make sure it wouldn’t fall off.
‘A bit shaken,’ I said. ‘But not as bad as I’d thought I might be.’
‘The first time is the worst,’ Ricky said. ‘After a while you stop feeling it. When you’ve got no brain left. Maybe we should concentrate on defending for now. We can work on your guard a bit more before we get you attacking the next time.’
‘Next time?’ I asked.
‘Next time sparring. If you want to, that is.’
Surprise!
‘Three new members!’ Sharon said as I arrived at training on Wednesday night. ‘All girls. It’s your posters that done it.’
‘That’s brilliant!’ I said, delighted. I walked into the hall and looked around for the newcomers. But when I saw them, my heart sank.
Destiny.
Taylor.
Bonita.
The Iceni.
‘So, err … how come you’re here?’ I asked, trying hard to sound friendly while warning klaxons went off inside my skull.
‘You put flyers up,’ Bonita said. ‘Remember? We need something to do to keep ourselves off the streets.’
‘Great,’ I said trying to sound like I meant it. But why did it have to be boxing? I thought. Why couldn’t they go and raid nearby villages instead?
‘Sharon said you’d been looking for someone to spar against,’ Bonita said. ‘So here I am.’ She laughed and Taylor and Destiny joined in like they were her evil henchmen.
‘You’ll need to come to a few sessions first,’ I said. ‘Ricky won’t let you get straight into the ring.’
‘Won’t take long,’ Bonita said. She aimed a few air punches in my direction.
Ricky gave us the parish news as we warmed up. ‘Don’t forget about the tournament. All those interested in fighting, let me know and we can talk about weights.’
‘When is it?’ Bonita asked.
‘December tenth,’ Ricky said.
‘And girls can join in?’
Ricky hesitated a moment, and I saw his eyes flicker over to me. ‘Possibly. But I’m not letting anyone fight who’s not ready.’
‘I’ll be ready,’ Bonita said. She winked at me and I found myself swallowing.
Needless to say, the Iceni didn’t find their first training session nearly as difficult as I had. They were all pretty fit anyway. I sized them up as we jogged on the spot, wondering which of them I might be prepared to spar with. Taylor was the smallest, not much taller than me. But she was quick and strong and possibly the fittest of them all.
Destiny was a few inches taller than me but probably in the worst shape. She didn’t seem to be pushing herself as hard as the other two. If I had to spar against one of them, she was the one I’d feel least threatened by. But even so, looking at these tough, sporty girls, suddenly the prospect of sparring didn’t seem quite so enticing. I reminded myself of what Ricky had said. ‘No one has to fight if they don’t want to. If you just want to do the conditioning that’s absolutely fine.’ I didn’t have to fight any of them. Maybe I should just stick to the exercise, play it safe.
‘Work hard,’ Ricky yelled, as we did about a million squats. ‘If you take one on the chin, the first thing to go will be your legs. They need to be stronger than oak trees.’
The one thing the new girls did find difficult was the ab-work and leg raises. No amount of hockey and netball could prepare you for that special brand of torture. We had to lie on our backs and raise our feet six inches into the air and hold them there. Everyone found it tough, there was so much hissing and puffing it sounded like an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine.
‘Shouldn’t have had those Pringles,’ Jerome panted.
‘I dunno what you’ve been telling your fiancée, Dan, but that’s not six inches,’ Ricky called. Bonita laughed out loud briefly.
‘You can tell the new ones,’ Sharon said. ‘They haven’t heard all Ricky’s jokes yet.’
As we were leaving, Bonita appeared next to me and punched me on the shoulder. ‘See you on Saturday, Petal,’ she said
‘Ow,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘You’re coming Saturday too?’
‘Yep, loved it.’ She winked at me and walked out, Taylor and Destiny trailing behind her.
The Ton
‘Come on, Dad,’ I called from the top of the hill. I stretched and took a swig from the world’s most expensive drinks bottle. The day was hot and I was enjoying the faint breeze coming at me from the South Downs. We were about halfway through the hundred-mile ride and I felt good. This was a planned stop, at a picnic area on top of J
ump Hill. You could see a long way from here.
We’d taken it in turns to be in the lead, benefiting from each other’s slipstream, not talking much, just listening to the hiss of the tyres on the road and the sound of the wind and the wildlife in the hedgerows. In the last mile or so we’d hit some ‘bumps’ as Dad called them, or ‘huge bloody-great mountains’, as I called them. But surprisingly, and before I’d realised it, I’d pulled away from him until he was about half a mile behind.
Dad arrived, puffing and panting. He unclipped his pedals and got off his bike, looking at me suspiciously. ‘When did you get so fit?’ he asked.
I slapped my legs. ‘Pure muscle,’ I said. ‘Also I’m thirty years younger than you.’
He took his drink and went to sit on a bench. ‘It’s the boxing, isn’t it?’ he said, as his breath returned.
‘Yeah, and all the protein I’ve been eating,’ I said. ‘I’m up to sixty kilos now.’ I ripped open a pack of biltong and offered it to Dad. He shook his head and pulled out a banana from the pocket at the back of his cycle jersey.
‘That won’t do you any good,’ I said. ‘You need proper food. Here, have a pork pie.’
‘Your mother’s worried about you,’ he said.
‘She’s always worried.’ I shrugged. ‘She doesn’t even like me going to Costco because she thinks those big trolleys are dangerous.’
‘They can build up a lot of momentum when they’re full of mega-tubs of dog food,’ Dad said, loyally. ‘Anyway, she thinks you’re going to end up fighting in the ring. She’s been researching boxing deaths down at the library. Turns out being punched in the head a lot can be quite bad for you.’
I sighed. ‘Lots of things are bad for you. Would you rather I was in Brighton with my peers, getting drunk and stoned all summer?’
‘I’m not the one you need to convince,’ Dad said. ‘She brought home a print-out yesterday about a young man who became a paraplegic after a boxing match. He’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’
‘Look, I get it, OK?’ I said. ‘The reason Mum is so …’
‘Protective?’ he suggested.
‘… irritating,’ I said, ‘is because Verity abandoned her and went to live in New Zealand. She doesn’t want to lose another daughter.’
‘It’s not just that,’ Dad said.
He paused and stared out at the view, his greying hair ruffling in the breeze. He looked tired. I waited until he seemed to make a decision and spoke again.
‘You know your mother and I struggled to have children.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Mum had a couple of miscarriages before Verity.’
‘And one after,’ Dad said. ‘In fact … it wasn’t a miscarriage. You had a brother. For a day.’ The breeze turned a little stiffer, dragging reluctant clouds across the sky. I sat there stunned, trying to process this information. Why had they never told me?
‘You mother didn’t want to tell you,’ Dad said as if reading my mind. ‘But I think it’s important you know.’
‘Does Verity know?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Dad said, before sighing heavily. ‘It came up during an argument. Not the right time.’
‘Did he have a name?’
‘Ben,’ Dad said. ‘We knew he wasn’t going to make it. We were prepared. As much as you can be. Problem with his heart. Poor little fella.’ I saw a tear trickle down Dad’s cheek and I didn’t know what to do. I put an arm around him awkwardly, but it didn’t feel like much. ‘He fought hard. Lived a whole day. Which was longer than they thought he was going to,’ Dad said. ‘Bit like you. Stubborn.’
‘You think I’m stubborn?’
‘When you find something you care about. Anyway, that’s why she’s … the way she is. Partly, at least. She was a little like that before, but she got much worse after Ben. So just go easy on her, won’t you?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Thinking of my brother all those years ago. We sat there for a long time, not speaking. A few cars drove by, people staring at us curiously, a girl in Lycra with her arm around her father, neither of them moving.
After what seemed like an age, I finally spoke.
‘He fought hard, did he?’ I asked.
‘He did,’ Dad replied.
‘I bet he would have been a good boxer,’ I said.
Dad nodded. ‘I bet that too.’
Float Like a Butterfly. Sting Like a Butterfly.
Destiny jabbed.
I blocked.
Destiny jabbed.
I blocked.
This went on for a while. I’d been seriously nervous before getting in the ring, knowing that today was the day. My first proper sparring match. Ricky had said he wanted me to concentrate on keeping up my guard and not worrying too much about offence.
Destiny jabbed with her right.
I blocked.
‘Very good, Fleur,’ Ricky yelled. ‘Keep up that guard.’
‘Hit her, Destiny,’ Joe croaked. Joe was Destiny’s second. Ricky was mine.
Destiny jabbed with her left.
I blocked.
‘I like it,’ Ricky said. ‘You’re getting it now.’ Destiny jabbed again three times and I blocked again, three times. This wasn’t so bad. As long as I was in the right position, and kept my gloves up, it was actually pretty hard for Destiny to do any damage.
Destiny stepped back and dropped her gloves. ‘Aren’t you going to try and hit me back?’
‘What?’
‘We’re supposed to be sparring. You haven’t tried punching me yet.’
‘Ricky said I had to work on my guard.’
‘Just hit me,’ Destiny said, rolling her eyes.
I stepped in and took a swing with my right.
‘Guard!’ Ricky yelled but it was too late. Destiny leaned back, avoiding my punch, and brought her own right glove around to whack me on the side of the head. I’d dropped my guard again. As soon as I swung with the right, the left glove automatically dropped. Every time.
‘You OK?’ Ricky called. I nodded.
My head was spinning and I stepped back, trying to get away from Destiny. She followed, trying to press home her advantage. She jabbed. I blocked. She jabbed again, I blocked.
She swung a big clunking fist.
I blocked.
‘Fleur,’ Ricky said, beckoning me over at the end of the session. Here we go, I thought, he’s going to bollock me again for dropping my guard. ‘So what do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About the tournament.’
‘I thought I wasn’t ready?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re not ready for Bonita, no. But Destiny? Maybe.’
I frowned at him doubtfully.
‘Look, Fleur, my main priority is the safety of my fighters. I don’t let anyone box against someone much better, I don’t let anyone box against someone much smaller or lighter. Remember, you can punch up, you can punch out, but never punch down.’
‘And I’m ready? I didn’t land one punch on Destiny.’
‘I didn’t want you to land a punch on her,’ Ricky said. ‘I just wanted you to keep your guard up. I just wanted to make sure you could protect yourself.’
‘But what’s the point of a boxing match if one of the boxers doesn’t punch?’
‘It’s a demonstration match,’ Ricky said. ‘Three rounds of three. I want to encourage more young women to pick up the sport.’
‘What? You’ve changed your tune,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘I’ll train anyone if they show commitment. I hadn’t found many girls who had what it takes. Until you started.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. ‘The papers are going to be there,’ Ricky went on. ‘I want the crowd to see that women’s boxing is a good form of exercise, and that it’s safe.’
‘Right, so you want me to box because I’m not likely to knock anyone out?’
‘Basically,’ Ricky said. ‘Think about it, yeah?’ He walked off and I went to find Tarik. Boni
ta was all over him, asking him questions about technique. I hovered for a bit but then gave up and walked home by myself, skirting the Gladwell Estate.
Sunday Punch
On the last weekend in September, we decided not to go to Battle and I invited Blossom and Pip over for Sunday lunch. I wanted to keep Mum happy but was worried that without George it could all get a bit dull and I thought Pip might liven things up. Unfortunately, I’d totally forgotten that Pip is cripplingly shy in situations like this. He was even scared of Ian Beale, who he’s met loads of times.
‘Is he dangerous?’ Pip asked me nervously.
‘He won’t bite,’ I said. ‘Though you might catch something from him.’ Ian Beale lay in his basket, wearing a cone of shame and groaning softly. One of his legs was shaved where the vet had had to give him a shot.
‘Just don’t let him out, whatever you do,’ Mum said, coming into the room with a bowl of mashed potato. Pip’s met my parents dozens of times too but still can’t look them in the eye. He spent most of the meal either staring down at his plate, or knocking things over with his long arms before apologising profusely. He also ate his whole meal with a teaspoon, which is an odd thing to do even by his standards.
Today’s pointless argument turned out to be about pronouns, specifically the use of ‘they’ to denote someone of indeterminate sex. Mum was against. She doesn’t like change. Blossom QC led the case for the defence and I hurried out to the kitchen as soon as I could.
‘Do you think wooden spoons can go in the dishwasher?’ I wavered.
‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ replied Pip, who was ‘helping’.
I decided to be a rebel and put it in.
‘How’s the boxing going?’ he asked.
‘Fine, apart from Bonita!’ I snapped. ‘It was my thing, you know? My release. The one thing I was better at than her.’
‘I thought you weren’t competitive,’ Pip said.