by T. S. Easton
I nodded. ‘See you tomorrow.’
When I came downstairs the next morning I was greeted by Mum, who gave me a huge hug. I hugged her back and we actually had a bit of a moment. Ian Beale was in high spirits and came out of his basket for a while, snuffling around my shoes. He even licked my hand, which was a nice gesture, but his saliva smells like a gangrenous sailor’s leg so I had to go and wash it with rubbing alcohol. Later on Dad and I went for a quick ride together before lunch. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes, of course. It was good to be home. Good to have things back to normal. Normal, that is, except for two things that made me feel that things were going to be better from now on.
The first thing was Mum let Dad stack the dishwasher all by himself.
And the second was that after lunch Mum took the newspaper with the article about me and cut out the photo, and the accompanying story. She stuck them into her scrapbook while I made her a cup of tea. Then she took out an old photo album I’d never seen before and showed me some pictures of Ben.
I never knew I had so many tears inside me. But I got a lot of them out.
Traffic Lights
Bonita didn’t come to training on Wednesday. After the initial elation, I’d almost started to feel bad about it. It would have been much better if I’d stuck to the original plan and let her win on points. You don’t need to blow out other candles for your own to shine brightly.
It was the last session before Christmas, and we all took ages to say goodbye afterwards, chatting about Christmas plans and discussing how the fights had gone on Saturday. A grinning Sharon came over in a state of great excitement to tell me that after Fight Night they had been deluged by inquiries from new people, including at least a dozen girls. Ricky was thinking of starting a Friday session to accommodate everyone.
‘It’s all down to you,’ she said.
‘No it isn’t,’ I replied, feeling myself blush. ‘It’s down to all of us … but partly me, perhaps.’
Tarik sauntered up just as I gave Dan a hug.
‘I need to chat to Ricky, but if you wait until I’ve finished I’ll walk you to the traffic lights,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I replied. He grinned and slung his bag over his shoulder, revealing a tantalising glimpse of his trapezoidal muscles.
We chatted about school and Christmas as we walked and I reflected how easy things were. How different I felt with him than I had with George. For all George’s safety and certainty, I had never realised how constricted I’d felt. How my life had narrowed into a safe, predictable path. I had no idea where things were going with Tarik, and that was exciting.
‘So, are you going to keep fighting?’ he asked after a while.
‘Always,’ I said.
‘I mean in the ring,’ he clarified.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Or maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.’
‘What if Bonita wants a rematch?’ he teased.
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ I said. We came to a junction and stopped. Up ahead were the traffic lights. He turned to face me.
‘Are you going straight home?’ Tarik asked. ‘If we turn right we get to Morrison’s car park. And you know what they have in Morrison’s car park.’ Right, left, straight on. Just at that moment I felt as though any direction would do, as long as he came with me. But there was something bothering me. Something important I needed to do.
‘I’d love to go for a triple doner with you, Tarik,’ I said. ‘But there’s someone I need to see.’
‘OK,’ he said, looking slightly disappointed. Then he shrugged. ‘See you next year?’
‘Or earlier,’ I said. ‘You’ve got my number. And you owe me a kebab.’ He broke into a huge smile, and I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, letting my lips linger for just a fraction of a second.
There’s always one family in every street that goes mad for Christmas and swathes their house in hideous, flashing lights. It wasn’t Bonita’s house, it was the one next door. I stood there for a while, taking in the falling snowflake lights, the illuminated sleigh and the multi-coloured fibre-optic Christmas tree. My personal favourite was an animatronic Santa bending over to feed a carrot to Rudolph. Only some fun-loving local had turned Rudolph around so now it looked like jolly old St Nick was trying to jam the carrot in an entirely less festive orifice.
Bonita’s door opened and she peered out at me suspiciously.
‘Did you do that?’ I asked, pointing to Rudolph. She nodded. A dog barked furiously inside her house and I heard a loud thud as it crashed into something.
‘Good work,’ I said.
‘What you doing here?’ she asked.
‘You didn’t come to boxing. Thought I’d pop by and make sure you were OK.’
‘You didn’t hit me that hard,’ she said.
‘I know. That’s not what I meant,’ I said.
‘Wanna come in?’
‘Yeah, OK. Does the dog bite?’
‘Yes. I’ll put him in the laundry room.’
Bonita made us both a cup of tea. The kitchen was cluttered but clean. I don’t know what I’d expected, but the whole house was tidy and looked-after. The only worry was the dog, whose blood-curdling growls I could hear behind the closed door at the back of the house.
‘So why didn’t you come to training?’ I asked as the kettle boiled.
She shrugged. The dog started scrabbling at the door and woofed a throaty bark at us. I took out the paper and showed her. ‘Did you see this? Sharon has had loads of people signing up for next year. Loads of women.’
‘Great,’ Bonita said. She handed me a cup of tea and led me through to the front room. The dog thudded hard into the laundry-room door. I hoped it was stronger than it looked.
‘Since London 2012, loads of women have taken up boxing,’ I recited as we sat down. ‘But not that many of them are sparring, or taking part in tournaments.’ I’d been sort of preparing this and now I was worried it sounded like a lecture. I pointed to the picture again. ‘It’s really important that this kind of positive message gets out there. To show women that boxing is safe and fun, as well as being great for fitness. I don’t think you should give up just because you lost a fight.’
Bonita blinked in surprise. ‘Who said anything about giving up?’
‘Oh it’s just that … well, you didn’t come to training …’
‘I had to look after my brother,’ she said. ‘Mum’s working. Some of us have responsibilities.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, feeling embarrassed again. The dog crashed into the door. I thought I heard splintering.
‘I’ll be back next year,’ Bonita said. ‘And I’m going to pound you into the dirt.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I replied, my hackles rising. But then I looked up at her and saw laughter in her eyes.
‘I knew you had some fight in you,’ Bonita said. ‘I just needed to keep poking you until you poked back.’ I grinned and sipped my tea.
THUD. That door was definitely splintering. It was time to go. As I was leaving Bonita thanked me.
‘What for?’
‘For coming to see me. It’s not been easy, having to move here, after Dad left. You know we used to live in a bigger place. In East Bosford.
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t know that.’
She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I felt ashamed to have friends around.’
‘Is that what we are?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Friends?’
Bonita shrugged. ‘What would you call us?’
‘How about … sparring partners?’ I suggested.
Bonita grinned. ‘Works for me. See you next year.’
Battle
‘Are you ready for this?’ I asked Pip. He looked at me and nodded vigorously, his helmet slipping down over his eyes.
‘Are you ready for this?’ I asked Blossom. She smiled grimly, gripping the halberd tightly.
Then the cry went up. A hundred Norman knights ran up the hill screaming with murderous intent. ‘Now!’ I cried. From our hiding place in the b
ushes at the bottom of the hill, the three of us sprang out and joined the back of the charge. The unfamiliar, Norman armour felt strange, awkward and heavy. But it also felt right, what I was doing, and I was fit enough to handle it.
The cavalry came charging up behind us as we ran, stumbling and panting over the rough ground. Ahead, up the hill, we saw the line of Saxon warriors standing waiting for us. Shields interlocked. I heard horses’ hooves behind me and turned to see Garnet glaring at us in fury. I grinned and kept running.
‘Come on, Pip,’ I heard Blossom call. Pip was struggling quite a bit under the weight of the armour. But Blossom seemed as strong as Bonita, she held her halberd high, placard muscles firm.
‘Oh God,’ Pip panted as we neared the Saxon lines. ‘This is the part I hate.’
‘Onward!’ I shouted, clapping him on the back, urging my friend forward. With a great clatter and a ringing of steel, the two mighty armies came together. I found myself face to face with Pete Thorburn, who was a regular on the Saxon side. He seemed quite surprised to see me there in Norman garb but didn’t break ranks.
‘Hi Pete!’ I cried cheerily, swinging my axe at him. It clanged off the shield. To my left, I heard Pip give a great wail as another Saxon waved a sword at him. He made as if to turn and run but Blossom and I grabbed him and held firm.
‘Wait!’ Blossom said. ‘Remember what we talked about? You have to make it look good. Put on a show. Then you can run.’
Pip nodded and swallowed. ‘OK,’ he said, lifting his sword.
‘You can do this,’ I told him. Together, the three of us ran back at the Saxons and hacked at the shield wall. I got a couple of good hits in on poor old Pete’s shield before Garnet called for the retreat. Pip dropped his sword in relief, turned and sprinted off towards his wood. We charged after him, whooping with delight.
‘You did it, Pip!’ Blossom yelled. ‘You did it!’ But Pip didn’t respond. Having been given permission to run, he was damn well going to.
When the battle was over, we caught up with my parents in the café for a victory Bakewell tart. They’d come along for the day. Mum was trying harder to ‘take an interest in my activities’, as she put it. I think it was more that she wanted to keep an eye on me, but that was fine too. While Pip went to the loo, Mum and I looked through the menu, pointing out grocer’s apostrophes and typos.
‘Look, you can get a cup of chino,’ I said.
‘Or something belonging to a Blueberry Muffin to judge by the possessive apostrophe,’ Mum added. ‘I wonder what it is?’
Blossom rolled her eyes. ‘So what did you think of the battle re-enactment?’ she asked my parents.
‘I thought it was brilliant,’ Dad said enthusiastically. ‘Very convincing.’
‘It looked extremely violent,’ Mum said, shaking her head disapprovingly. ‘Isn’t it dangerous, swinging those swords about?’
‘No,’ Blossom and I said in unison.
‘Yes,’ Pip called as he returned and folded himself onto a chair.
Mum groaned. ‘Boxing, battle re-enactments. Why do you girls choose such dangerous activities?’
‘Because we can, Mum,’ I said, pouring her a fresh cup of tea. ‘Because we can.’
T. S. Easton
Tom Easton is an author of fiction for all ages who has published books under a number of different pseudonyms as well as his own name. His teen novel BOYS DON'T KNIT (Hot Key Books) was nominated for the CILIP Carnegie Medal, shortlisted for both the Leeds Book Award and Peter's Book of the Year, and won the Coventry Inspiration Book Award 2015. The sequel AN ENGLISH BOY IN NEW YORK followed this and Tom has since been working on a younger, funny, family-oriented set of stories for Piccadilly Press that begins with OUR HOUSE. Tom lives in Surrey with his wife and three children and in his spare time works as a Production Manager for Hachette Children’s Books. Find out more about Tom at www.tomeaston.co.uk or on Twitter: @TomEaston
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First published in Great Britain in 2017 by
HOT KEY BOOKS
80–81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE
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Copyright © T. S. Easton, 2017
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of T. S. Easton to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781471406188
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