‘It might prove to be just that. That old boy with him looks as though he knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he wouldn’t put your brother in the ring if he didn’t think he stood a chance.’
‘But Eddie’s much smaller than the man he’s going to fight.’
‘That can be an advantage.’ Trevor leant towards her. ‘Think of Jimmy Wilde.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, give a big warm Pontypridd welcome to Eddie Powell.’ Dekker shoved Eddie into the centre of the ring. ‘He’s one of your own. From the Graig.’ The crowd went crazy. Shouting, cheering, cat calling and stamping as if it was the Saturday penny rush in the pictures.
Bethan looked past Eddie and saw the bookie who’d taken Andrew’s money standing alongside her father and Haydn. Both had their hands in their trouser pockets. If Eddie went down they’d be in the pawn shop with the new suits, her costume and the jewellery she’d inherited from her grandmother tomorrow.
A very tense Eddie returned to his corner. Haydn pushed on his gloves. Joey laced them. The final knot was tied. Jim Dekker waved him forward. Eddie gave one quick last conscious look at Joey who stood, towel slung over his shoulder, behind his corner.
Dekker spoke, but Bethan didn’t understand a word he said. The atmosphere swirled, a hot black whirlpool pierced by flashing red arrows. At the centre was Eddie, alone, skeletally thin. Dekker moved backwards. A bell clanged and Dan and Eddie raised their gloves.
Bethan gripped the edge of her seat as they circled one another warily around the canvas-covered boards. The champion was playing with Eddie. Even Bethan with her limited knowledge of boxing could see that. A sudden right – a left – another right – Eddie dodged them as fast as they came. Then came a resounding whack which cracked through the air like a whiplash. She closed her eyes tightly and bit her bottom lip until she could taste salt blood.
The crowd booed.
She opened her eyes. Blood was streaming from a cut high on Eddie’s right cheekbone. He stumbled. She cried out. He threw a wild punch. By sheer fluke it landed on Dan’s unguarded left jaw. The tension in the booth grew to explosive dimensions as the champion closed in.
Fists pummelled into naked flesh; close punches jabbed into Eddie’s ribcage. Dekker shouted. The clinch broke and the crazy dance began all over again – circling, shadow boxing, feinting, circling …
Andrew prised Bethan’s fingers from the bench. She gripped his hand fiercely, digging her nails into his wrist. Eddie threw a punch that again connected with Dan’s jaw. Dan retaliated with a blow that landed high above Eddie’s eye. Blood spurted joining the flow from the cut on Eddie’s cheek. Fresh stains were added to the rust coloured spots that spotted the canvas floor.
‘Why won’t someone stop it?’ Bethan pleaded impotently. Her fingers were knots of pain she was barely aware of.
Smiling triumphantly, Dan swayed drunkenly on his feet. Half blinded by his own blood Eddie threw all his strength into a left targeted at the same spot he’d attacked throughout the bout. The crowd roared as it hit home. There was a crack followed by a dull thud. Bethan couldn’t bear to look. She clung to Andrew, burying her face in his tweed-covered shoulder.
The sound of a child’s number chant filled the air.
‘One … two … three … four …’
She blocked out the sound. Eddie was bleeding. From his head.
She recalled all the punch-drunk boxers she’d seen. Harry Mander, Joey Rees …
‘It’s safe to look if you want to. The first round’s finished and your brother’s still on his feet.’
She peered over Andrew’s arm. White and trembling. Eddie was sitting on a three-legged stool in the corner of the ring. Joey held a wet towel over his eye. Haydn had handed him a water bottle and he was swilling his mouth out and spitting into a bucket that her father held in front of him.
‘You shouldn’t have bet so much money,’ she breathed without looking at Andrew.
‘The odds were too good to miss.’
‘Your brother,’ Trevor patted her hand. ‘He’s good.’
‘He is?’
‘You don’t know?’
The bell rang and Andrew gripped her fingers. The insane dance began again, only this time the punches were flung wider, but not by Eddie. He kept himself taut, compact. Presenting a small, flitting target that darted around the ring – a flea teasing a floundering rat. Bethan cried out and crushed Andrew’s hands fiercely. But time after time Dan aimed a punch and time after time he hit thin air. The blood rushed to Dekker’s face as he struggled to contain his irritation.
Eddie’s right shot out of nowhere, hitting Dan soundly on the jaw. The crack of the impact was followed by a crash as Dan’s head hit the canvas.
The bell rang. No one noticed it was half a minute early.
‘I’m taking you outside,’ Andrew whispered rising from the bench.
‘No,’ she hissed.
‘You can’t stand much more of this. You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I couldn’t bear not being able to see.’
‘I didn’t know you could through closed eyelids.’ The sarcasm was lost on her.
Dekker and two of his fighters were working vigorously in their corner trying to revive Dan with wet towels and vinegar.
Joey crouched in front of Eddie, mouthing last minute instructions. Her father looked up at the crowded benches, saw her and bowed his head towards Eddie. Eddie nudged Haydn and they all waved.
‘Who’s that with your brother?’ Andrew asked.
‘The tall dark one is my father,’ she said proudly, ‘the fair one is my other brother.’
‘Close-knit family. Where’s your mother?’
‘At home making tea for my uncle,’ she answered automatically, not really registering what he’d asked.
‘The minister?’ he persisted, trying unsuccessfully to divert her attention.
The crowd growing restless, heckled, booed and stamped their feet, drowning out any further chance of conversation. Sensing trouble in the air, Dekker signalled to the timekeeper. The bell rang. Bethan clutched Andrew and screamed in horror as Dan flung himself forward and threw his whole weight into a blow aimed at Eddie’s head. Her brother ducked, and the booing faded. She was aware only of a blackness tinged with red and a distant roar that pained her ears.
‘He’s won,’ Andrew shouted. ‘He’s won. Your brother, Bethan. He’s won!’
She struggled to focus.
Dan was flat on his back on the canvas. Eddie, blood streaming down his face, stood wild-eyed and panting in the centre of the ring. Joey clambered over the ropes and lifted Eddie’s hand high into the air.
‘The next world flyweight champion,’ Joey shouted ecstatically above the noise of the crowd.
‘Some brother you’ve got there, Bethan,’ Trevor complimented.
‘I always knew that.’ She was crying. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks as she stared at Eddie. Shocked no longer, he was grinning at the crowd, confident and victorious. But all she could think of was that neither she, nor Haydn, nor her father would ever be able to stop him from boxing again – and again.
Chapter Twelve
‘Table for –’Andrew checked the size of his party – ‘eight please, Mr Rogers.’
‘Of course, Dr John.’ Dai Rogers, under manager of the New Inn Hotel bowed, fawning not so much because of Andrew but Andrew’s father and his influence. ‘This way please, Doctor.’
He led them past the magnificent central staircase that dominated the entrance hall to the hotel, and into the comfortably furnished lounge. He beckoned brusquely to a waiter, who immediately finished scribbling down the order he was taking and rushed to his side.
‘We have a nice table in the corner, Dr John,’ the waiter ventured, pointing to a low round table surrounded by comfortably padded red plush chairs.
‘It will do fine,’ Andrew agreed briskly. ‘And as it’s thirsty work watching boxing, I’ll have a beer, Trevor?’
‘Me to
o, thank you.’
‘Haydn, Eddie, William?’
‘I think pints will be fine for all of us, thank you,’ Haydn said quickly, forestalling William, who was on the point of asking for whisky, and looking out for Eddie who was still a little shell-shocked as well as overawed by the surroundings.
‘Five pints please,’ Andrew said to the waiter. Dai Rogers continued to hover at the waiter’s elbow, making sure that he wrote the order down correctly.
‘Ladies?’ Andrew looked to Bethan, Laura and Jenny Griffiths who sat nervously on the edge of the chair next to Haydn’s.
‘Sherry,’ Laura said decisively. ‘A large one. I need it.’
‘Anyone would think you’d just gone three rounds with Desperate Dan, not Eddie.’ Andrew joked. ‘Bethan?’
‘I’ll have a sherry as well please.’
‘And, Miss Griffiths?’
‘Jenny,’ she said shyly. ‘Could I have a lemonade please?’
‘Most certainly. Two large Sherries, one lemonade and sandwiches for eight. Ham and pickle, and cheese and cucumber all right for everyone?’
‘Cakes?’ Laura enquired hopefully.
‘And a plate of cakes. Cream and plain.’
Dai Rogers nodded to the waiter, who disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.
‘Pleasure to serve you, Dr John. As always.’
‘Thank you, Mr Rogers; it’s a pleasure to be here.’
Left to the peace of the secluded corner, Andrew sat back and pulled out his cigarette case. He offered it around. William, Haydn and Trevor helped themselves, Eddie declined.
‘What does it feel like to have won your first important bout?’ Andrew asked, wanting to break the ice.
‘All right,’ Eddie answered briefly, resting his battered face on his hand.
‘It’s good of you to come with us. I suspect you would rather have stayed in the booth with your friends.’
‘I think it’s just as well Eddie left when he did,’ Haydn said. ‘Jim Dekker was about to make him an offer and Joey has other things in mind for his protégé.’
‘That’s not to say I won’t try my hand in a boxing booth again,’ Eddie countered truculently.
‘You’ll never make odds again like the ones you made today,’ Andrew commented. ‘I hope you put the maximum you could afford on yourself?’
‘We all did.’ William smiled, cheering up at the sight of the beer arriving. ‘If he’d lost there would have been a queue of Powells a mile long outside the workhouse in the morning.’
Bethan set her mouth into a thin hard line at William’s bad joke. She loved him as much as she loved her brothers, but she knew their faults and failings. It wasn’t difficult to read the small signs of resentment against Andrew and the privileged world he represented. And she was furious with Haydn and William for playing down to Andrew, deliberately setting themselves out to be courser, less educated and less intelligent than they really were.
The way they were acting made her ashamed. She hated them for forcing her to face up to the changes Andrew had wrought in her in such a short space of time. A few months with him had been enough for her to adopt his ways – to deliberately refine the roughened edges of her Welsh accent, to watch what she said and the way she said it, in his company. To take good food, drink, and things like tea out in hotels for granted. For the first time she realised that the boys had noticed the changes and despised her for it. Almost as much as they despised Andrew for being crache.
There was a flurry of activity; the waiter laid the sandwiches, cakes, plates, knives and forks on the table. As soon as he left, Andrew, very much the host, handed around the sandwiches. They all began eating with the exception of Eddie who sat supping his pint slowly.
‘I wish you’d let me look at your face.’ Bethan moved her chair closer to Eddie’s.
‘It’s fine,’ he insisted irritably.
‘It doesn’t look fine.’ She touched his bloodied cheekbone with the tips of her fingers.
‘The cuts are superficial,’ Trevor said authoritatively. ‘It’s the bruising you’re going to have to watch.’
‘I bet they don’t feel superficial.’ Andrew smiled amicably at Eddie in an attempt to win him over.
He didn’t return the smile. Instead he sat sullenly staring down into his beer. He didn’t feel like talking. In fact he didn’t feel much like anything. He’d been looking forward to his first real, meaningful fight for so long that now it had actually happened he felt flat. He’d wanted to stay in the booth and discuss the possibility of a job with Dekker, but Dekker had been put in a foul mood by his champion’s failure, and Joey had pushed him out with a sharp “Play the booths, boy. Don’t work in them. That’s a sure road to nowhere.”
He drained his beer glass and put it down. Sliding his fingers outside his starched collar, he tried to loosen it. He felt on edge, out of place, ridiculous, like when he was seven years old and his mother had forced him into an angel’s costume for the chapel pageant. He glanced across at Bethan’s boyfriend and put the man into the “smarmy, not to be trusted” category. The doctor probably meant well, he allowed grudgingly, but everything Andrew John did and said smacked of condescension. It was as if he wanted the whole world to know he had money and could afford to spend it. He’d bought Bethan and now he wanted to buy them all. Well he for one wasn’t impressed. If Dr high-and-mighty John had wanted to treat them to tea he should have met them half-way and taken them all to Ronconis’ cafe. There at least they would have been on familiar territory, not this … this stuffed-shirt place. He’d had enough. He’d just won a fight. He had a fiver in his pocket and he didn’t have to put up with anything he didn’t want to.
He left his chair awkwardly, kicking the table and slopping the beer and sherry on to the cloth.
‘Where are you off to?’ Haydn asked.
‘See Joey.’ He fumbled in his pocket. All he had was the five pound note he’d won, and a penny-farthing, and that wouldn’t cover the cost of a pint in the New Inn.
‘This one is on me, Eddie,’ Andrew said quietly, seeing Eddie’s hand side into his pocket.
‘Buy you one next time I see you. Bye everyone.’
Bethan’s voice floated after him as he left the room.
‘Haydn, is he all right? Shouldn’t one of us go with him?’
Then came Haydn’s voice uncharacteristically cutting and impatient. ‘For pity’s sake, Bethan, he’s seventeen. It’s time you broke the apron strings.’
Eddie paused to straighten his tie in front of the large gilt framed mirror that filled the end wall of the lounge. He took a moment to study their reflections. Haydn, his hand on Jenny’s knee under the table where he thought it couldn’t be seen, still arguing with Bethan. William, oblivious to everything except his beer and the food, helping himself to another sandwich. Laura, grinning like a miner who’d just been put on double rate drooling over the skinny fellow she was with, and that dark, smarmy sod eyeing Bethan as though she were on offer in the cattle market. He just hoped she wasn’t too dazzled to keep her wits about her.
He left the hotel and walked out into the sunshine. The street was packed with people, the music from the organ blasting at full tempo. He pulled his flat cap down low, covering his damaged eye, and walked up towards Market Square.
‘Cockles, sir? Sweet cockles?’
‘Candy floss, sir. Candy floss for your lady?’
‘I’ve got no lady,’ he replied gruffly.
‘You have now, Eddie. Bye, Doris.’ Daisy waved goodbye to her friend as she hooked her arm into his. ‘I was hoping I’d see you again soon,’ she smiled at him, displaying two rows of pearly white teeth set into very pink gums between even pinker lips.
‘Come in, sir. Buy the lady a ride on the wooden horse.’
‘Swinging boats, sir. Be amazed what you can do with a lady in a swinging boat.’
‘Cheeky beggar,’ Daisy retorted, pulling Eddie along with her as she struggled against the tide of people tow
ards the top end of Market Square.
‘Shooting, sir. Nothing like a gun to impress the lady. Win her a prize?’
‘I’d love that little monkey, he’s cute.’ Daisy’s eyes sparkled with reflected sunshine as she gazed adoringly at Eddie.
‘The monkey’s not up for a prize, miss.’ The stallholder stroked the small creature clinging to his shoulder. ‘But you can have a nice ornament for your bedroom?’ He held up a grotesque chalk figure of a shepherdess.
‘The monkey or nothing.’ Daisy made a sulky mouth.
‘Goldfish, miss.’ He held up a large sweet bottle in which fish were circling one another in a stew that was more fish than water.
‘How about a toy monkey?’ Eddie pointed to one pinned to the side of the booth.
‘Twelve hits of the target, sir, and he’s yours.’
‘I’ll take twelve shots.’
‘Penny a shot. Four for three pence.’
Eddie handed over his precious fiver.
‘Four pounds nineteen and three pence change, sir.’ The stallholder shovelled four pound notes into Eddie’s hand and topped them with a pile of change. Eddie counted the whole amount carefully from one hand into the other, calling the stallholder back sharply when he realised he’d been short-changed by half a crown.
‘Can’t blame a chap for trying, sir,’ the man said cheerfully, handing over the missing coin together with the rifle and pellets. Eddie loaded a pellet and looked down the barrel.
‘North,’ he murmured to himself.
‘Did you say something?’ Daisy asked.
‘They bend the barrels to lengthen the odds in their favour. Whenever my father took us to the fair when we were little he always used to make for the shooting galleries so he could point out the defects in the guns. If they were bent upwards it was north, downwards south. This one’s north.’
‘No bent barrels here, mate,’ the stallholder shouted angrily.
Eddie didn’t bother to answer. Instead he lifted the rifle, took aim and fired. It was difficult to know who was the more surprised when he hit the bull’s-eye, Daisy or the stallholder. He fired his remaining shots in quick succession. Each one hit the centre of the target, and the man grudgingly unpinned the toy from the canvas.
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