The Winning Side

by Peter Corris

  Neat was the word for Mrs Fenton’s home. It was a narrow-fronted, weatherboard cottage with a small, manicured front lawn and symmetrical flower beds. I’d met Mrs Fenton just once, in official surroundings, where she was just a little unsure of herself. Here, in her pavilion of respectability, I could expect something different. She came quickly to the door after I rang; she was fat but dignified in a neat dress and stylish cardigan. I wiped my feet carefully.

  ‘Some tea, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘Thank you.’ The room she took me to was over-burdened by a crystal cabinet, heavily-framed family photographs and stodgy furniture. She wheeled the tea in on a chrome and glass auto-tray. I juggled the cup and scone nervously, feeling as if I was in a play on opening night and unsure of my lines.

  ‘A better night’, she said.

  ‘Yes. I walked across from Fitzroy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Wrong, all wrong, I thought. Wrong suburb and no car.

  ‘Rusty’s a good boy’, I said. ‘Reports on his work at the post office are fine.’

  ‘I should hope so. I trust Ronald has learned his lesson. The important thing now is the company he keeps.’

  ‘I agree, but so is his sense of purpose. And his ambitions.’

  ‘The job in the post office has good prospects.’

  ‘Not really, Mrs Fenton. Not without qualifications, and then very slowly. It’s safe, I grant you.’

  ‘And honest’, she snapped. ‘Not like boxing, hanging around with gamblers and drinkers, and punch-drunk halfwits.’

  I wondered how much she’d seen and how much was straight prejudice. ‘I had more than thirty fights myself’, I said steadily. ‘Hundreds in the tents. Am I punch-drunk? D’you think I’m a half-wit?’

  ‘Do you drink?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Gamble?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  She sighed. ‘I want a clean life for him.’

  ‘So do I. That’s my job, and I like the boy. I don’t think boxing will harm him. He’s very serious about the training as you must have seen—doesn’t drink or smoke. How does he look to you—physically?’

  She didn’t reply.

  I went on quickly. ‘He doesn’t go into the pubs, that cuts out most of the chances for trouble. He has prestige, respect; sportsmen do. That matters. I don’t think he’ll become a champion boxer, but he might. If he does, he’ll need people’s support and advice. If he doesn’t, he’ll have earned some money and picked up some useful experience.’ You liar, I thought. He might get his brains scrambled and go on the grog, finish in the tents, go all the way back from this parlour to the humpy.

  The big woman sat silent and unhappy. I drank my tea and she poured some more. I ate another scone.

  ‘Give it a little while, Mrs Fenton. It’s terribly important to him and it’s keeping him straight. If it was taken away now, he could be lost.’

  ‘Lost’ seemed to hit her; she nodded slowly. ‘You’re a good talker, Mr Thomas.’

  ‘I’m Welsh’, I said.

  She laughed. The front door bell rang and she excused herself from the room. I had a desperate need for a cigarette.

  Mrs Fenton came back into the room and with her was a younger woman. I pulled in my stomach and stood up.

  ‘Mr Thomas, this is Kelly Christian, my niece. Mr Thomas is Ronald’s counsellor, Kell.’

  Kelly Christian was tall, with an athletic figure. She wore a dark sweater and a short, tight skirt. She had fine bones, a light brown skin and long, elegant hands. The women chatted for a minute and I tried to think of something to say to her. Eventually there was a silence and I felt her eyes on me.

  ‘Rusty’s your cousin then’, I ventured.

  ‘Sort of.’ She gave Mrs Fenton a glance. ‘Our mothers are very old friends.’

  ‘He’s a good kid.’ Brilliant, I thought, brilliant stuff, Charlie. I got up. ‘I must go, Mrs Fenton. Will you try it my way for a while?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘I’m going, Auntie. I was just passing, really.’

  I bumped into her in the narrow hall, said I was sorry and then found myself out on the street with her. She wore shoes with low heels and was the same height as me; her legs were long and beautiful.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said.

  ‘Fitzroy. Sorry, haven’t got a car. I’m walking.’

  ‘So’m I. Clifton Hill.’

  It was dark and we walked down the quiet street, giving each other room. When we reached the main road I looked at her; under the yellow light her face glowed like old gold.

  ‘What did you mean about doing it your way?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s about Rusty’s boxing. I’m for it, she’s not sure.’

  ‘Why are you for it?’

  I told her in similar terms as the ones I’d used for Mrs Fenton, trying not to sound pompous.

  ‘Is it fun, boxing?’

  ‘Sometimes; it’s exciting, anyhow.’

  ‘He should have fun.’

  You could read a lot into that. I swallowed and clenched my fists inside my overcoat pockets.

  ‘Would you like to come to see him. To the fight?’

  She paused. ‘When is it?’

  I told her and waited; my heart was racing.

  ‘Yes, I’ll come. Thank you.’

  The blood was pounding in my head. ‘Good, good. Ah, Miss Christian is it? I …’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, not married. Kelly.’

  ‘Kelly. Where do you live? I’ll pick you up. I’ll have a car.’ The words rushed from me and I felt as if I could fight the four rounder myself.

  She reached into her handbag, pulled out a pen and a notepad and scribbled. I took the paper.

  ‘Will Rusty win?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ God, I thought, I’m crazy. He might get killed.

  We crossed the divided road: I wanted to touch her, take her arm, but I didn’t. She smiled at me and headed off down Smith Street. I walked home, made a meal, read a book and didn’t drink.

  At the next training session, four days before the fight, I mentioned her to Rusty.

  ‘Cousin? More like an auntie. She’d be near thirty.’

  I skipped hard and looked down at my body; a bit soft but not bad for forty plus. A month off the grog and I’d be a welterweight. I asked Rusty what his old cousin did for a living but he was vague about it.

  ‘She’s a nurse or something. A teacher maybe. I dunno.’

  On fight night I was as nervous as if I was going in against Rose. I shaved carefully long before I needed to and brushed my teeth three times. Usually I’d have gone to the stadium in my corner clothes—jeans and a sweatshirt—but tonight I packed them in a bag and wore slacks and a blazer. No tie, though; I couldn’t come at that.

  I parked the department car outside the big, white terrace in Clifton Hill. As I rang the bell I panicked at the thought that she might have forgotten the engagement, but she opened the door and looked pleased to see me. She leaned close, and craned her neck to look over my shoulder.

  ‘Not raining?’

  ‘No. Cold, though.’

  ‘I’ll get a coat.’ She was wearing the same clothes as before, and she went down the hall to a coatstand where she got a dark car coat and a black and white scarf.

  I crashed the gears and swore.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Hear it every day.’

  ‘What work do you do, Kelly?’

  ‘I’m a nurse educator they call it. Nearly anyway. I’m still studying. Too old for it, but there it is.’

  I steered carefully. ‘You’re ancient all right. Rusty thinks of you as an aunt. God knows what he thinks of me—grandfather most likely.’

  She laughed. ‘I doubt it. Did you teach him to box?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Who taught you?’

  I thought about it. ‘Lots of people.’

  She reached over and touched my eyebrow. ‘You’ve got a
few scars there.’

  ‘Cuts. We bettle-browed Abos cut easily.’

  She retreated back to her side. ‘I say something wrong?’ I said.

  ‘No.’ She forced a lighter tone. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Queensland originally. Sydney more recently.’

  ‘Do you know much about your people, the kooris, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit. You?’

  ‘Nothing’, she said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Our seats were at ringside, a few rows back. I put her next to the aisle, and dropped my coat over the next seat.

  ‘I’m looking after Rusty. He’s in the second fight. Then I’ll come back. Okay?’

  She nodded. I could see three familiar faces within a few feet and I acknowledged them. ‘You’ll be all right. I’ve got friends here.’

  She settled herself in the seat. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She sniffed. ‘Is it always so smoky?’

  ‘Fraid so.’

  Fenton was in the dressing room, stripped and nervous. I told him I had Kelly with me and he smiled and looked more relaxed.

  ‘That’s great, Charlie. You keen on her?’

  ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  The first preliminary was stopped in the second round, and we shuffled down the aisle through the buzzing crowd. I deferred to old Jack Kearney, who was Rusty’s nominal trainer-manager, in the corner. He was a survivor from the old days, just coping. We looked across the ring at Dragovic who was a stocky, pale-skinned youth with tattoos on his upper arms. Hard, dark bristle stood out threatingly on his pale cheeks and chin.

  Baffen, the referee, raced through the formalities, and Dragovic rushed out and tried to bullock Rusty into a corner. He stepped aside neatly and the Yugoslav blundered into the ropes. Rusty prepared him with fast lefts and stayed away from his wild swings.

  In the break I looked across at Kelly whose face was tight, but interested. She waved and Rusty grinned through the mouthguard. She shook her fist at him.

  ‘Those swings hurt?’ I said.

  ‘No, no bloody steam in them.’

  ‘Don’t let him get the range then, eh Jack?’ Kearney nodded. ‘Give ’im a tap’, he said. ‘Hook him.’

  Rusty did it beautifully; he baulked Dragovic twice until he was almost spinning and then he brought in a short, hard hook. Dragovic’s feet slid away and he went down. Fenton danced in his corner while Baffen counted eight, then he went in with two spearing lefts and Dragovic went down and stayed there.

  ‘Bloody dingo’, Rusty said.

  ‘No’, I said. ‘Smart, you had him beaten. He’ll think about next time.’

  I rejoined Kelly after Rusty had showered and gone off to watch the rest of the fights with a friend. A dull six rounder was in progress. She clutched my arm.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  I grinned at her. ‘Rusty? He’s floating.’

  ‘No. The other boy. Is he all right?’

  God, I thought, I forgot all about him. ‘He wasn’t hurt’, I said stiffly.

  ‘I can’t say I like it much.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘No, I want to see Rose. Is he very good?’ She was still holding my arm, and I took the opportunity to get hold of her hand.

  ‘It sounds disloyal’, I said. ‘But I’ve never thought Rose was as good as everyone says. There seems to be something … I can’t put my finger on it. I’m probably wrong.’

  She didn’t take her hand away, and she squeezed mine when Rose came into the ring after the prelims. She clapped hard and then took my hand again. The Gippslanders were jumping in their seats and the white Australians were shouting their support for Rose. Two Japanese, middle-aged, bespectacled and in suits watched impassively from the row in front of us. I thought that they were old enough to have been in New Guinea. I might have shot at them and they at me. It was odd; I felt nothing about them. They weren’t Japanese in the same sense.

  Tamaoka had won twenty-five of his twenty-nine fights and Rose had won twenty of his twenty-two. The Japanese looked slight, almost spindly compared with Rose, who had heavily-muscled arms and a deep chest. He was bristly, almost bearded, and he looked a lot older than eighteen.

  In the first round Tamaoka was fast to not much purpose; he put in some light rights to the head and Rose took a while to adjust to the southpaw stance. When he did, he connected several times to the head of the Japanese, who did not change expression or seem to be affected. He kept coming in and Rose kept hitting him. The pattern didn’t change much in the next few rounds, and I thought Rose was starting to look a little weary. I shook my head.

  ‘What’s he doing wrong?’ Kelly whispered.

  ‘Hitting his head. Looks to me as if he’s wasting his time. Should go for the body.’

  Rose did that in the fifth and stepped up the pace. He caught Tamaoka coming off the ropes, got him hard and low, but fair. Kelly gripped my hand as the anguished gasp from Tamaoka cut through the noise at ringside. He went down and lay still for the court. Rose jumped in the air, and the Gippslanders roared.

  Fenton pushed through the crowd towards us.

  ‘Wasn’t he great!’ he shouted. ‘Hello, Kelly. Wasn’t he great!’

  ‘You were good too, Rusty’, he said.

  He grinned. ‘You two coming to the party?’

  We both nodded together.

  The address was in Fitzroy, off Gertrude Street. Kelly sat close to me as I drove, hesitantly as always. I stopped outside a hotel where a dim light was showing.

  ‘Sly grog’, I said. ‘Hang on.’

  I bought beer and lemonade. ‘I’ll try to keep Rusty on shandies. Do you drink, Kelly?’

  She shook her head. ‘My question—do you like driving?’

  ‘Hate it.’

  ‘Shove over then.’

  The party was in a three storey terrace and was going strong when Kelly slipped the car into a tight spot outside. She was a good driver. We pushed our way down to the kitchen. Most of the people there were dark; I recognised a white TV-commentator and a football player. There were a couple of young, white girls. The kitchen table was covered with cans, flagons and bottles. I opened a bottle for myself and found some orange juice for Kelly. Loud rock music was being played in the front of the house, and the dancing made the whole floor shake.

  ‘This all looks a bit rough’, I said in Kelly’s ear. ‘Let’s find Rusty.’

  We threaded through the mob, checked the front rooms, couldn’t locate him, and went upstairs. A cheer came up from below and I saw Rose come in the front door. He’d shaved, was unmarked and looked very happy.

  Rusty was sitting in a chair in a middle room drinking and tapping his feet. A girl sat on the arm of the chair and played with his hair. He beamed at me, raised his glass and drank. The girl reached up a bottle from the floor, filled his glass again, sipped and gave it back to him. Her fingers went back to his hair.

  ‘Having a good time?’ Rusty yelled.

  I nodded. ‘Take it easy. It was only a four rounder.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, you see Lionel?’

  ‘He just arrived.’

  ‘Wanna see him.’ He got up, swayed, and pulled the girl off the chair. ‘C’mon, let’s see the champ.’ The girl bent down for the bottle, and let him pull her out of the room.

  A man slumped down heavily into the chair and cradled a flagon on his lap. He squinted up at Kelly. ‘Want a fuck, love?’ he said.

  More people pushed into the room and we squeezed past them out on to the building. I put my arm around Kelly and held her close in the crush of bodies. The music got louder. Another cheer went up as Rose left the house. I saw Fenton raise the bottle to his mouth. Then there was a crash of glass and the music stopped. Shouting started and women’s voices went up hysterically. More glass broke and a man came out of the front room backwards, staggering, out of control. He crashed into the people in the hall and went down. Another man came out weaving and with his fists up; one of the men who’d been pushed hit him full
in the face. They locked together, thrashing and fell back into the front room. I hurried Kelly down the stairs towards the front door. A woman was screaming on a single, steady note, and I heard a boot hit flesh. Someone loomed up in front of us and reached for Kelly’s shoulder; I chopped the arm down and shoved him back up the passage.

  We got to the street and almost ran across to the car. I drove away jerkily, a siren screamed behind us and a blue light filled the street. I drove a careful half mile and stopped. Kelly was pressed hard into the corner, crying quietly. I put my arms around her and stroked her thick, dark hair.

  ‘Why is it always like that?’ she sobbed.

  ‘The grog mostly and …’

  ‘What?’ she said fiercely.

  ‘You must know’, I said. ‘It’s being black. Letting off steam.’

  We huddled together quietly, then I kissed her and she kissed back hard. We kissed until we were breathless; I touched her face, which was smooth and still wet. I gave her a handkerchief.

  ‘Have you got somewhere we can go?’ she said.

  ‘Yes’, I said. ‘You drive.’

  Fenton was contrite the next time I saw him at the club, and I punished him in the sparring session. I moved him around the ring both ways using all the tricks I’d picked up in the stadiums and tents. I roughed him up in close, and put in sly punches on what would have been the referee’s blind side in a real match.

  He was panting hard when we stopped.

  ‘Good eight-round boy’d kill you’, I said. ‘You’re telegraphing the right hand, and you’ve got into bad habits with your feet. It’s a wonder you don’t trip over them.’

  He took it silently. I hadn’t had a drink in five days and felt the benefit. We launched into a brutal skipping and sit-ups routine, and the sweat was running on us when we stopped.

  After the shower I said, ‘If you want to be a playboy, be a playboy. If you want to be a boxer, keep away from it.’

  ‘Lionel likes a drink’, he muttered.

  ‘He’s a fool if he does. It’ll slow him up and put weight on him. One day he’ll have to boil down, and he’ll get his ears knocked off.’ I worked the towel vigorously. ‘He’s a bloody featherweight anyway, you just have to look at him. He’s a mug to fight bantam.’