A lot more pennies were thrown, then someone shouted, ‘We want Python,’ and a whole crowd took it up. Another crowd answered ‘We want Hammer,’ and soon you couldn’t hear Sam playing at all. He stopped and looked down at the M.C.’s seat with a worried expression on his face. The M.C. came up and thanked Sam, who was picking up his pennies. He spread out a big poster on the floor and started to read out the programme for next week, but the noise was so great he gave up. He beckoned towards the dark door through which the other wrestlers had passed after their fight. A little wiry man in shirt sleeves and blue braces came bounding up the aisle, and leaped into the ring. After him marched the wrestlers.
First Shmule, in a crimson dressing-gown gleaming in the light, with Blackie and Oliver bustling round him. A man leaned over to pat his back as he passed, and when he sprang into the ring there was quite a big cheer. Shmule bowed towards the cheers and looked proudly at the small group who booed. He waved to Joe, and Joe waved back. Sonia blew kisses and Mr Kandinsky said, ‘A fine boy; good luck to him.’ Then Shmule started stretching himself, so as not to lose a moment’s development.
After him came the dreaded Python with his manager, a man with a square blue jaw, like polished rock. The Python wore a black silk dressing-gown and a white towel round his neck, and he towered above the seconds dancing round him. He climbed into the ring, not so full of spring as Shmule, but with one powerful hitch of his arm. There was, true, a bigger cheer for Python, but Shmule’s friends booed hard, Joe hissed like a goose, Sonia shouted out ‘Carcase meat,’ and Mr Kandinsky said ‘What a bull.’
The M.C. introduced Shmule first. He called him the white hope of Aldgate, the sensational young former amateur championship contender, a clean-fighting local boy, and so on and so forth. All the while the Python was baring his teeth and growling and shaking his fist at Shmule’s supporters. Shmule slipped out of his crimson dressing-gown and now his muscles rippled in the ring lights, his spotless white hammer shining like a star against the crimson briefs. Oliver and Blackie clustered round his corner with towels and pails and a chair for him to sit on between rounds. They looked worried, although after all that saying he was a gonner, Shmule looked as if nothing could ever frighten him. There was a fresh feeling about him, as if he felt there were so many tailors expecting him to make a good fight, especially with the trade being so up and down, and so much unemployment, they lent him the strength they had been saving for work.
The dreaded Python Macklin was very angry. He strained like a fierce bulldog at the rope, just waiting for the bell to sound to throw himself on Shmule, tearing him limb from limb like the Christian martyrs, just as Mavis said. The black hair on the Python stood up in fury and he ground his teeth together. When the M.C. pointed in his direction and called out his name, famous contender for the championship of the world, and veteran of the ring all over Europe, the Python drew himself up and the muscles on his chest and back were swollen with pride and power. He grinned, his teeth clamped tight together, and when the red-haired woman screamed out, ‘Murder him, Py,’ he stared at her as if he was hungry and she was a juicy steak.
‘A forty-minute contest,’ the M.C. shouted through his megaphone, ‘of eight five-minute rounds, for a purse of not ten, not twenty, but twenty-five pounds.’
He drew the two men together and whispered to them, the Python sneering, Shmule looking serious. Mr Kandinsky said again, ‘Good luck,’ and then the bell rang. In the sudden silence it echoed well.
Joe sat with his seat tipped up to see over the head of the man in front. This man had a head like a smooth water-melon with a bit of hair round the edges, pasted down with oil as if painted. As soon as the bell rang he started to talk slowly in a gruff voice like a gate swinging on rusty hinges in the wind. The woman next to him had grey hair permanently waved and never spoke, except to say, ‘Have a nut.’ The man was very helpful to Joe because he was an expert and explained the whole fight, hold by hold.
At first the wrestlers circled watchfully round one another looking for an opening. The man with the painted head said, ‘You watch, Em; he’ll be on to him; just give him that opening; watch, it’s coming – no, hold it, now – no, he missed it, he’s waiting to put the scissors on him.’
The Python prepared to spring on Shmule, who stood quite still waiting. Then, as the Python bent his legs to jump, Shmule stepped aside and Python fell on his face with a heavy slap.
‘He missed him,’ said the man with painted hair, and even as he spoke Shmule leapt on to the Python, catching both legs below knee level in the crook of his arm, and pulling sharply.
‘Ouch!’ shouted Python.
‘Ouff !’ said the man with painted hair. ‘He got the old calf-lock on him.’
The Python shook himself like an alligator, and one of his knees slipped free and bowled Shmule over. The Python caught hold of Shmule by the foot and thigh and prepared to throw him, but Shmule pressed into the canvas with both hands, and heaved his body into the Python’s ribs like a battering-ram. The Python reeled into the ropes, and the bell rang.
Shmule turned to his corner, but the Python came after him. The crowd roared with one voice, ‘Look behind you!’ Shmule turned sharply, and the referee jumped in front of Python, and forced him to his corner. The Python was furious and, pushing his seconds off the ring, he picked up his chair and punched his fist through the seat.
‘Phoo,’ said the man with painted hair, ‘what a round, the dirty bastard turning on him like that after the bell, the dirty great bleeder.’
‘Have some nuts, Fred?’ the permanently waved woman said.
‘The swine,’ said Sonia with tears in her eyes; ‘did you see that?’
The seconds rubbed them down and waved towels while the wrestlers spat into pails, and breathed deep and even, glaring at one another across the ring, listening to their managers’ advice. The crowd wasn’t shouting, ‘Carve up,’ any more. They could see it was serious. The bell rang for the second round.
The Python at once shot from his corner, his fingers crooked to seize Shmule, his face rigid, calling the muscles of his body to attention. Shmule crouched like a panther, waiting.
‘He’s giving him half a stone,’ the man with the painted head said. ‘He’s got to play a waiting game; let the Python use hisself up, then come in quick. Ahh!’
The Python had his arms about Shmule and was hugging him like a bear. Shmule’s arms were pinned to his sides, and he couldn’t move. He twisted to one side, then to the other, but the Python shortened the hug, working the grip of one hand upon the other wrist slowly up his arm. Shmule’s face twisted with pain.
‘Let him get out of that one,’ the man said. Sonia clenched and unclenched her hands, and Joe’s mother looked away. Mr Kandinsky was breathing hard, but Joe just stared, wondering what Shmule would do now. The crowd was shouting, ‘Finish him, Python!’
Then Shmule moved his hand up and down in fast little movements against his thigh, and the referee, jumping about watching, saw the sign, and told Python to let go, the Hammer gave in. But Python wouldn’t let go, and Shmule bit his lips in agony. Now the crowd shouted against the Python, but that didn’t help Shmule. The referee and all the seconds jumped on to him to tear him away, and the bell rang.
Blackie and Oliver helped Shmule to his corner and gently rubbed him, putting wet towels on his face. The crowd was furious with the Python, but he didn’t care. He shouted back at them, showing off his muscles and asking if any one would like to try them. ‘Filth!’ Mr Kandinsky shouted, but poor Shmule looked pale and his eyes were closed. ‘He’s a dirty fighter,’ the man with painted hair said, ‘but give credit, he’s got a grip like iron, the bleeder.’
‘Get us some more nuts, Fred,’ the woman replied.
Blackie and Oliver were working hard on Shmule, who breathed deeply, the colour coming back into his face. By the time the bell rang for the third round, he seemed as good as new.
‘But you can’t tell,’ the man with the paint
ed head said, ‘he could have a couple of ribs broken clean and he wouldn’t know till after.’
‘Has he got a couple ribs broke?’ Joe asked.
‘God forbid,’ Mr Kandinsky answered, ‘God forbid.’
Blackie and Oliver must have told Shmule not to waste time, because he came out fast and made straight for the Python, who, being pleased with himself, was a bit careless. Shmule clasped his hands together and raised them for a rabbit punch, but he was too late. The Python crouched away, out of distance, not careless any more. Then a look of pain suddenly crossed Shmule’s face, and the Python grinned and came in to attack, his hands low.
‘He’s hurt,’ Sonia whispered.
‘He’s hurt all right,’ the man in front of Joe said. But what a surprise! Shmule suddenly leaped forward and caught the Python a great crack on the jaw with his left fist. The Python looked surprised and fell down.
‘No boxing,’ the crowd yelled.
The Python started to get up at once, but Shmule was on top of him, his knees to either side of his stomach, his hands firmly planted on his shoulders, pressing them to the canvas. As he pressed he strengthened the grip of his knees. The Python groaned, shouted. He jerked and jumped and twisted, but he couldn’t throw Shmule off.
‘He can give it,’ the man said, ‘but he can’t take it. Go on, boy; do him!’
The Python beat the floor with both hands and Shmule let go at once.
‘Good boy,’ the man said.
‘He should give him the same as he got,’ Sonia said; ‘why should he fight him clean?’
The crowd cheered Shmule, but the Python wasn’t hurt as much as they thought, because as soon as Shmule broke away, he leaped to his feet. Not fast enough though. Shmule wasn’t so green now. He didn’t stop watching the Python for a second, and he saw him tensed to leap. Ready for him, he caught the Python another crack on the chin as he came up. The Python went down with Shmule on top of him, but he was saved by the bell.
‘That’s more like it,’ the man said; ‘he’s got the old Python on the squirm, proper.’
‘Get us some nuts, Fred,’ the woman said.
‘Fancy an ice?’ the man asked.
‘Some nuts, Fred,’ the woman said again.
‘How’s the boy doing now, Sonia?’ Mr Kandinsky asked.
‘He’s all right,’ Sonia said; ‘another round like that and he’ll win.’
‘We’re winning,’ Joe told his mother.
‘That’s good,’ she replied. ‘It’s awful to see their faces.’
In the fourth round the Python set out to finish Shmule off. He tried all the fancy holds, the Indian death-lock, the flying mare, the cobra, but Shmule was like an eel; he didn’t stay still long enough for the grips to take.
‘He’s using his speed now,’ the man said; ‘let’s see the Python catch up with that.’
But the Python couldn’t catch up with that. After a couple of minutes the crowd started to laugh, because the Python lumbered like a great ox, while Shmule danced circles round him, cracking him on the back and chest every so often. Now the Python was on his guard against face-blows, and being careful made him even more clumsy. He was furious with the crowd for laughing. He looked at Shmule through slit eyes wanting to murder him.
‘Let me get my hands on you, laughing boy, that’s all,’ he growled.
Then suddenly Shmule nipped in close, his foot jabbed out, and the Python fell heavily on to the canvas, his arms round Shmule’s leg. But as he fell Shmule struck the Python a heavy blow to the stomach, and pulled his leg free.
The Python held on to his stomach with both hands. His head came forward. His neck bent towards Shmule like a beast to the slaughterer.
Shmule folded his hands together as if to pray. He lifted them and carefully aiming, brought a rabbit punch with all his force clean on to the Python’s neck. The Python slumped forward over his hands. Shmule stood back, watching. The Python didn’t move.
‘Cold meat!’ someone shouted.
‘Hammer!’ all the tailors yelled.
‘Hammer!’ shouted Joe.
The Python was out cold.
11
It was the latest night ever. It was late when Joe and his mother and Mr Kandinsky left Sonia at the swimming-baths waiting for Shmule, both of them to follow on later. It was late when they got home, but no one suggested that Joe should go to bed, because it was, after all, an occasion. Joe said it was only fair to bring Africana in, since he had been such a help, but Mr Kandinsky said, ‘Leave him sleep. Tomorrow is also a day.’
Joe’s mother lit the gas fire in the kitchen, and put the kettle on the stove to make a cup of tea. As they waited for the kettle Mr Kandinsky told them about the patent steam presser which, only four years old, he could buy for practically nothing from the Grosvenor Garment Company in Fournier Street. With a bit of patching up, tighten a few screws, a good re-padding job, scrape off the rust, a coat of paint, it would make a first-class presser, good as new.
Now Mr Kandinsky didn’t have Shmule to worry about any more, he could concentrate on the steam presser again. In fact, now that Shmule had actually won the fight, it seemed unreasonable to Mr Kandinsky that he shouldn’t have the presser.
‘A chance like this, Becky,’ he said, ‘doesn’t, after all, come up every day. A chance of a life-time. He would take thirty pound for it, he said, but I know better. He would be glad to get twenty pound as well. After all, all the big firms can buy new pressers, what do they want with an old machine four years old, rusty, dirty? And who’s got thirty pounds who isn’t a big firm? Believe me, he would be glad to take twenty. And yet who’s got even twenty?’
‘Shmule has got twenty-five pounds because you heard, the winner gets twenty-five pounds to himself,’ Joe said.
Mr Kandinsky looked thunderstruck. He slapped his forehead with his palm. ‘You’re right, Joe,’ he said.
‘Shmule has got twenty-five pounds.’
Joe’s mother looked over from the stove where she was pouring boiling water into the teapot.
‘Shmule must buy Sonia a ring before anything else,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame otherwise.’
‘That’s true,’ Mr Kandinsky said, pursing his lips. ‘Quite right. Mind you, if Shmule was to come along to me and tell me, “I bought the steam presser, what about a partnership?” I would tell him straightaway, “Certainly.” But naturally Sonia must have a ring. Only this other way she wouldn’t just be a girl with a ring marrying a young fellow, a worker in the tailoring. This way she is marrying a guvnor, a partner in a business, and what is more, a growing business. Because I tell you, Becky, with a patent steam presser we can take in so much jobbing, we can make a living from this alone. Still, Sonia must have a ring. Maybe it is the only chance Shmule gets his whole life, but it doesn’t matter. A ring is important.’
Mr Kandinsky was very upset. It was selfish of Sonia to stop Shmule becoming a guvnor. Mr Kandinsky pressed the lemon in his glass with a spoon. Joe sipped his milk, wondering what Africana would do about this. Then they heard voices on the stairs.
Shmule and Sonia came in arm in arm. Though he looked tired, Shmule’s eyes were bright.
‘I couldn’t get him away from there,’ Sonia said. ‘They all wanted to see him.’
Mr Kandinsky gripped Shmule’s hand.
‘Good luck to you always,’ he said, ‘good health, and every blessing.’
Joe’s mother said, ‘It was awful to watch, but you were marvellous, Shmule, marvellous. Only don’t let him do it any more, Sonia. You mustn’t do it any more, Shmule. Buy Sonia a ring now, and finish with the wrestling.’
‘She’s right,’ Mr Kandinsky said. ‘It’s for the beast of the field.’
‘You know what he told me round one?’ Shmule said. ‘He told me to lie down in the seventh, I could share the purse with him. That’s what he told me.’
‘That Python,’ Sonia said, angry, ‘he wanted Shmule to lie down.’
‘When I tell him I am fighting
clean he says he’ll ruin me.’
‘You hear?’ Mr Kandinsky said to all of them. ‘You hear what kind of a business this wrestling is?’
‘It kills you for real development of the body beautiful,’ Sonia said.
‘No good for the muscular tone or the efficiency,’ Shmule said. ‘Still, I can give baby a ring.’ Sonia hugged him.
‘I want to talk to you with a serious proposition,’ Mr Kandinsky said, clearing his throat and holding his hand up for silence. ‘Namely, now that you got a bit of capital, and I am, after all, the truth is the truth, an old man. Namely, a partnership deal.’
Shmule looked more dazed than the dreaded Python the last time he was hit. Sonia hugged him again.
‘Baby,’ she said, ‘you hear?’
‘But,’ continued Mr Kandinsky, and he explained that Shmule would have to bring with him a patent steam presser.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Shmule, ‘for a hundred eighty-seven pounds a patent presser. Not two?’
‘Don’t grab,’ Mr Kandinsky said; ‘listen a minute.’ He told him about the second-hand presser over at Grosvenor Garments.
‘You think he would take twenty?’ Shmule asked, stroking his lip.
‘Take?’ answered Mr Kandinsky. ‘He would drag it out of your hands.’
Sonia didn’t say anything. Her face couldn’t make up its mind whether she was pleased or not. It was a difficult decision.
‘Let me speak to Sonia a minute,’ Mr Kandinsky said. ‘Sonia,’ he said, ‘here you are a young woman in the bloom of her beauty, a perfect mate for life with this Maccabaeus here.’
A Kid for Two Farthings Page 8