Tandia

by Bryce Courtenay

  Peekay feinted with his left then hit Best hard with a right cross, pulling the blow inwards to tear at the recent cut to the fighter's eye. He'd resisted the left-right combination he'd used in the opening round in case Best set a trap for him. He pulled back out of harm's way, ducking and feinting and working the ropes as he watched the blood start to pump into Best's eye.

  A boxer less intelligent than Peekay would have started to work on the eye, hoping to close it and so cut down his opponent's field of vision. Peekay knew that this would suit Best perfectly, offering his head as a target so he could land a couple of big punches which would put a lighter fighter like Peekay away.

  Best's eye wasn't badly cut and Dutch would stop the bleeding between rounds, but Peekay wanted him to think he could hit him wherever and whenever it pleased him. Boxing is all about psychological control, and Peekay was working on Best's mind.

  The two boxers were no longer sparring. Best was trying his hardest, with increasing frustration, to nail Peekay. The smaller boxer went back to working on the body, seating a number of good punches under the heart. Late in the second round Peekay moved Best onto the ropes and got him with an eight-punch combination which hurt him. He heard Best grunt as the middleweight pulled him into a clinch. Despite his size Best was taking a lot of punishment to the body and plainly was not liking it.'

  'Come 'ere you, fuckin' bastard!' he'd invited Peekay more than once.

  The two boxers were locked in a clinch when Hymie called the end of the round. Peekay released his hold of Best and stepped back, dropping his guard. Best caught him with a beautiful right upper-cut to the jaw. Peekay felt his head snap back and his knees start to buckle, but somehow he managed to stay upright 'That's for you, lad!' Best snarled.

  Despite the lightness in his head, Peekay managed to smile. 'That's the only way you're going to hit me, shithead!' he called after Best, who'd moved back to his corner.

  The blow had been a deliberate foul. 'You bastard!' Peekay heard Hymie shout up at Best.

  Dutch Holland stepped quickly into the ring and moved over to Best. 'You stupid git! Next time you do that, lad, you're out of my stable! I told you, no aggro!' He looked over at Peekay who was standing in his corner. 'You all right, son?' Peekay nodded, his head clearing from the blow. Hymie tried to enter the ring but Peekay waved him back. The punch had hurt him, but the advantage lay in remaining cool and showing no visible signs of distress. 'Do you want to continue, Peekay?' Holland asked. Peekay smiled. 'Sure, Mr Holland, why not?'

  Dutch Holland grinned. 'Cheeky young sod!' He turned to Best and started to attend to his eye, speaking to him in an undertone. 'Now I've warned you, ain't I? Get in there and do some work, Little Lord Fauntleroy here is making you look dead ordinary, my son.'

  The final round was Peekay's best. He started off working close to the bigger fighter's body and by the middle of the round the middleweight had dropped his arms to protect himself, an obvious sign that he was hurting as well as tiring. With his guard down, Peekay was able to stand back a little and punch to the head. To taunt Best he hit him everywhere except on the eye, and soon the parts of his face exposed by the headgear carried bright red patches where he'd been nailed. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.

  The big fighter's body looked untouched except for a sharp patch of red about the size of a large grapefruit under his heart where Peekay had hit him perhaps fifty times or more. Best once again ignored Dutch Holland's caution to stay the aggro. His eyes clearly showed his fury as Peekay took the fight to him, making him miss badly. Every boxer dreams his opponent will lose his cool in the ring; nothing makes a good boxer look better than an opponent who throws caution to the winds and rushes in for the kill.

  But in the end Best had enough class to last, even hitting Peekay hard twice when he moved in a little too close. They were two good punches, though he'd lost some of his speed and the blows did no more than remind Peekay in no uncertain manner to stay out of his reach. He was also grateful for the heavy gloves Best was wearing. Hymie called the end of the round just as Peekay landed another hard straight left right on the button.

  Best didn't wait to touch gloves. Turning his back on Peekay, he climbed out of the ring.

  Peekay looked over at Hymie and shrugged. Hymie raised his thumb without moving his hand from his lap. 'Nice one!' he mimed. Peekay's concentration had been such that he'd entirely forgotten Harriet's presence. Now, as Fred moved over to his corner handing him up a water bottle, he looked down at her, rinsing his mouth. She was still sketching, her eyes downcast onto the paper so that the lights from above the ring caught her chestnut hair, turning it into a blaze of deep coppery brown. 'She's Hymie's,' Peekay reminded himself, mentally slapping himself on the wrist. He was still a little high from the fight, delighted it had gone so well. He'd really expected Best to rough him up somewhat and counted himself lucky. He spat into the bucket Fred held up for him.

  "Ere, more water, guv,' Fred said, handing Peekay the water bottle.

  Togger Brown jumped into the ring, game as a fox terrier. He bounced around in his corner, throwing punches into the air and blowing hard, working at his aggression as Peekay took the remaining seconds to recover.

  When Hymie called the start of the fourth round, what with one thing and another, there had been an almost two minute break in between rounds. Peekay was feeling fresh, even exhilarated. He knew he'd performed better than well against the recalcitrant Best, and he was anxious to do the same in his sparring session with Togger Brown. To his opponent's surprise, Peekay faced him as a southpaw. It was an ability he'd gained as a small child under the direction of Geel Piet. The battered little coloured man believed a boxer should be as capable of leading with his right as with his left hand and Peekay had been trained this way from the very beginning. To the uninitiated, in boxing terms, it's the equivalent of being ambidextrous. A boxer who stands with his right hand and right leg forward is known as a southpaw.

  Like every intelligent boxer who has watched his opponent box, Togger Brown had worked out the way he hoped to shape the fight. Now he found himself all at sea and it soon became apparent that he'd been mismatched. Towards the end of the round Peekay changed back to an orthodox stance and almost immediately put Togger onto the seat of his pants with a left-right combination.

  Togger lay sprawled on the canvas and Peekay rushed over to help him up. The two punches had been so beautifully timed that he'd been almost unaware of how hard they'd been. Peekay started to lift Togger Brown to his feet, grabbing him under the armpits. Suddenly Dutch Holland was in the ring waving his arms above his head, stopping the sparring session.

  Peekay held Togger around the shoulders. 'You okay?'

  Togger's head was beginning to clear and he nodded, grinning. 'Jesus, Peekay! What a corker of a right hand!' He brought his glove up and sniffed, wiping his nose on the surface of the black leather.

  Dutch Holland shouted to Fred to bring a bucket and sponge. Togger nudged Peekay. 'Still an' all, you gave that big bastard a good hiding,' he giggled, and whispered, 'Dutch thinks he's the big white hope. Big white dope, more like. Blimey! You didn't 'arf make him look ordinary!'

  They climbed through the ropes together, though on the side opposite to where Hymie and Harriet sat. Togger Brown put his hand on Peekay's shoulder and looked serious. 'Can I box with you some more? I could learn a lot from you, I could.'

  'Shit, Togger, it's all there in you. You move well, you're fast with a bloody good left lead.' Peekay shrugged and indicated the ring. 'It's just that I've been up there maybe fifty times more than you have,' he grinned. 'I've been knocked around a bit more.'

  Peekay couldn't quite believe Togger Brown. His accent was straight out of a Hotspur comic. At first he'd thought the little freckle-faced fighter with the big smile. was sending him up. He'd become accustomed to the well-varnished accents of the college proctors as well as a great many of his fe
llow students, but he hadn't yet attuned his ear to a broad London accent.

  Fred arrived with the bucket and sponge and Dutch Holland called down to Togger to return to the ring so he could take off his headgear and gloves and check his reflexes. Peekay walked over to the side of the ring where Hymie and Harriet sat.

  Hymie helped him out of the ring. 'Nice one, Peekay!' Harriet, not wanting to intrude, busied herself putting her sketch pad into her satchel. Peekay, observing her, could see that the hint of a smile played around her mouth. As Hymie lifted the protective leather headgear from his friend's head she turned towards him and looking up, fixed her eyes on Peekay. 'You were marvellous,' she said quietly. Peekay felt suddenly light-headed. His instincts told him he was stepping into very dangerous territory. How the hell was he going to explain to Hymie he was in love with his girl?

  'Can we go into my office, then, Mr Levy?' Dutch Holland said, climbing down from the ring. Hymie looked at Peekay and gave him a furtive thumbs-up sign. 'Here goes,' he whispered and then in a louder voice, 'Better have a shower, Peekay, be back in a mo.'

  Peekay let himself smile at Harriet. Hymie hadn't removed his bandages and he sat down and began to pull at the tape. 'Oh! Please let me do that,' Harriet said. She unwound the bandage, winding it up carefully again as she removed it from his hand. 'What you're watching is four years of VAD training paying off at last.' She had a throaty, infectious laugh and Peekay found himself grinning stupidly. 'During the war as a kid in Norfolk I used to imagine a German flier parachuting down into the fields behind our house. I'd be the first there running across the fields in my VAD uniform and little brown bakelite first-aid suitcase banging against my knees. The Jerry would be lying there stunned and before you could say Jack Robinson I'd have bandaged him up like an Egyptian mummy. By the time the village folk would appear with their pitch forks and clubs I'd be standing between them and my captured flier. Then I'd imperiously order four of them to make a stretcher from his parachute silk. I'd be a terrific hero, of course, and have to go up to Buckingham Palace and get a medal for bravery…perhaps two medals, one for bravery and the other for bandaging.'

  Peekay laughed. 'I used to imagine I was the Spitfire pilot who shot him down. I had no idea you were waiting below to rescue the bugger!' They laughed together. 'Thanks, Harriet, you get eleven out of ten for de-bandaging,' Peekay said happily.

  Harriet sighed melodramatically, then threw back her head and laughed. 'I suppose I'm going to have to get used to hanging around dirty gyms waiting for a certain sweaty boxer and his manager.' She sniffed, squiffing up her nose. 'What a pong! Do they all smell like this?'

  Peekay grinned. 'Only the better ones. Excuse me please, Harriet, I must pong rather myself. I'll warm down and take a shower.' On his way to the change room he felt as though he was walking on air. She's not yours! She's not yours, you fool! he insisted to himself, but it didn't help. Harriet Clive suddenly filled every nook and cranny in his mind.

  Peekay entered the change room just as Peter Best was leaving. Peekay smiled and extended his hand. 'No hard feelings, Peter? Thanks for the opportunity to work out with you.'

  Best did not accept Peekay's hand. Instead he jabbed his forefinger into his face and snarled, 'Listen lad! No fuckin' welterweight makes a fuckin' monkey out of me and hopes to stay fuckin' healthy. You'll get yours, mark my fuckin' words!' He brushed past Peekay and was gone.

  'That's fuckin' wonderful!' Togger yelled after him, mimicking his accent. 'Remind me to nominate you for fuckin' sportsman of the fuckin' year, my son!'

  'Shut up, Togger!' Peekay said, grinning broadly, bringing his finger to his lips. 'We don't want a fookin' shower-room brawl. He'll kill us! Besides, I think Hymie's about to convince your Mr Holland to take me on.' A look of mock seriousness crossed his face. 'You screw it up for me, Togger, and you're a dead welterweight!'

  Togger stood nude in the middle of the room with a small tin of Johnson's Baby Powder in his hand. 'Oh, mate! From the opening bell you was never in the slightest doubt. Dutch thinks all 'is fuckin' birthdays 'ave come at once!'

  'I hope you're right. Shower's cold, I suppose?' Peekay asked, attempting to make light of the compliment.

  'Yeah, I suppose.' Togger said absently, then swung around. "Ere! It's the middle of bleedin' winter. I mean, you 'ardly got a sweat up! Them showers is colder than fuckin' charity!'

  Peekay laughed. He instinctively liked the little Londoner.

  He shrugged his shoulders. 'It's a nasty colonial habit, Togger.'

  'Oi! I've heard about you lot, washin' all the bleedin' natural oils off of your skin with all them showers. 'Ere, lemme show you.' He lifted his left arm and upended the tin of baby powder. A cloud of powder exploded in the region of his underarm. He changed hands and repeated the process under his right arm. Then he shook the tin vigorously, rubbing the powder into his ginger-coloured short and curlies until they looked as white as Santa's beard. 'That's a British version of the winter shower,' he announced. 'You stay warm, smell like a rose and you don't 'arm your natural supply of precious body oils which stop you from aging prematurely and being all 'orrible and wrinkled up like a boardin' 'ouse prune!'

  Peekay laughed, his ribs hurting where Best had landed a brace of good punches. 'No thanks, Togger, I guess I'm doomed to premature loss of my precious body oils.'

  Fred entered with the bucket and sponge from the ring and observed the two young boxers. 'Makin' friends, that's good that is,' he glanced back at the door, as though Best had only just left. 'No point in bein' like that afterwards, it don't make you no better.'

  Hymie and Harriet were standing with Dutch Holland when the two young boxers emerged from the change room.

  Hymie was smoking a dark-brown Russian sobranie and the acrid smell of the Turkish tobacco filled the small gymnasium. It was mixed with the sweeter aroma of Dutch Holland's Cuban cigar.

  'Dutch here says okay,' Hymie grinned.

  Peekay whooped like a schoolboy, totally elated. 'Thank you, Mr Holland. I won't let you down, sir, I've never been surer of anything in my life.'

  Dutch Holland turned to Peekay. 'If you're prepared to graft, son, I think I can promise you a crack at the British Empire title in two years, or I'm not the Flying Dutchman.'

  'Sooner,' Peekay said softly.

  Dutch looked surprised. 'What? What did you say, son?'

  'Sooner, please, Mr Holland. I can't wait two years.' Dutch Holland smiled. 'Sorry, lad, you can't hold a major British title until you're twenty-one, that's the law in this country.'

  'Well, Mr Holland, we'll just have to miss out on it and go higher. It's not the law in America.'

  Peekay was aware of the sudden silence around him. Hymie knew of course, but they'd agreed he'd say nothing about it to Dutch Holland, afraid it would frighten him away. Peekay had only spoken up now because he'd suddenly become afraid the British trainer might aim too low, content to take less than Peekay wanted.

  'World?' Dutch Holland smiled, then seemed almost to chortle, which seemed a thoroughly inappropriate sound coming from his owlish face. He took a pull at his big cigar and, shaking his head incredulously, blew his cigar smoke towards the ceiling. 'The welterweight title is owned by Jake "Spoonbill" Jackson, a black boy from Louisville, Kentucky…' He tapped the corona with a cocktail-sausage finger. 'Now, mind, I haven't seen this lad fight, but I'm not about to quibble with the latest Ring magazine who rate him the best boxer, pound for pound, in the bleedin' world! And he's only twenty-three, my son!'

  'It's just that we're in a hurry, Dutch,' Hymie replied quietly.

  'Hurry? You've got a jet-propelled rocket up your bums, the pair of you!'

  Peekay's heart was beating fast. He'd probably acted stupidly but he couldn't help himself. He had eighteen months, at the outside two years, to get a crack at the title. He'd waited long enough; by the time he'd finished at Oxford he wanted it over. Holla
nd simply had to try to understand that, now, at the very beginning of their relationship.

  Harriet had wanted to go to the Tate to see the new Jacob Epstein sculpture as well as a recently acquired Degas bronze study of a child ballet dancer. Then she and Hymie were going to drive to Berkshire to a schoolfriend's twentyfirst. Peekay was taking the evening train back from Paddington to Oxford. Togger listened as they discussed which train would be best; it was a Friday night and Harriet suggested Peekay catch an early train to avoid the commuters and people going up to the country for the weekend. Togger followed Peekay to the toilet. 'Oi, how about letting me show you the bleedin' metropolis tonight? Stay over, mate, you can doss at my place. It ain't fancy but me sister's not home, you can have her bed. Waddayasay, Peekay? We'll'ave a few jugs, see a bit 'a the West End, 'ave a few laughs?'

  Peekay immediately agreed. He was still elated by the outcome of the morning but now he was beginning to realise just how much the prospect of the session with Dutch Holland had played on his mind. The idea of relaxing and seeing London with Togger appealed to him enormously. Togger agreed to meet him later at a pub down the Old Kent Road with the improbable name of the World Upside Down.

  'Main bar could be a titch crowded. I'll wait in the saloon bar.' Togger glanced down at Peekay's shoes, his eyes travelling upwards until they reached his face. "Ere, I'll bring you some clobber. I'll be the bleedin' laughing stock if I'm seen with you lookin' like that. What size clod'oppers you take?'

  Peekay looked down at his duffel coat, brown corduroys and finally at his crepe-soled brown shoes known as brothel creepers. 'Seven,' he said.

  'Do the best I can. See you later then, don't be late.' Togger left them at the steps of the Tate and ran to catch a bus.