by H. Y. Hanna
Mabel drew herself up. “And why not?”
“Because—” I broke off. I couldn’t believe I was even having this conversation. “Um… you do realise that Krav Maga is a deadly self-defence technique developed by the Israeli Army for hand-to-hand combat. This isn’t Seniors Yoga!”
Mabel bristled. “Do you think we can’t handle ourselves in a fight, young lady?”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt. I mean, martial arts isn’t really the kind of activity for… um… more mature individuals—”
“Oh, but Krav Maga is different,” said Florence, pointing to the poster eagerly. “You see what it says here? ‘Suitable for any age, size, or gender. Anyone can use Krav Maga techniques successfully to overcome a stronger opponent. Simple, powerful, easy-to-learn tactics for real-life situations. Perfect for the old, the weak, and the small.’”
“I’ve always wanted to learn self-defence,” said Glenda, fluffing her hair. “Men love a woman who can… what do the Americans call it? Kick arse!” She covered her mouth and giggled.
“You can’t really be serious about this,” I said weakly. “What if you fall down and break a hip?”
Mabel stood up, her arms akimbo, and looked at me indignantly. “My hips are fine, young lady. You worry about your own hips.”
“I think it’s a marvellous idea, darling,” my mother gushed. “In fact, I would come too if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve got bridge this evening at Dorothy Clarke’s house. Although maybe I could see if I could cancel—”
“No! No, Mother—you go to your bridge game,” I said hastily. I turned back to the Old Biddies and said with a sigh, “All right. I suppose there’s no harm in going along to observe a class.”
“We’re not going to just sit there and observe!” said Florence, pouting.
Glenda and Ethel nodded vehemently. “We want to take part!”
I sighed and hoped fervently that, when we turned up, the instructors would tell the Old Biddies that they were too old for the class.
CHAPTER TWENTY
That evening, as I followed the Old Biddies down some narrow steps to a dingy basement in a side street near Oxford bus station, I wondered uneasily what I had let myself in for. A smell of stale sweat mixed with the artificial fragrance of deodorant rose to meet us and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I could hear faint grunts and cries, and the occasional thump—none of which helped to make me feel more at ease.
We emerged into a vast room with low ceilings, which took up the entire basement level. The centre of the room was divided into two training areas, obviously used for classes and mock fights, and the sides were lined with cubicles and shelves filled with cushioned pads, groin shields, head guards, and punching gloves, as well as several giant black punching bags hanging from the ceiling.
The training area nearest the door was empty, but several pairs of men were sparring and wrestling on the far side of the room, with more watching from a long bench alongside the wall. Judging by their rippling biceps and muscular bodies, they were obviously long-time members, and several looked like they had been in real fights—and often. A few sported tattoos, two had shaved heads, and one had a broken nose. I swallowed nervously. I thought we were supposed to learn how to defend ourselves against thugs, not walk into a nest of them!
A slim young man in track pants came towards us with a smile and a clipboard. He thrust a hand out to me.
“You must be here for the Introductory Workshop on Krav Maga for Ladies.”
“Er, I…”
Mabel shoved me out of the way and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down. “Yes, we are.”
“I… I’m sorry?” The young man looked taken aback. “You, ma’am?”
“Me and my friends,” said Mabel, pointing to herself and Glenda and Florence and Ethel. “Oh, and Gemma too,” she added as an afterthought.
The young man licked his lips. “The thing is… well, this isn’t really a seniors’ class—”
“Young man, it says on your poster that Krav Maga is suitable for everyone, including the old, the weak, and the small. Are you saying that the poster was lying?”
“Oh, no, of course not!” he said. “It’s just that… when we said old, we weren’t thinking quite so old—uh, that is…” He hastily amended his words when he saw Mabel’s glare: “What I mean is… well, things can get a bit rough in class, you know.”
“That’s quite all right, young man,” said Florence. “We’re not as fragile as we look.”
Speak for yourself, I thought.
“Well…” The young man looked helplessly around, then gave a resigned shrug. “If you would like to join the class, you’re very welcome. I just need you to fill out these forms and sign the waiver.” He handed out some papers to the Old Biddies, then looked at me. “And you, miss?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “No, I would just like to observe”, but I felt a flash of shame. Here were four little old ladies who were game enough to try this—was I going to be a chicken?
“Uh… yeah, thanks,” I said, taking the form from him.
As we were filling them out, several other women began to arrive for the class. There were a mix of different ages and types, although a few looked like they didn’t need any training to beat the living daylights out of someone. One girl with a high ponytail bounced restlessly from foot to foot, her hands already up in fists, looking like she was ready to punch anyone who so much as glanced at her the wrong way. Another woman with big beefy arms kept cracking her knuckles while she eyed the rest of us malevolently.
“Are you joining the class?” came a sneering voice next to us.
I turned to see a girl with a shaved head and a nose ring looking down her nose at the Old Biddies, a disbelieving smile curling the corners of her mouth.
“Yes, we are,” said Mabel.
The girl snorted. “You sure you’re in the right place, Granny?”
Mabel bristled, but before she could reply, we were called into the centre of the room. I gulped as I saw the big man with the broken nose waiting for us. Oh my God, he’s probably going to be called Rambo or The Rock or something and he’s going to kill us! But to my surprise, he introduced himself in a soft voice as Trevor and gave us a sweet smile as he invited us to gather around him.
The Old Biddies went eagerly forwards and I followed reluctantly. Trevor explained that he would show us how to disarm and escape from an attacker.
“But first, we’re going to get you warmed up and in the right frame of mind,” he said. “I want you all to start walking in a big circle around me.”
I fell into step with the Old Biddies as we began circling the room.
“Right, first, I want you to walk with your shoulders hunched, your eyes down, and take small, hesitant, shuffling steps…”
I tried to do as he bid, feeling silly and self-conscious.
“And now I want you to stand up straight, with your shoulders back, lift your chin, look straight ahead, and take confident strides.”
I altered my stance and changed the way I walked as directed. To my surprise, I did suddenly feel much more empowered.
“You see? Just adopting the right posture and changing the way you move makes you feel more in control of the situation, right? It’s important to know that criminals are always looking for weaker victims. If you seem like someone who’s nervous and uncertain or if you’ve got your head down, texting on your phone, and you’re not observing your environment, then you make yourself an easy target. But if you just walk looking purposeful and confident, you will already reduce your chances of being attacked.” Trevor clapped his hands together once. “Good! Turn around and circle the room in the opposite direction.”
I spun around and found myself next to Glenda.
“Isn’t this exciting?” she whispered.
Hmm… “exciting” wasn’t the word I would have used, but I had to admit, so far, the class was turning out better than I had thought. If it was just posture and
attitude, I could learn to swagger with the best of them! My confidence went out the window a second later, however, when Trevor began going around handing out large cushioned pads with arm straps attached.
“Okay, now I’m going to show you an easy way to both defend yourself against an attacker and push into their space, to scare them off. Raise your arms with your elbows bent, so that they’re held in front of your face—almost as if you’re hiding your eyes with your hands.” He demonstrated. “Good, now if someone comes at you, this is the immediate defensive position you assume, so that you protect your face. But at the same time, I want you to charge into your attacker, holding your elbows out in front of you—they make a very effective weapon. This way you push into their space and scare them back.”
He looked around with approval as we all tried to copy him. “Good, good… and make sure you yell out as you’re charging into your attacker. Let’s have some aggression!” he urged. “Scream, yell, curse—let it all out! Women tend to ‘freeze up’ and go very quiet when attacked, so you’ve got to learn to make some noise. That in itself will put off your attacker. So come on! LET ME HEAR YOU!”
I looked around in embarrassment and let out a half-hearted squeak, feeling extremely silly. I nearly jumped out of my skin when a bloodcurdling screech came from next to me, and I turned to see the Old Biddies standing with their bony elbows jutting out and their spindly legs splayed in different directions, their wrinkled faces scrunched up in ferocious scowls.
“Ninnyhammer!” yelled Glenda.
“Dunderhead!” shouted Florence.
“Scoundrel!” squeaked Ethel.
“Nincompoop!” boomed Mabel.
“Brilliant! Fantastic!” Trevor clapped his hands. “Now, I want you to get into pairs—one of you with a pad—and practise attacking each other.”
The group began breaking up. Trevor glanced at the Old Biddies uncertainly.
“I’ll do it with them,” I said quickly, worried that Mabel and her friends might be paired with one of those women who was sneering at them earlier.
“But we’re too many!” Glenda protested, looking around the room. “The others are all in pairs whereas there are four of us against Gemma.”
“Oh, I’m sure this young lady can manage the four of you,” said Trevor with a smile.
I laughed as I lifted the cushioned pad and faced the Old Biddies.
“Okay, who’s first?” I said, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ll be very gentle and I won’t—”
“AAAAAAAAAAGGHHH!”
The Old Biddies charged. I gasped as Mabel rammed into the pad with the force of a battering ram, just as Glenda hooked an arm around my neck, Ethel pummelled my stomach with her fists, and Florence kicked avidly at my knees.
“Wait…! You’re not… Hang on…! Ow! Hey, that’s not—!”
I choked and spluttered, scrambling backwards as they punched and kicked and wrenched and shoved. It was like a geriatric tornado had been unleashed in the room. I caught sight of Trevor and the rest of the class watching open-mouthed before something smacked against my shins, causing me to lurch sideways.
“OWWW!”
I tripped, stumbled, and went down with a yelp, feeling my ankle twist sharply beneath me. The Old Biddies piled on top of me, still pummelling and yelling.
“Whoa! Okay! Timeout! Timeout!” cried Trevor, hurrying over to my rescue.
The Old Biddies slowly lifted themselves up, their wrinkled cheeks flushed and their white woolly hair dishevelled. Trevor reached down to help me to my feet. I glared at the four old ladies, who looked slightly shamefaced now.
“Are you all right, Gemma, dear?” asked Ethel.
I coughed and wheezed. “I…I think you’ve broken my ribs.”
“Really, young people are so fragile these days,” said Mabel, clucking her tongue.
Slowly, I stood up with Trevor’s help, my head spinning slightly. I winced as pain shot through my ankle and hastily took my weight off that leg.
Trevor looked at me in concern. “Are you all right? Have you hurt yourself?”
I saw the rest of the class gawking at me and felt my face going red. “Er… no, no, I’m fine. It’s… I think I just twisted my ankle a bit…” It was embarrassing enough being floored by four little old ladies without having to admit that I’d been injured too.
I waved a hand. “You guys carry on—I think I’ll just sit out for a few moments,” I said, groping at the remnants of my tattered pride. I staggered to the side of the room and leaned against the wall for support.
“All right, class,” said Trevor, clapping his hands. “Let’s get on to the next thing. We’re going to learn about the chokehold.”
“Ooh! The chokehold! I can’t wait,” squealed Glenda, rubbing her hands.
Trevor smiled at the rest of the class. “Right… who would like to partner with these lovely old ladies then?”
The rest of the room all recoiled from the Old Biddies.
“I’ll go with her,” said Mabel, pointing at the girl with the shaved head and nose ring who had sneered at her earlier.
The girl went pale and swallowed nervously, and I had to stifle a laugh. It looked like someone was getting her first lesson tonight in never underestimating senior citizens!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As the class started battering each other again, I hobbled over to the long bench alongside the far wall and lowered myself down gratefully. The young man sitting next to me gave me a smile and I realised that despite the scary-looking skull tattoos on his arms, he was actually quite friendly. Besides… I glanced back towards the class, at Trevor with his rippling biceps and smashed nose—and then at Mabel, with her wrinkled chicken legs and fluffy white hair—and I knew which one I’d be more terrified of. Appearances could be very deceiving.
“They’re quite something, those friends of yours,” said the tattooed young man with a laugh. “We’ve had all sorts come into the club but none like them!”
“Yeah,” I said wryly. “I didn’t think they’d take to Krav Maga so… er… enthusiastically.”
The young man laughed again. “Well, funnily enough, being older does help sometimes. They’re not so bothered about what other people think so they can really get stuck into it. Younger people get all self-conscious and worry about looking like a plonker and then they make half-arsed attempts… and you know, in fighting, you’ve got to mean it—if you want to win.”
“You’re probably right,” I said with a rueful smile. “I spent so much time worried about looking like a twit, I ended up looking like a huge twit anyway.”
“Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself. Even the most advanced Krav Maga practitioner gets his arse kicked every once in a while—like Pete here, right?” said the young man with a chuckle, elbowing the man next to him.
The other man didn’t respond in kind. He was an older, thickset man with a dark, swarthy face and eyebrows that almost joined up in the middle. I noticed that he had a faint black eye.
“Piss off!” he snarled. “That sodding tosser cheated! Otherwise I would have beat him, fair and square. But what do you expect from these university knobheads? Prissy mummy’s boys, that’s what they are. They don’t really know how to fight—”
“Hah! Well, that prissy mummy’s boy walloped you good an’ proper, Morrow!” scoffed another man, coming over to join us. He was winding some white boxing tape around his hands. “Reckon that boy would’ve made a good tryout for the club team—”
“If any uni student comes on the team, then I go!” growled Pete Morrow, springing up. “Bloody tossers! They should never come here in the first place. They should stay in their fancy colleges where they belong!” He turned and stalked away.
There was an awkward silence for a moment, then the young man gave me an embarrassed smile.
“Don’t mind Pete. He always goes around like a bear with a sore head. And he’s got a bit of thing about the University.”
I nodded understandingly. The
“town vs. gown” rivalry was well known in Oxford and stretched back centuries, with some pretty gory incidents in the past that had resulted in many casualties on both sides. But even though there was still a bit of lingering tension between the two factions, I always thought that any serious vendetta had long since died out.
As if reading my thoughts, the young man added: “Most of us don’t mind University students coming to join us. You get a bit of good-natured bantering and insults, but none of it is usually serious.”
“S’good to get a bit o’ fresh blood sometimes,” said the man with the boxing tape. “Good to have some sparrin’ partners who think differently. And some o’ the University kids aren’t half bad.” He grinned. “Pete’s just sore because that boy gave him a good wallopin’.”
“We have these friendly matches,” the young man explained to me. “Trevor sets them up so that we can practice our moves in a ‘real-life’ situation. Krav Maga isn’t like most martial arts with their strict rituals and etiquette—it’s more like dirty street fighting, using every trick in the book to disable your opponent. And Pete’s one of the best at the club—but Charlie had a few tricks that Pete didn’t think of.”
My ears perked up. “Charlie? Charlie Foxton?”
The young man frowned. “Not sure. Could be. We don’t pay much attention to last names here at the club.”
“So Charlie beat Pete?”
The man with the boxing tape laughed. “He didn’t just beat him—he walloped him! It was pretty embarrassin’ to watch. Especially with Pete always goin’ on about the University boys bein’ pansies.”
The young man nodded. “Yeah, Pete took it real hard. In fact, he wouldn’t admit that he’d lost—kept insisting that Charlie had cheated. Even after the match was all over, he went over to Charlie and started getting in his face. And then the next thing we knew, the two of them were at it again! Only this time they were doing it for real and it was pretty vicious. Trevor was livid. It’s one of the club rules that there’s no fighting off the floor, and once a match is done, the loser has to accept the score.”