The Cockney Girl

by The Cockney Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘Cor,’ was Ted’s only response.

  Charlie shoved himself upright and began sparring and jabbing the air. ‘I like somethin’ a bit more active meself.’

  ‘Me an’ all!’ Sammy whistled loudly. ‘Now, these are what I call gels.’

  Sammy was always easily distracted by any possibility of female company, but the beauty of the two young Oriental women who were approaching the house was more than even he could have hoped for. Their thick black hair dropped straight to their shoulders, which were covered in feminine versions of the satin robes worn by the older Chinese men. Their eyes were highlighted by delicately painted lines, accentuating their exotic allure.

  ‘Where yer off to then, darlin’s?’

  The women glided past as though Sammy hadn’t spoken, as though he didn’t even exist, and disappeared into the hallway of the house.

  ‘Yer did well there, Sam,’ laughed Ted.

  ‘It’s obvious, innit,’ Sam said. ‘They’ve come along to see the fight, or play that Puck-A-Poo game. Charlie said these Chinese are always gamblin’.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie, laughing at his brother’s feeble attempts to explain his failure. ‘Those girls work ’ere, Sam. I reckon they thought yer couldn’t afford their prices. They ’ave to make their livin’, if yer know what I mean.’

  Jack knew exactly what he meant; the docks were a notorious red-light district, serving newly paid incoming seamen with whatever they desired.

  ‘Do yer really think this is the sort of place for young Ted to be ’angin’ around, Charlie? What yer get up to is yer own affair, but Ted’s different. ’E’s only a kid.’

  ‘We’ve ’ad all this before, Jacko. I told yer, don’t worry so much. They ain’t all villains round ’ere, nowhat people say.’ Charlie put his arm round Ted’s shoulders. ‘An’ Ted wouldn’t come to no ’arm even if they was. Not while I’m ’ere to look after ’im, ’e wouldn’t. Ain’t that right, little ’un?’

  Ted looked up at his brother. He was not really sure what was going on between the others, and he didn’t care much anyway. It was all too exciting to start fretting.

  Sammy was even less happy than Jack, and was beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t be better off going home instead of wasting his time standing round dark streets while all the fun happened behind doors which were closed to him and his empty pockets.

  ‘Charles. We’re ready for you.’ An elegantly dressed yet sinister-looking Englishman beckoned to Charlie with his silver-topped cane. Charlie stepped into the hallway. The man had a jagged scar linking the edge of his left eye to the corner of his mouth; it made him look as though he was always about to smile, but never quite fulfilled the promise.

  ‘Me brothers ’ave come to watch me. That be all right, will it?’ asked Charlie respectfully.

  ‘As long as they don’t get in the way, and they don’t interfere. Yes. But they behave. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’ Charlie turned to Sammy, Ted and Jack, who were still waiting outside. ‘Yer ’eard what the gentleman said, an’ ’e meant it. Yer be’ave yerselves.’ Then he walked ahead with the man. ‘Follow me, an’ keep quiet,’ Charlie said to them over his shoulder, touching his finger to his lips.

  The narrow passageway, lit by red-shaded gas lamps, was thick with strange-smelling smoke. They walked past rooms with closed doors from which they heard muffled sounds and cries; then down two flights of stairs past other rooms with open doors, where they saw tense huddles of men throwing dice and flicking cards.

  From the street the terrace had been left to look like a row of separate dwellings. To outsiders it looked as though they were entering a small two-storey house, but inside, all the houses in the terrace had been joined to form a complex of rooms and stairways running the whole length of the street.

  ‘Blimey.’ Even Jack had to admit he was amazed. ‘Who’d ’ave expected this, eh, Sam? It’s like another world in ’ere,’ he whispered.

  The most amazing sight of all awaited them behind the final door, through which they were ushered before Charlie and his companion left them. When the door was opened, they found themselves in a huge, noisy arena. The cellars of all the houses in the terrace had been joined up to make one enormous windowless, low-ceilinged, flagstoned space. The central area was quite bare apart from a roughly chalked circle, but around the walls of the flare-lit room stood a double row of chairs. The seats were nearly all occupied by groups of men talking animatedly to each other. They were mainly Chinese, although there were a few who looked English, and they all seemed to be dressed in clothes even more expensive than those worn by the scarred man who had led them down there. Behind the chairs stood raucous gangs of sailors wearing the uniforms of navies from all round the world.

  ‘The ships in the docks must be empty,’ hissed Sammy. ‘All the seamen are down ’ere.’ He lifted an empty chair to one side, making a path to the back of the room. ‘Get round there, you two, and we can lean against the wall, be out of the way.’

  Ted, Sammy and Jack slipped behind the rows of chairs and positioned themselves in the corner beneath one of the blazing torches which illuminated the room. The flames added to the already almost unbearable heat. The atmosphere was tense and thick, a mixture of anticipation, unfamiliar smells and sweat. Young Chinese lads, dressed in the pyjama-like outfits they had seen the boys wearing in the street, rushed around collecting money from the crowd. They scratched signs on small, hand-held slates and did dazzlingly rapid calculations on wooden framed abacuses. Suddenly all the noise and activity stopped. The room was silent. The boy bet-collectors sped away up the stairs.

  The scarred man walked into the open space in the centre of the room. He was followed by Charlie and the other competitor. His opponent was slightly shorter than Charlie, with olive skin and dark, curly hair. He could have been any age between sixteen and thirty. The adversaries were dressed alike in ankle-length cotton underpants. Their hair was oiled back, their feet bare; the flickering torches made their skin shine as though their bodies had been burnished.

  Charlie’s brothers and Jack were surprised when the scarred man started speaking in the same language as the Chinese men. Those who could understand him obviously approved of what he was saying, for they roared their appreciation several times during his speech, clapping and laughing with pleasure.

  ‘Wonder what ’e’s on about, Sam?’ said Ted.

  ‘Sssh, just watch,’ he replied.

  Then the man spoke in English. ‘Tonight we have two new fighters for your entertainment. A local boy, Charles Fairleigh from Poplar.’ A few cheers came from around the room. ‘And Miguel Lopez all the way from,’ he paused for effect, ‘the docks! Because he’s just jumped ship.’

  The English-speaking members of the audience burst out laughing at the joke, glad of even such a slight relief from the tense mood that had been building steadily in the stifling room. Most of them looked as tough as any other men who had business in this part of the docks, but unless they were Chinese they were in alien territory, and they knew it.

  ‘I will keep you no longer,’ the man concluded, ‘as I know you all have money at stake. The rules are – as usual – the one who doesn’t get up loses.’

  As the man stepped out of the chalked circle Charlie gave a cheeky wave to the audience. He was still grinning at his brothers when Lopez aimed a flying kick to his guts. The crowd went wild. Everybody stood up and screamed and bayed for more as Charlie fell sideways to the ground and rolled over twice, almost crashing into the front row of the audience who ducked smartly out of the way. He turned, using the impetus of the roll to spring forward and grab Lopez round the calves, bringing him down flat on his back. The shocking, dull thud of Lopez’s head hitting the flagstones could be heard even above the roaring mob. Charlie threw himself across Lopez and started smashing his fist against the jaw and cheekbones of his dazed opponent. The battered man’s blood spattered high into the air, splashing against Charlie’s bare ches
t and mingling with his sweat, running down his flesh in thickening rivulets. The crowd clamoured for more. They wanted Lopez to stand up, to fight back, to carry on.

  Suddenly a voice called out Charlie’s name from behind where Jack was standing. It was loud and demanding. Charlie looked round. That was the chance Lopez needed; with an extraordinary gathering of effort he arched his back and threw his head forward, butting Charlie directly on the eye he had injured in his last fight. The wound opened up like a mouth. Charlie’s blood poured down to mix with his opponent’s. This was more like it. The pack loved it.

  Both men were now standing, circling each other slowly, trying to control their breathing.

  ‘Look at Charlie’s eye, Sam. Will ’e be all right?’ Ted murmured.

  It was Jack who answered him. ‘It looks worse than it is, I reckon. Bleeds easy that part of yer face. Do yer wanna leave, Ted? I know I’ve ’ad enough.’

  ‘No one leaves until the fight’s over,’ said the voice which had earlier distracted Charlie by calling his name. It was the scarred man who had introduced the contest. ‘Understand?’

  ‘You called ’is name deliberately,’ said Jack, turning to face him, ‘so that geezer could get ’im.’

  ‘I’m in the entertainment business, young man.’

  Before Jack could reply, or even think of a suitable answer, the noise in the room rose to an animal bellowing. The men were punching and kicking at each other again. Despite his horror at the brutality of what he was witnessing Jack did not look away. He could not. He was like the rest of them, excited and aroused at the barbarity, by the smell and sight of the blood.

  The fight continued for an amazingly long time. The bruised and bleeding men fell time and time again, seeming to have lost the will to stand, but then one of them would somehow find the energy or the anger to strike out and the shattering blows would hit battered flesh once more. The action became slower and slower. The men, half blinded by the blood and sweat running into their eyes, made contact less often. Then, unexpectedly, with a short, sharp jab, Charlie rammed his fist, just once, full into Lopez’s kidney. As Charlie’s raw knuckles made contact, Lopez lurched forward, spewed a stream of vomit and blood across the men who were cheering for his fall, and collapsed to the ground. The contest was over.

  Lopez was dragged unceremoniously to one side by his ankles while the scarred man walked over to Charlie and held his hand high in the air.

  ‘Gentlemen. Our new champion. Charles Fairleigh of Poplar.’

  Charlie was surrounded by men congratulating him, pushing each other away to get close to the man who, for the moment at least, was the centre of their interest, the winner of their bets.

  ‘Did yer ’ear that, Jack? ’E called our Charlie a champion.’ Ted was strutting with pride like a bantam cock. His brother was a hero.

  ‘I never even ’ad a bet on ’im,’ Sammy said furiously. ‘’E might ‘ave told us ’e was gonna win.’

  ‘I ’ardly think ’e knew what was gonna ’appen, Sam,’ said Jack wearily.

  ‘Course ’e did,’ Sammy said, convinced at the injustice. ‘They only put on all that show for the crowd.

  Didn’t yer see ‘em. Loved it, they did.’

  ‘Yer amaze me, Sammy, yer really do.’ Jack rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Yer own brother’s nearly ’ad ’is block knocked off an’ yer think it’s all a game.’

  ‘Well, it’s like Charlie says ’imself,’ said Sam, puffing out his chest. ‘It’s only a bit of a lark, ain’t it. Yer worry yerself too much, Jacko, my son. Us Fairleighs know ’ow to look after ourselves.’

  Jack didn’t bother to answer him.

  Charlie had elbowed his way through the applauding men to find his brothers and Jack Barnes.

  ‘What do yer think of yer big brother then?’ he asked Ted.

  ‘I think yer great, Charlie. Honest, I’m really proud of yer. Wait till I tell all me mates. Me brother’s the Champ an’ that’s a fact.’

  Charlie’s eye had swollen closed so he didn’t notice the scarred man come to stand next to him.

  ‘Your money, Charles.’ The cultured, authoritative voice immediately got Charlie’s attention.

  ‘Thanks very much, that’s good that is. Good. Look at this, Ted.’ Charlie held out his bloody hand to show his little brother his winnings. ‘Supper’s on me tonight, young ’un.’

  ‘You did well,’ the man said. ‘You deserved to win the purse. You have courage, Charles.’

  ‘So yer think I’m good enough to ’ave that fight at Premierland then? I’d love the chance and I wouldn’t let yer down.’

  ‘You can forget that, Charles.’

  Charlie was stunned; he had worked so hard for his chance and now it was being taken away from him.

  ‘Don’t look so distressed, Charles. Fighting at Premierland is small-time. That’s for the likes of Lopez there to dream of. You don’t want to finish your days with a broken face and a weakened mind. I’ve got something far more interesting for you, young man. Now come with me, I’d like you to meet someone.’

  Charlie leant as close to the man as he dared and asked quietly, ‘Can I bring me brothers?’

  ‘Not this time, Charles. Another time maybe.’

  ‘Seems like I’ll be seein’ you three later.’ Charlie smiled at Ted, handed Sammy some money, clicked his tongue as though he were encouraging a reluctant pony, and then walked off to find out about his future.

  Charlie’s brothers and Jack jostled their way back up to the street.

  ‘Cor, fresh air.’ Sammy took a deep lungful of the cool autumn night. ‘Like our Charlie said, supper’s on ’im.’ He spun a shiny coin high into the air. ‘Now, what do yer fancy, lads? Pie and mash? Savs? Faggots and pease pudden?’

  ‘I don’t care what we ’ave, but put that money away and let’s get back up to the East India Dock Road before we get ourselves coshed. We don’t belong round ’ere, Sammy, an’ we ought to be gettin’ young Ted ‘ome an’ all.’

  ‘Aw, Jack, don’t let’s go ’ome yet,’ groaned Ted. ‘I’m all right. Yer’d think I was a bleedin’ baby the way yer all go on about me all the time.’

  Four burly seamen pushed past Sammy to get into the house where the fight had taken place. The stink of rum fumes floated around them like a cloud.

  ‘I think Jack might be right, Ted. It’s gettin’ late. Let’s get out of Lime’ouse at least.’

  ‘Can we ’ave fish and taters then?’

  ‘What, again?’

  Ted grinned appealingly up at his big brother.

  ‘Course we can, son, an’ a big juicy wally, an’ as much cracklin’ as yer can stuff down yerself. ’Ow about that?’ Sammy winked broadly. ‘Cos it’s all on our Charlie tonight. Charlie Fairleigh, the Champ of Burton Street.’

  Jack was invited in to share the victor’s feast: a fish supper and bottles of India pale ale. It seemed a good idea to join them. He could make sure that Ted got off to bed at a reasonable hour; he had work in the morning, after all. And he wouldn’t mind a bit to eat – he wasn’t daft enough to think Clara, his mother, would have kept a hot meal waiting for him.

  They sat round the table and spread the newspaper wrapping out like a tablecloth. If they had dined off a cloth of the finest Nottingham lace the meal could not have tasted better. The three ate and drank greedily, with grease and beer dripping from their fingers and chins. They talked both between and during mouthfuls about the marvels they had seen, the sounds they had heard and the smells that had filled the air of Chinatown. And about Charlie’s fantastic success. Then they drank some more beer, a lot more.

  ‘Listen a minute, Sam, what’s that noise?’ Ted cocked his head to one side, a handful of chips poised at his lips.

  Sammy took another long pull from his quart bottle and lined it up next to the row of empties which already stood next to his chair. He attempted not to slur his reply.

  ‘I can tell yer one thing, Ted,’ mumbled Sammy, a stupid grin on his face. ‘It ain’
t Jacky boy tryin’ to wake us up with his stone throwin’, and that’s a fact.’

  Sam reached out shakily and thumped the postman hard across the shoulders in what he felt was a suitably comradely gesture. Jack smiled cherubically back at him.

  ‘An’ ’ow do I know that, Ted?’ Sammy continued. ‘Cos ol’ Jack is sittin’ right ’ere next to me, ’is very best mate in all the world, that’s ’ow. Ain’t that right, Jacky, old son?’

  Jack, who was only slightly less drunk than his newly found best friend, agreed that it wasn’t him making all the racket, but that he too could hear the strange noise.

  ‘Tell yer what,’ he beamed at Sammy, ‘I’ll go and see ’oo it is, shall I?’

  Jack rose unsteadily to his feet, knocking his chair over on to the kitchen floor, and stumbled tipsily along the passageway to open the street door.

  ‘Blimey,’ he shouted from the step, ‘come and ’ave a look at this, you two. Yer’ll never believe it unless yer see it for yerselves.’

  They certainly wouldn’t have believed it, for there was Charlie, their Charlie, the Champ of Burton Street, paying a cabman. He had come home in a hansom, and he was smoking a cigar.

  ‘Thank you, my good man,’ Charlie said, ‘an’ take this little somethin’ for yer trouble.’

  He spun round on his heel, stepped under the streetlight and stood perfectly still, waiting for Jack and his brothers to admire his outfit. He wore a dark suit that could almost have been new, a white shirta stiff, high collar and, to top it off, a bowler hat.

  ‘I dunno what to say, Charlie,’ Sammy sighed with respect. ‘Look at yer, all cased up.’

  ‘Good, eh?’ Charlie flicked the brim of his hat with his finger. ‘An’ this, chaps, is just the start.’

  ‘Not you lot again. Don’t yer ever sleep in that bleed’n’ ‘ouse?’ The unseen protester had been woken yet again by the Fairleighs. He shouted wearily into the night air, ‘Yer wait ’til yer old man gets ’ome, that’s all. I’ll tell ’im such a tale about yer carryings on while ’e’s been away. Yer arses’ll ache for a week from the beltin’ ’e’ll give yer.’