by Nancy Carson
‘You’re with me, Daisy. People respect me. They won’t think any the less of you for being here. Anyway, it’s likely you won’t know anybody anyway, so it ain’t gonna matter.’
Thus chided, she followed him inside. In the public bar he asked her what she would like to drink.
‘Port,’ she said.
‘A port and brandy – your best,’ he ordered from the bartender.
‘I only asked for a port,’ she protested meekly.
‘It’s cold out there in the yard. The brandy will keep you warm.’
‘In the yard?’
He looked at her patiently and smiled. ‘Yes, in the yard. There’ll be a ring for the birds to fight in, with seats all around. There’s no room inside suitable for cockfighting … Thanks,’ he said, turning to the bartender. ‘And a large whisky …’
‘But if it’s outside in the yard, won’t some bobby hear what’s going on when he does his rounds?’
‘Be assured, Daisy,’ he said, whispering into her ear, ‘the beat bobby will turn a deaf ear.’
He handed her the port and brandy, which she sipped gingerly, then he took the watch out of his waistcoat fob and looked at the time.
‘We’ll finish these then go into the yard. Proceedings are due to start at half past eight.’
Daisy could feel the brandy warming her and was thankful for it. She looked around her. She felt grossly out of place in that smoke-filled bar, even with Lawson at her side. Although she was working-class herself she did not feel any empathy at all with the folk that surrounded her. They were not her equals. Most were ill-kempt, ill-mannered and rough. They yelled at each other across the room, they coughed asthmatically and spat rudely into spittoons that lay at strategic locations on the sawdust floor. Those folk closest to her stank, as if they hadn’t had a decent wash down for months. She longed to go outside into the fresh air of the yard, cold or not, so finished her drink much sooner than she normally would.
‘Another?’ Lawson asked kindly.
She nodded. ‘Please. Then can we go outside? I don’t like it in here. Some of these folk smell.’ She wrinkled her nose to emphasise her point. ‘There must be a big opportunity to sell tin baths in this town, but nobody’s addressing it, I venture to say. Maybe you should, Lawson, since you’re so enterprising.’
He laughed at her derision and paid for the drinks. He led her through a door at the back of the room, down a dismal passage and through another door. Already, about forty men and women were assembled, some standing, some sitting, arguing, laughing, hooting and bawling, nearly all smoking. As soon as one of the men saw Lawson he stepped up to him, shook his hand and led him to a bench that was evidently reserved for him. Other men acknowledged him deferentially as if he were the local squire, then looked Daisy up and down curiously. She could feel men’s leering eyes following her as she followed Lawson to their bench.
‘Tasty bit o’ fanny, that,’ she heard one man say.
‘Trust Lawson Maddox to come up with the goods,’ his companion replied venerably.
She smiled to herself as she sat down. Never had she considered for a moment that Lawson was entirely without sin. He was too good-looking and far too outgoing to have led a sheltered life. Perhaps he’d left a string of broken-hearted lovers behind him. That didn’t bother her at all. Men were men, and the more women they knew before marriage, the better. It was the way of the world. Even she understood that. The thing that pleased her was that right now Lawson was with her, nobody else. However many women he’d known, she was the one in his company that night. It was a stimulating thought. She thought of Fanny who wore her heart on her sleeve. Of course Daisy wanted Lawson to want her more than he’d wanted all the others, Fanny included, but the greatest stimulation came from knowing that all those other women must have desired him as much as she did herself, and that confirmed her own good taste. It also strengthened her determination to make him her own for all time, to make certain he wanted nobody else.
She turned to him and smiled, her eyes sparkling with adoration. ‘Tell me about cockfighting,’ she said. ‘Explain how it works.’
‘You’ll soon catch on. It’s just fowl trying to tear each other to shreds. Mind you, you have to realise they’re bred for it. Tonight it’s a Welsh main—’
‘Main?’
‘Contest. In a Welsh main we pair off sixteen birds. The eight winners are then paired off to decide the two semi-finals. Then there’s a fight between the best two birds left, to decide the ultimate winner. There’ll be plenty of betting going on, especially as we approach the final. I shall be taking bets.’
‘You?’
He leaned towards her and put his mouth to her ear. ‘Easy money.’ He pulled out his watch again and checked the time.
Daisy saw men carrying their birds in wicker baskets, like the ones pigeon fanciers used. One or two opened the lids and she saw them attaching what looked like knives to the backward-facing claws of the birds.
‘What are they fixing to the birds’ feet?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the handlers.
‘Gaffs. They’re like spikes. Sometimes they use knives … To try and cut the other cock to pieces.’
‘Ugh, that’s terrible!’ Daisy protested. ‘No wonder cock fighting’s illegal. You surely don’t expect me to sit and watch it, do you?’
‘I told you, you’ll be all right.’
She had not noticed a queue forming in the gap between the benches at Lawson’s side. Those men who could write, and women too, were handing him slips of paper and coins. He pocketed the money, and handed the slips to Daisy.
‘Sort them by the name of the bird,’ he instructed, ‘and keep a tight hold of them. That’ll keep your mind off the cockfight,’ he said.
There were such names as Vulcan, Phoenix, Golden Eagle III, and others, all stupidly pretentious names as far as she was concerned. She sipped her drink and accepted another slip of paper; Razor Bill was the name written on that five-shilling bet.
Very soon the meeting was called to order by the pitmaster, who sat astride a chair facing the wrong way. The chair’s back had a lectern like a desktop attached to it. Daisy realised it was a library chair, but the incongruity of its use that night, compared with the more cultured purpose for which it had been made, struck her. He announced the commencement of the spectacle and the first two cocks were brought into the ring by their owners. The shining metal gaffs were already strapped to the birds’ legs. The two men held the cocks face to face, bill to bill, for a few seconds and the poor birds quickly became very agitated. A sudden murmur from the crowd told her that the men had let go of the birds. As they attacked each other ferociously there was a roar. Feathers flew as they flailed at each other, jumping in the air, wings flapping, as they each tried to inflict fatal injury to the other with those deadly metal spikes. At the first sight of blood the men and women screamed even louder at the two victims, which was how Daisy viewed both birds, irrespective of which one might survive. One bird fell over and seemed to submit. There were groans from some of the crowd and frenzied cheers from others. The handlers stepped into the ring again, picked up the birds and thrust them together once more, breast to breast, until they were both agitated enough to continue fighting. One of the cocks was badly cut and bleeding but it did not curb his will to overcome his opponent. The handlers let go the birds and they went on as before, squawking and thrashing in a rain of feathers. After another minute or so, the injured cock collapsed. The first fight was over.
‘I can’t watch any more of this,’ Daisy complained.
But Lawson affected not to hear her as people swarmed around him to collect their winnings. He took the slips of paper that bore the name of the winning cock and smiled affably as he paid out to those who had won. Another queue formed, of people wanting to place bets on the outcome of the next fight.
‘Do you want a bet on the next fight?’ he asked her and she wondered whether he was joking.
‘You’re not taking m
y money,’ she answered defiantly.
‘Take my advice and place a guinea on Razor Bill. And let it ride in an accumulator.’
She had no idea what he was talking about but it all sounded very foolhardy. ‘I haven’t got a guinea, Lawson. And if I had, I wouldn’t squander it on a bet. And certainly not on one of those poor birds.’
He smiled equably. ‘Then I’ll lend you a guinea. If Razor Bill wins – and I reckon he’s got a good chance – you can pay me back.’
‘Do I have to pay you back the winnings as well.’
‘No, course not. You can keep the winnings.’
Daisy smiled at him. This sounded more interesting. ‘Then I’ve got nothing to lose.’
He nodded, his eyes warm on her. ‘You’re catching on. Of course you’ve got nothing to lose.’ He handed her a blacklead pencil. ‘Write yourself a slip for a guinea accumulator.’
She did as she was bidden.
Razor Bill was next on, his first fight against Vulcan. To her utmost surprise, she found herself watching with interest. Razor Bill, his little eyes gleaming, attacked several times, found his mark and drew blood. But before the other bird could use his gaffs Razor Bill knowingly withdrew. Poor Vulcan was game enough but not in the same league. Eventually he collapsed and Razor Bill was declared the winner.
‘The money you’ve won will go on his next fight, and so on,’ Lawson said.
‘What if he loses his next fight?’
‘You’ve still lost nothing.’
Between fights Daisy saw people go inside the house and come out eating hot pies, the aroma of which drifted across to her and made her feel hungry on that cold, frosty night. But she could not eat, not with all that blood and gore from those poor mutilated fowl. And yet, with each fight her horror diminished. She was becoming desensitised to the horrifying ruin the cocks inflicted on each other. She even found herself on the side of certain fowl and actually cheered them on along with the rest of the bawling spectators, to Lawson’s great amusement and satisfaction.
She could hardly wait for Razor Bill’s next fight. When it came, he won that as well and she was delighted. He won the semi-final too and she could scarcely believe it. When the big fight came, the final, she was on the edge of her seat with excitement.
Bets were coming in fast and furious and, despite her own elation, she diligently retained all the betting slips, putting those for Razor Bill in her right coat pocket and all those for Jet Red, his opponent, into her left pocket. The crowd was wild with excitement, clamouring for blood, but nobody was more excited than she was. The appeal of this cruel and bloodthirsty sport, the nature of which she loathed, became clear; it was betting. Betting, the thrill of the gamble, was the fuel that fed it.
The final was a long and equal fight, accompanied by a protracted chorus of ranting and shouting. Daisy’s heart was in her mouth when she saw that Razor Bill was down with Jet Red on top of him, and she looked questioningly at Lawson. But Razor Bill was up again just as quickly and striking back, his head down, his neck feathers out. Both birds were tired and in a sorry state after four encounters. Neither seemed capable of finishing off the other. Then Razor Bill took the initiative and charged, steel spurs glinting in the gas lights. Jet Red was down on the floor, weak and desperately trying to shake off his adversary, but he could not do it, and he lay, gasping for breath until he was picked up by his owner.
Razor Bill had won and Lawson reckoned he owed Daisy two hundred and fifty-six guineas.
‘Two hundred and fifty-six guineas?’ she repeated in utter astonishment. ‘I can’t take that much money from you.’
‘Course you can. That was our agreement. Razor Bill won. I told you he might.’
‘But it’s a fortune, Lawson.’
‘I’ll say it’s a fortune.’
‘I don’t think you understand. It’s more than four years wages for me … Four years … It’s probably more than you’ve taken the whole evening.’
He winked artfully. ‘Before I met you tonight I placed a bet myself with another bookie. I had a five-guinea accumulator on Razor Bill.’
‘Five guineas? So you’ve won … more than twelve hundred and fifty guineas.’
‘Not a bad night’s work, eh?’
‘But how did you know that Razor Bill would win?’
‘Oh, I didn’t. You can never be certain. But he has good form. He’s in fine condition and he has a good trainer … But there was a sentimental motive that made me bet on him …’
‘I didn’t realise you were sentimental.’
‘I am about cocks,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He belongs to me, you see. I own him. I always bet on my own cock-a-doodle …’
Daisy was not so prudish as to be shocked by this innuendo, rather she was amused by it. Lawson’s unconventionality was acceptable, not only because he broke the rules of what was expected in polite society, but he had also made her rich. For the sake of writing a few words on a piece of paper, at his behest, she was better off by two hundred and fifty-six guineas. It was magic.
Now she had money enough to spend on a doctor for her father – all thanks to Lawson Maddox. She blessed the day she met him. The trouble was, it turned out that Dr McCaskie had been right in the first place. Her father’s illness was incurable by medicine.
‘For a patient who is consumptive I prescribe not medicine, but a new mode of life,’ he told them on the day of his visit. ‘We cannot cure anybody of consumption. Endless steadfastness, courage, self-discipline and self-denial are the key. If I can get Mr Drake to alter his mode of life I am giving the correct treatment in some measure.’
But how far could her poor father go in altering his way of life? He would need the support of not only her mother, but Daisy and Sarah as well. Well, Daisy would give hers to the absolute best of her ability, for as long as her windfall lasted. She wanted to pay for her father to enter a sanatorium but, not surprisingly, he refused. They argued with him, they cajoled, they tried gentle persuasion. All failed. So her mother’s care and application of a rigid, monotonous discipline was what they depended on for him.
Doctor McCaskie also decreed that Titus Drake was to be given three good meals a day. ‘No special diet is necessary,’ he explained, ‘but the food has to be thoroughly masticated and digested. He is allowed a little alcohol – rum in warm milk. He should have a little cod liver oil every day, for it will be beneficial. As many hours as possible must be spent in the open air and, when he is indoors, the windows are to be widely opened, or even taken out of their sashes …’
‘In this vile January weather?’ Mary queried, looking at the doctor as if he’d lost touch with reality.
Dr McCaskie ignored her look. ‘Your husband has to be made to rest and he must maintain a cheerful attitude of mind …’
That amused Daisy; she hadn’t seen her father smile in years.
‘Additionally, he must carry a special receptacle to spit into, which should contain disinfectant fluid or a solution of mercury salt. He must never swallow his phlegm. Also, he has to sleep by himself. All this is necessary,’ he went on. ‘Mrs Drake, you must breathe through your nose at all times to avoid picking up the infection, and wash your hands every time you handle anything of your husband’s—’
‘Pah! I never touch him,’ Mary interjected with distaste.
‘And if they can stand to do all this, will his health improve?’ Daisy asked sceptically, because it all sounded rather like shutting the gate after the horse had run off.
‘Truly, I cannot say for certain. But it is the only chance he has got. If he is foolish and lapses, then his health will not improve.’
Lawson and Daisy became regular companions, although her evenings off and Sunday afternoons were the only times they could be together. Every other Sunday she was given the whole day off and it was on the mornings of those days that she visited her mother and father. Sometimes, during the week, her duties took her into the town and then she would make a quick diversion to
their house in Campbell Street, less than five minutes’ walk from the market place.
There was not a profusion of eating houses in Dudley but, on a couple of occasions, Lawson entertained her at the Dudley Arms Hotel and at the Fountain Dining Rooms. He made her feel like a princess. He never failed to bring her a gift; some trinket that she could wear or place on the mantelshelf in her little attic room at Baxter House. Lawson was becoming increasingly attentive, to Daisy’s great satisfaction.
The weeks passed in a haze of tantalising romance and sweet talk, and Daisy began to wonder whether Lawson loved her enough to make her his bride. She had thought long and hard about it. The very fact that she was contemplating the possibility told her how much she wanted already to be his wife. She pondered all aspects. At night she went to bed in her attic bedroom in a reverie of romance, imagining delightful evenings curled in his arms on a sofa in front of the fire, weaving dreams and planning what names to give their children. She imagined laughter ringing through the house as they decided how they would design each room. She imagined trips to the shops to choose new furniture, bone china dinner sets, tea sets and silver cutlery for when they entertained his influential friends. Oh, she would love being married to Lawson.
She had not failed to consider their love life either. Lawson was always sweet and attentive. He made her ache with desire with his delicious, lingering kisses, but he had not made the suggestion or contrived to manipulate her into a situation where he might have tried to take advantage of her. She was still intact of course, yet here was the one man for whom she would gladly lose her virginity without a second thought, so much did she love him.
Each time they met, she wondered if this was the occasion he would take her to his home. She was dying to see his house, to assess its potential, to plan what she would do to improve it when she became Mrs Lawson Maddox. But never did he suggest that he might one day take her there. Daisy wondered, anxiously, if it was because he was already married. It would explain a lot. The thought made her grossly unhappy. She was hooked like some poor fish dangling on the end of a line and the possibility that she might actually be sharing him with another woman began to worry her.
