Somewhere in the middle of the round the audience had become aware of the fact that something interesting was still going on in the ring and had paid attention. At the end there was a ripple of applause that was more pleasant in Godfrey’s ears than the string of curses that Pat Prince muttered in his ear with warnings that he would be pumped out by the end of the third round. Godfrey didn’t mind now; he’d drawn attention to himself and was feeling fine. The second round went more steadily, with each man taking the look at his opponent that Godfrey’s wild beginning had prevented. Miller was a good stylish boxer but didn’t seem to have a really dangerous punch. Like a pawky farmer gathering windfalls, he picked up points just when they came along. He was taller than Godfrey and his extra reach was useful. In the third round Godfrey played him at his own game and encouraged him to make the running. He found that Miller didn’t use his right a lot, but when he did he threw himself off balance for a second before he covered up. In the fourth round Godfrey invited a right cross, got it, shifting his head an inch to take it high up, and then hit the Scot with all his force, first to the body and then to the jaw.
Miller crumpled and was down for a count of six. Godfrey waited, his black hair springing, then went in to finish it off. There was a lot of noise in the hall now, and quite a few people had come back from the bars to see what was on. Miller survived the round and recovered quickly in his corner, and the next round made a determined comeback. At the end of it there was a roar of applause.
The sixth round began in the same fashion, but Miller had shot his bolt. He was on one knee for a count of five and got up visibly unsteady. The referee was moving to stop the fight but Little God was ahead of him and a right to the jaw put Miller down for the count.
Pearl, lonely in the early bouts among a crowd of bellowing Welshmen, had sat through the controversial title fight, and after it had suddenly found vacant seats all round her and a chance to breathe and stretch. So to the six rounds of the fight between Vosper and Miller, triumphantly won by a flamboyant Vosper, who left the ring shaking hands with himself in mid-air. Then, feeling conspicuous in her isolation and not wanting to make it obvious which bout she had come to watch, she sat through eight rounds of a dull middle-weight fight before getting up and climbing towards the exits at the back.
Round to the front door, where a lot of people were milling. Taxis would be hard to get but a walk would do her good: she was hot and sticky and empty of emotion, glad of a chance to peer at herself before she got home, ask, why come? Why risk exposure to a virus? Why want someone to win? Why foster unspecified discontent? Why get into this position at all?
As she was leaving: ‘It’s Mrs Angell, isn’t it?’
A stocky dark-eyed woman with a silk Picasso scarf round her head: she looked dreadfully ill but her voice was strong.
‘Yes … I …’
‘Flora Vosper. We met at your wedding party.’
‘Of course! I was just going to say Lady Vosper.’
‘Didn’t know you were interested in prize-fighting.’
‘Well, no. But Wilfred was out – I thought a title fight might be interesting.’
‘Bit of a fiasco, eh? I came to see my chauffeur – that virile little devil with the hair – he was on after the championship bout and won in six rounds.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember. Is he your chauffeur? Yes, he knocked the other man out, didn’t he.’
‘Good win, I thought. Bit of a showman, of course, but the crowd like that. I’m just waiting for him. He’s gone to get the car. Can I give you a lift home?’
Panic. Don’t show panic. ‘Oh, thanks very much, it’s awfully kind of you, but I’m – I’m visiting a friend before I go home. I was just going to get a taxi.’
‘Not our way? Can drop you off.’
‘Thanks, no. As a matter of fact, it will be quicker to walk. Are you keeping better, Lady Vosper? I heard you’d been ill.’
‘Death’s door, my dear. But I kick like hell on the mat. And you? Enjoying life?’
Two more cars drawing up. But neither the car she knew so well. ‘Thanks, yes. Lovely. Well, I must be—’
‘If you’re free an hour or two sometime drop in for a drink. D’you mind sick visiting?’
Pearl smiled brilliantly. ‘Of course not. Perhaps I will—’
‘I suspect your husband does. So come without him. Come next Tuesday. To dinner. Can you get away?’
‘Oh, yes, but it’s not necessary to—’
‘I’ve got two people coming. Miriam, my daughter, – she’s about your age – and Salvator the pianist. He’s amusing and it would make the four.’
Was that the jade-green car edging its way towards the steps? Wasn’t it rude to give a second refusal? Did it matter if one went to dinner, with him in the kitchen? Anyway one could always cancel. Get away now. The important thing was to get away.
‘Thank you. I’d love to come. Tuesday Wilfred dines at his club so I could probably manage it. If I—’
‘Seven-thirty for eight then. I’ll drop you a card to confirm. You know my address? 113 Wilton Crescent.’
‘Thanks. Thank you, Lady Vosper.’ It was the green car. ‘Seven-thirty for eight. Goodnight, Lady Vosper.’ Good-bye Little God. Merge into the crowd. Why am I so tall? Try to become anonymous. Milling people. The boxing wasn’t over but more were leaving. Green car just moving up to the steps.
But she was well away now, hidden by trilby hats, tall upturned collars, umbrellas being raised against a freckle of rain. He hadn’t seen her. Would Lady Vosper say anything? Very improbable. Of course her relationship with her chauffeur was over-familiar and she might say: guess who I met on the steps. But still improbable. Much more likely: well done, Little God, well boxed, well fought – well won; beautifully poised olive-skinned body, naked lithe skin but muscular, strong hairy legs; perfectly balanced engine of destruction; black fine hair bouncing with every thrust and blow but never falling in the eyes, petite regular handsome features with full and jutting bottom lip and one flaw on the black eyebrow, one scar like a duelling scar, making the perfection bearable. The will to kill always in his eyes, the intent to hurt or defeat or disable in every coordinated thrust of the two deft hands. Well done, Little God, she would say, well done, well killed, now drive me home.
Because, for all their differences, Pearl sensed something vaguely similar between Flora and her chauffeur. Flora was not a killer, but she was a dare-devil, stick-at-nothing kind of woman, the sort who would ride at a five-barred gate knowing she was likely to fall rather than accept defeat by going round it. It was not an attitude Pearl understood but she could recognize its existence.
Several times during the next days she came to the point of mentioning her meeting with Flora Vosper to Wilfred and asking him if he knew why she was ill and what was wrong with her. Once she dropped the name into their conversation but he was preoccupied with his food and did not respond. Always Pearl was afraid of letting out that she had been to watch the boxing.
The little card confirming the invitation arrived. Several times she got as far as the telephone to ring Lady Vosper to cancel the date, but each time she found the excuse she had concocted unconvincing to herself. And perhaps it was unkind to refuse to visit a sick woman. And the company did sound interesting. Since her marriage she had formed no friendship with any young woman of her own age except Veronica Portugal whom she met from time to time – and she saw Hazel once a month. Wilfred’s friends were her friends but, except for the Portugals, they were all middle-aged or old. So Miriam might be a good person to meet. And musicians always fascinated her, although she wished Salvator could have been a clarinet player.
Up to the Monday she had not told Wilfred of the invitation out, which created a sensation of deceit where no deceit was necessary. And by Monday it seemed too late to say. She made an appointment for a wash and set and a manicure for 4 p.m. on the Tuesday, but not at D. H. Evans; she had never been able to force herself into the shop since she left.
And on the Monday night Wilfred went to bed with her.
Tuesday was a windy day, which is always a nuisance when you’ve had your hair just done.
Pearl took a taxi back, braving Wilfred’s displeasure, but she was home before him. He was not in a very good mood because some option agreement he was negotiating with a man in Switzerland was being held up by the sloth of a London solicitor.
‘If I could have earned my living in art!’ he said. ‘Even perhaps by dealing in art! I should be a more satisfied man!’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together, getting rid of the imaginary crumb. ‘To create art, of course, is the ultimate in fulfilment.’
‘But aren’t you satisfied?’ she asked. ‘You always seem so.’
There was no intended irony in the remark, and he saw none.
‘Satisfaction is a relative term. I flatter myself that I have made something of my life, that a degree of distinction attaches to me, that my success is not just a hollow term. But the profession of law is so often stultifying, in the slowness with which it creaks into motion, in the ancestral precedent which determines the motion, in the absence of original and creative thought. Sometimes one yearns for a freer and more bracing air. I have always had a vigorous and inquiring mind, and possibly my late marriage has stimulated that. Like satisfaction, youth is a relative term. Isn’t it, my dear. Isn’t it?’ He patted her head. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘You seem to shrink away.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve just had my hair done! Didn’t you notice?’
‘I saw it was a new style, but I thought you had done it yourself. Isn’t it very expensive having it done in the West End?’
‘No. Not where I go.’
‘I remember a case I was involved in a few years ago. My client was claiming damages against a hairdresser in Bond Street far loss and discolouration of hair following a permanent wave. I think we got £350.’
‘Do you want anything before you go off to dinner?’
‘Food, d’you mean? I thought you were asking me not to eat between meals.’
‘Oh, yes, sorry. I forgot.’
‘But since you ask, a few biscuits with a glass of sherry would be sustaining.’
‘Ryvita?’
‘If one must.’
‘What time are you leaving?’
‘The usual. I shall not be back late. About eleven.’
‘I may have gone to bed.’
When he left the house she changed slowly into a black silk dress, a bit longer than the fashion, with sleeves buttoned tight at the wrist and lace covering the low neck. She rang for a taxi at 7.25 and took the fur she had bought last week.
She wondered if he would open the door to her and if he knew she was coming. It didn’t matter. His presence was immaterial. He was just a servant in the background. She was there to dine with Lady Vosper and her daughter and Salvator the famous Spanish pianist. The fact of Little God being there was only a tiny flavour of spice added to the dish.
He did open the door. She had paid off the taxi and only touched the bell once, and he was standing there, expression pleasant but non-committal. He was in a good grey suit she had not seen before: no chauffeur’s uniform: there was a bruise on his cheekbone from last Thursday’s fight, just the one.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Lady Vosper you’ve come.’
She followed him into the hall and then into the front room, which was a drawing room. It was a rather dark room; the lights were too darkly shaded, or not enough were on. She took her fur with her but it was warm.
‘Lady Vosper’ll be down shortly,’ he said. ‘She said I was to get you a drink.’
‘Thank you. I’ll have a gin and tonic.’
He poured it, his back to her, then brought it across. ‘ Lady Vosper’ll be right down,’ he said as he handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’
Their hands brushed, and he moved a foot or two back. She turned away from him and sipped her drink, knowing he was looking at her. She glanced at her watch. A quarter to eight. It was a bit fast.
He said: ‘ Lady Vosper told me you was at the fight.’
The drink was pretty strong. When he had gone she would help herself to some more tonic.
‘Oh, yes … You wrote to me about it. I told Wilfred how pleased you were to get a good fight, so he asked me to go and see how you went on.’
‘I went on proper, didn’t I?’
‘Yes. You won. I told him you won.’
‘I always do win.’
‘It would be good pay for you.’
‘Yes, it was good pay.’
‘Have the other guests come yet?’
‘No, not yet. They’ll be here at eight.’
‘Perhaps you’d tell Lady Vosper I’m here.’
‘Oh, she knows. But she’s not been too well today. It takes her sometimes.’
She walked towards the table where the drinks were set out and looked for the tonic water.
‘Can I get you something?’ He had come up close behind her.
‘This is a bit strong.’
‘Sorry. It was a half bottle of tonic water. I’ll get another from the kitchen.’
When he was half way to the door, she said: ‘Does Lady Vosper have a maid or – or a cook?’
‘A woman comes every morning. Then we have a cook when there’s people to dinner in the evening, see. If it’s just her and me I do the cooking.’
They looked at each other and he suddenly grinned. ‘ Not to worry, Oyster. I’ve not done no cooking tonight.’
When she was alone she moved about the room looking at the pictures. After some months of Wilfred’s training, she was already fancying herself as a student of painting. These were mostly old works and badly lit, not like the house in Cadogan Mews where lights were directed tactfully upon the walls. She wondered what Wilfred would make of them. One or two had gilt lettering underneath: John Opie, J. S. Sargent, so that there was no virtue in recognition.
She sipped at her glass and felt the gin going down strongly. By the time Godfrey came back she would nearly have finished it. But that did not matter: she was ill-at-ease and drink would help.
He came back. ‘Sorry to be s’long. Couldn’t find another bottle of the old tonic. Here we are. Oh, you’re half done. Shall I wait till you’ve finished?’
‘No, top it up, please.’
He did so. ‘That’ll have no taste at all. Here, I’ll put a drop of the old stuff in as well.’ He took the glass from her and darted over to the table, unstoppered the gin, put some in, brought back the glass.
‘Why’d you really go to the Albert Hall? It wasn’t to please your old man, was it?’
She looked at him, her eyes an inch or so higher than his. She felt very poised. ‘Maybe it was curiosity. I’d seen you fight once. But I don’t know why you fight. What’s the reason?’
‘Reason?’ His eyes took her in admiringly. ‘It’s my job. Why not? What other reason d’you need?’
‘But d’you like hurting people? Do you like hitting people with your fists, hoping to damage them, make them cry out? Do you go for their eyes hoping to make them swell up, or their noses hoping to make them bleed? I thought in that match last week …’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought the referee was going to stop the fight, but you got in just in time, knocked the other man out. Why couldn’t you have waited?’
‘Waited? …’ He shrugged. ‘I often get swindled.’ Member the fight you went to before – the ref stopped that too soon. This time I made no error – Miller went down on his backside with a real clump. Wham! It was smashing. That’s what I’m there for. That’s what he’s there for too. Don’t forget he’s trying to do the same to me. It’s fabulous when they go down – twice as much fun as a points decision or an r.s.f.’
‘Yes, but do you like giving pain? Did you – were you a bully as a boy? Did you twist other boys’ arms? Did you torture cats and throw st
ones at dogs? Did you knock down old ladies? Did you—’
He smiled and took her arm above the elbow. ‘Listen, Oyster, it isn’t like that—’
She pulled her arm free. ‘Remember your promise!’
‘O.K., O.K.’
‘But even that! … You take my arm as if it was a – an iron rail! Why have you always to be so violent?’
‘I’m not always so violent. Honest. I know it seemed like it that first time, but it was you taking fright that was half the trouble. I was clutching to stop you running away. Honest, I’m not violent with women. And what you say …’
‘Well?’
‘Maybe you were brought up gentle. I wasn’t brought up gentle. I was brought up in a world where things was tough and the only way not to get trod on was to be tougher than anyone else around. I soon learned that. And other lads – and men! – learned to leave me alone. Soon I could fight anyone. It was fun to fight – lovely! There’s nothing like it for making you feel good. But bullying – that’s different! I don’t twist people’s arms or knock down old ladies. Why should I? Me, Little God. I don’t bully. I like taking on bigger than myself and beating them! I never was a bully in my life – you don’t understand, Oyster, you don’t understand.’
Pearl took a longer drink. It was still potent. ‘And me? Don’t you feel you tried to bully me?’
He fingered the bruise on his cheek. ‘I was groovy about you – no mistake. I got it bad. So when I scared you that night I was sorry, real sorry, and I tried to make it up, see. I called with a box of chocolates. I met you on the train. I prowled round in the car and stopped you when you was walking home. But it was only trying to be friends. Why can’t we be friends?’
She smiled briefly. ‘ I was scared, you know. Still am a bit.’
‘You don’t need to be. I played it wrong that night, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been so afraid of you since my marriage. I feel – safer.’
Angell, Pearl and Little God Page 20
