Angell, Pearl and Little God

by Winston Graham

  ‘Damn it, I’m here in bed and can’t watch my little man.’

  ‘You couldn’t anyhow, Lady V. I told you. It’s strictly for the cock birds.’

  ‘Well, T.V. then. Why the hell haven’t they put it on T.V.? Have you got all your kit?’

  ‘My bag’s in the hall. I think I got the lot. Towels, jock strap, foul cup, shower slippers. I only got one gum shield, but I’ve never needed more than one.’

  ‘Borrow some cologne if you want it. Freddy Teasdale sent me a mammoth bottle while I was in the Clinic. Can’t think why, I never use the stuff.’

  ‘Thanks, I got some.’

  ‘Any brandy?’

  ‘No, never need it.’

  ‘This man heavier than you, Godfrey?’

  He sighed patiently. ‘Three pounds at the weigh-in, that’s all. I told you it won’t do him no good because he’s had to sweat it out to get under the limit. Much better to be eight-ten like me. No effort. I’d best be going.’

  ‘What’s he like, Goodfellow? You saw him?’

  ‘Yeh, just to glance at. Oh, he’s like any other man. Taller than me. Short hair. Eyes close together. Not tight built. Long muscles.’

  ‘The paper says he has never been beaten.’

  ‘Well, there’s got to be a first time, hasn’t there. And he’s only had ten pro-bouts.’

  ‘Don’t let him spoil your looks, little man. That would be a pity just now. As I may have not much longer to enjoy them.’

  ‘Lay off that talk, will you! It’s bad luck before a fight.’

  ‘Think I bring you bad luck?’

  ‘Course you do. That’s why I stick with you.’

  ‘Give me a kiss before you go.’

  ‘I’d give you something more if I’d time.’

  He kissed her. She held his face a moment. ‘Do I smell?’

  ‘What? What’s got into you now?’

  ‘Sick people often smell. In the old days doctors would diagnose an illness that way. Will you tell me if I ever do?’

  He pulled his face away. ‘ Horrible old bag,’ he said. ‘You know you are. Now tuck yourself in and be quiet. And think of Little God up in that there ring fighting for your life and honour.’

  ‘Making a bad fellow out of a Goodfellow?’

  He grinned and patted her cheek. ‘That’s it. You’ve got it, duchess. Back soon. Ta-ta.’

  He caught a taxi in the crescent and was soon in Piccadilly. This was a lot different from fighting in Bethnal Green, or even the Albert Hall. Thick plush wall-to-wall carpet, posh waiters floating about, smell of food and cigars, murmur of conversation, a general air of luxury that you didn’t expect in boxing; the clatter of plates as he went silently up to the fourth floor, chandeliers everywhere even in the dressing-rooms. The set-up was apparently that all the god-damn audience dressed in evening dress and had a slap-up meal with drink and the lot, and then when they’d had all they could carry they drifted down to the boxing ring and sat around and watched the fights and drank themselves insensible.

  All the same he was impressed, as he saw the other fighters and trainers were, so that there wasn’t the same noise as usual. Maybe this wasn’t nearly so big an audience as the Albert Hall – or even Manor Place Baths – but it was more choosey, more select; there were people whose names you knew, T. V. stars and other jerks. Godfrey had never known what it was to be nervous but he could see Goodfellow was a bit on edge and this was a good sign for him.

  Riling him a bit was the fact that he and Goodfellow were listed to come on second, which meant they were still one of the unimportant bouts, and maybe half the audience would still be not properly settled. He’d have thought after his Albert Hall showing he would have rated a better spot. And there was nothing much in the way of talent in the rest of the bill.

  Pat Prince was there of course, peering at Godfrey through his thickened eyelids and uttering last minute words of advice. Soon it was time to strip and put on your trunks and have your hands taped. Then the two men who’d had the first bout were back and you were pushing your way out into this hot smoky arena where there were more chandeliers and a packed audience of men in black jackets and black ties, and then you were grasping the ropes and climbing up, trying to cough because the cigar smoke caught at your throat, and the ref was coming up to you, and in a minute the announcement was going to be made; but before it was made you noticed that it was a lot quieter than an ordinary hall and there was the clink of glasses and this pall of smoke and everybody watching attentively. At least you couldn’t complain that the audience hadn’t settled into their seats.

  Even Angell had settled into his. It had taken some arranging at short notice but when he wanted something very badly he usually knew the right strings to pull.

  The guest of Mr Berkeley Neill, the owner of a restaurant chain. Messrs Carey, Angell & Kingston had acted for him last year in litigation over the renewal of the St Martin’s Lane lease. Mr Wilfred Angell, the guest of Mr Berkeley Neill, taking up a new interest, watching the new white hopes of the British boxing world.

  They had had dinner on the sixth floor – some two hundred dinner-jacketed men – a modest meal by Angell’s standards: four courses which would put him on for an hour or two – with some passable Chablis and Chateauneuf and banal, noisy conversation. Mr Neill had a table for eight, and Angell thought the company commonplace and over-hearty. He avoided taking a 10/- raffle ticket on the grounds that he could not possibly predict any of the results.

  Eventually they rose and went down two floors to the room where the tournament was held; similarly elaborate in its decorations, with the ring raised in the middle. Mr Berkeley Neill’s party had seats reserved at the side. While the first fight was taking place a half bottle of whisky and some soda were put unobtrusively on the table beside Angell, and he helped himself to a stiff drink as the bout proceeded.

  This was the first tourney Angell had ever been to, and like his wife at the beginning of the year it was to watch Little God. If it had not been for this preoccupation, which gripped at his bowels like mild enteritis, he would have had leisure to feel a full and satisfying intellectual contempt for this atavistic primitive entertainment. Grown men, adult men, supposedly cultured, dressed themselves in dinner jackets, wined themselves and dined, and then, stomachs filled and cigars going, they took their seats to watch these bizarre bouts in which young men attempted to beat each other down with their fists. It was cockfighting on a licensed, twentieth-century, supposedly civilized basis. It was the bully-in-the-dormitory still coming out, the university rags, the fox-hunting, the duck-shooting, the inbred desire to hurt or see hurt, the uncouthness of man, a schoolboy brutishness, neatly packaged and pretending to take dignity from its smart surroundings.

  So he just had time to think. Just time and leisure to despise the entertainment before the entertainment for which he had been waiting gripped at him. Peter Goodfellow of Walsall. Godfrey Vosper of Kensington. Climbing into the ring, two small men. That was he: take a good look at him again. At first he was hidden by his seconds, then he took off his dressing gown and stepped into the middle. Very smart. Vivid scarlet silk trunks, scarlet socks and boots to match. Quite the dandy. (On whose money?) Referee talking, back to their corners. The bell.

  In the first round Little God made all the running. His opponent was for ever backing away, side stepping, using the ring, getting out of trouble rather than initiating anything for himself. Goodfellow was a tall young man with a slight stoop and a shuffling stance. Compared to him little Godfrey was perfectly built for his size, muscular but slight, balanced, quick as light and so good-looking.

  Seeing him now nearly naked Angell realized more than ever his attraction for women; even, one would imagine, his attraction for some men. Angell felt that attraction, which to him was like the reverse side of hate. In the boxing ring Little God was nearly beautiful, but it was with the effortless grace and poise of true evil, Angell thought. If Angell had been a praying man he would at that m
oment have begun to pray for the other side.

  At the end of the second round he was surprised to hear Neill say to his other neighbour: ‘Goodfellow’s well ahead so far.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’ Angell asked, gulping his whisky. ‘What makes you say that? It seems to me that the other man, Vosper, is attacking all the time.’

  ‘So he is, and it’s getting him nowhere. You’re not attending. This little fellow Vosper is pushing ahead all the time and doing all the leading but mostly he doesn’t even connect. Goodfellow brings up a counter about a dozen times in a round and he scores every time. He’s way ahead.’

  This view was put to Godfrey by Pat Prince. ‘Box him,’ he urged. ‘Try to get him to come to you. And if you do have to follow him try to get inside. His reach is too long for you.’

  ‘O.K., O.K.,’ Godfrey said, as Prince slipped in his gum shield just before the bell. He had realized as clearly as anyone that his present tactics were giving Goodfellow the contest on a plate. Goodfellow was a brilliant boxer. He had made Godfrey miss more often than he had ever done before. By just shifting fractionally he wasn’t there. His shambling footwork was deceptive. His low guard, almost casual, was deceptive. Half the time you’d think he was coasting along. Like someone doing the twist. Watching his opponent thoughtfully and every now and then putting through a little jab that sent Godfrey’s head back. It made you mad. But with this sort of character it didn’t pay to get mad. You’d got to match cunning with cunning.

  Goodfellow in a corner. Godfrey aimed two lefts at him and a vicious right, all as fast as a snake. Not one of them touched Goodfellow. Without ever raising his gloves he avoided them, and then quickly slipped away into the centre of the ring. Like Trappist monks breaking their vow of silence, the audience applauded.

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ said a voice reprovingly over the microphone.

  Godfrey followed like a bull being goaded with a red cloak. As he partly rode a counter-punch that caught him on the side of the jaw, some words of Prince’s came back: ‘If you do have to follow him try to get inside.’ Godfrey feinted twice with his left, took the counter-punch high up on his forehead and then went left, right, left for Goodfellow’s body. Only one of them got through that low guard, but he heard his opponent’s grunt and suspected that he had found a weak spot. He cursed himself for not having seen this weakness before. Goodfellow, with his supreme timing and sense of balance let his jaw and face take care of themselves. His low guard was not a casual pose, it was deliberately kept low to guard his long thin rib casing.

  By the end of that round, Godfrey knew he had as much chance of outpointing Goodfellow as of being elected to the Athenaeum. So it was now all a question of time. Time and stamina. If he could wear Goodfellow down in the next three rounds with a heavy persistent attack to the body he might get a K.O. in the eighth. But it was not going to be easy, for it was he who had been rushing in and using up his vitality; Goodfellow had been pacing himself for the full half hour: Godfrey’s gloves were beginning to feel heavy: he was not in the condition he ought to have been. Too many sick-room vigils and too much Pearl.

  ‘You done better that round, boy,’ said Pat Prince, giving him the bottle to rinse his mouth. ‘Box him. Try to get him to do the work.’

  Fifth round began like a continuation of the fourth. Feinting to the face and the jaw did not bring that guard up. The only way you got that guard up was by inviting the counter-punch. And if you invited it you usually got it. That was the trouble; you swapped; and on the whole you were the gainer, but you’d wasted four rounds and the energy of four rounds.

  ‘I’ll hand it you, he’s a game cock, your man,’ said Berkeley Neill. ‘ He never stops or lets up, does he.’

  ‘He’s not my man,’ snapped Angell, mopping his brow. It was very hot in here. ‘ Goodfellow deserves to win.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Neill, ‘that hurt Goodfellow. He’s in trouble. He’s in trouble! Watch that. Your little fellow has the guts of the devil.’

  Goodfellow was in trouble because for once Godfrey had really got through his guard and had landed two punches near the solar-plexus. The gong came just in time. Godfrey was bleeding at the mouth, and there was a nick over his bad eyebrow, but these were superficial things, while Goodfellow was grunting and blowing in the other corner.

  ‘Bore in,’ urged Prince. ‘Go after him, but watch his left. He’ll keep scoring with that and it can still be dangerous.’

  The sixth round was Goodfellow’s all the way. Weakened by those jabs to the body, he retreated all through the three minutes yet scored persistently with counters, sharp crisp jabs with no weight behind them but every one a score in any referee’s book. It was beautiful boxing, with Little God throwing punch after punch and finding only the air a skinbreadth away from his opponent’s face and body. Godfrey’s gloves, for almost the first time in his life, felt like lead. At the end of the round he sat back with his eyes closed taking slow deep breaths. He’d got sixty seconds to recover. He ignored Prince’s whispers and let himself go completely limp. When the bell went he opened his eyes, got up slowly, then moved after Goodfellow in continuance of the old pursuit.

  But if he was tired so was his gangling opponent. It was tired science against tired brute stamina, and in the second minute Godfrey got in two punches with his fully balanced weight behind them. He saw Goodfellow’s eyes go glassy, he threw everything into the next sixty seconds, aiming for the body, punch after punch that Goodfellow only partly blocked. Then with sudden inspiration he saw that Goodfellow’s guard was low for the wrong reasons and switched his attack to the face. That did it. Click, click to the jaw, the young man’s knees sagged. He half lolled against the ropes, straightened up, Godfrey went in for the kill, but the referee was in the way. The referee had put his arm up, was pushing Godfrey back. Reluctantly, angrily, Godfrey stopped fighting. The bell went, the bell for the end of the seventh round. But it was a cheat, he’d been cheated of a fair K.O. The blasted referee …

  The blasted referee had come across and was holding up Godfrey’s hand. There was applause. Goodfellow was sitting on his stool and his second was sponging his face. So it was the end of the fight. The referee had awarded Godfrey victory on a technical K.O. It was all right then. But it would have been better to have seen Goodfellow on the floor.

  ‘Go across and shake his hand!’ Prince hissed in his ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Man, it was a great fight! Go across and shake his hand!’

  So Godfrey went across and reluctantly shook Goodfellow’s hand.

  Chapter Three

  ‘My dear Wilfred, it’s not as easy as you appear to think,’ Vincent Birman said, smiling his fallen-cherub smile reprovingly at the law books; Button on Libel, Wilshere’s Leading Cases. ‘Not easy at all.’

  ‘You gave me the impression. You said that in the boxing world most things could – be arranged.’

  ‘Did I? Well, hardly. Of course it’s true in a way. Where there’s big money involved there are always pressures. Boxing doesn’t escape.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘But you mistake the ends to which the pressure may be directed. I—’

  ‘Last time you spoke of it you said the organization of the profession was directed by one or two men.’

  ‘That’s true enough. But I was shooting my big mouth in a general way. The boxing world, like some others, runs as a closed shop. Intruders in that closed shop are not welcomed. Far from it. But if you accept that, and most people do accept that, then the works run smoothly and without interference. There is no interference from outside – not the way you want it – the way your client wants it. Pressures, if or when they are applied, are not used to help somebody to even up an old score.’

  ‘My client,’ said Angell sourly, and tapped the end of his spectacles against his teeth. ‘Well, I’ve told you what he wants.’

  ‘He’s certainly changed his opinions, hasn’t he? Different from a few months ago when he wan
ted him helped.’

  ‘I attempted to reason with him. He was not reasonable.’

  Birman transferred his smile to his finger nails. ‘ But you’re still acting for him?’

  ‘Well—’ Angell shifted in his chair and swallowed some spittle like a bitter medicine. ‘He’s an old client. Er – long and very substantial connections. This – clearly this is not the sort of business one would wish normally to – er transact. I was on the point of refusal, but I consulted my partners. They thought, in view of what you had told me, we might continue to …’

  ‘Can’t he wait? Getting beaten in the ring – soundly thrashed as you call it – is bound to happen to Brown sooner or later without any interference. It’s an occupational risk. It happens all the time.’

  ‘Unfortunately no. He did not seem willing to wait.’

  Birman allowed himself a curious glance. He was no student of human nature; he was not sufficiently interested in other people; to him they drifted by as casually as twigs down a stream. Neither psychiatrist nor priest, he offered the impersonalness of the couch and the anonymity of the confessional, so perhaps to him more than to most, people betrayed themselves. Over the last six months an old school friend and a distinguished solicitor had been stepping out of character. Angell perhaps had never been the typical lawyer: after his slow emergence from the timid youth and the reluctant, inept soldier, there had always been a degree of flamboyance about him, and this had grown with the years: his size, his walk, his talk, his large gestures, even his meannesses. But lately he had become tight drawn, more imperative, less cautious in his judgments.

  Experimentally Birman said: ‘This could cost your client a lot of money.’

  ‘He seems,’ said Angell, closing his eyes, ‘to be prepared to pay for this. To pay for his whim. Within reason, of course.’

  ‘Look, Wilfred, I don’t think he knows quite what he’s asking. Or you either. I don’t even believe it’s possible. Fighters aren’t matched out of their class. That’s why there are divisions, eight divisions. You might get this Brown character matched with a lightweight, that’s the most you could do: but you don’t often do that. And even then it might not work. You ever heard of the Boxing News?’