Sweet Agony

by Paul Sykes

  'And the doctor said I've to be admitted straight away, very probably next week.'

  Her words were reaching me now, the clouds and echoes fading rapidly. We were driving up Dewsbury Road and we'd come this far without me being aware 1 realised, driving on automatic control without conscious thought at all.

  We were parked outside the Townley Road chip shop a few minutes later, a hundred yards from her home but round a corner so her parents couldn't see. Did it matter if they saw or not now? She was pregnant and it wasn't mine.

  'Whose kid is it Cath?'

  'Does it matter now?' she mumbled.

  'Well it does if its father doesn’t want you to get rid of it. I mean it's only right you should ask him.'

  'Ask him,' she cried. 'That bastard! He swore blind he'd pulled out, the dirty lying swine. '

  The vehemence in her voice came as a shock. It was like the voice of Reagan in 'The Exorcist' when she'd been possessed. Maybe it was the language but this wasn't the same girl I loved, my gorgeous sexy little Cath, sitting demurely sipping half a bitter.

  'Who was it Cath. Do I know him?'

  'No you don't know him and I wish I didn't either. I only went out with him six weeks. 'She sounded her normal self or I'd have panicked.

  She lapsed into silence, her face pale and grim.

  Do I love her now I know about this lot I asked myself? Do I love this new Cath, this schoolgirl slag ... and potential schizo?

  'I don't like to think I'm killing a baby,' she whispered, more to herself than me. 'I'm only doing it for you.' She was an innocent young girl asking for help.

  She twisted in the seat to look at me, big wet tears on her cheeks and her eyes searching mine.

  'Will it make any difference Paul, between you and me?'

  The decision had been made already, weeks and weeks ago when the old feller had been reeling off the names of the lovers he thought she'd had. If what he'd said was true it wouldn't make the slightest difference. I was her lover now, not some drippy teenage kid. She'd been hurt already and I wasn't making it worse.

  'What do you think?' I smiled.

  'Will it make any difference?' she repeated stubbornly.

  'You know me better than that love, but what will your mam and dad say? '

  'What can they say, it's done now?'

  'Don't worry then. Come on cheer up.'

  Across the road two middle-aged women carrying shopping bags

  full of bread and cornflakes were breaking their necks trying to see into the car. The windows were steaming up making it difficult for them.

  Cath smiled ruefully and wiped her eyes and cheeks with her gym blouse. She pushed it back into the bag.

  'I'd best go face the music then.' She leaned across to kiss my cheek.

  'I love you,' she whispered.

  She walked home carrying the big hessian bag as if that too was full of bread and cornflakes instead of schoolbooks, suddenly grown up and full of worries.

  The black lupine monster Pauline had left locked in my heart had managed to get a claw free to rake across something deep inside. The clock above the gate in Durham gaol chimed inside my head a couple of times in tune to the pain but work suppressed everything like being injected with morphine. I'd become addicted to fly pitching like a sailor to the sea. Now, though, when I went to a town I didn't look in the shops to see if I could spot something Cath would like and when I went to the hospital the following week I went empty-handed. It wasn't deliberate or intentional it was just the fact she didn't enter my head. The magic had gone, the image tarnished. It was like finding out the new car I'd bought was a ringer and the clock had been turned back. She was still the best car on the road and I wouldn't miss seeing her for anything.

  Her mother was sitting by the bed as I entered the ward. What will she think knowing I'm visiting her daughter?

  Half hoping she'd warn me off, I approached the bed realising what I was thinking. I was looking for an excuse to drop Cath without taking the blame and feeling guilty. But why, I asked myself, why should I want to opt out now she's got rid?

  Because she's soiled that's why I thought. It's like drinking from a dirty glass. She was propped up on a pile of pillows, her hair brushed and gleaming. She gave me a big warm smile, twinkling like Waterford crystal.

  Cath wasn't any dirty glass or secondhand motor. Cath was brand new and perfect. The feeling she was used still persisted, though, and I couldn't convince myself otherwise.

  Her mother smiled and asked how I was as though we'd known each other donkey's years. We had, but only by name: her eldest child, Michael, had been born on the same day as Kay and the midwife had sprinted between her and Mother for a full 8 hours.

  After the visit I gave her a lift home in my big new motor and was amazed at her attitude to the abortion. I felt sure she'd have been more concerned if Cath had been in hospital for her tonsils removing.

  Cath came home two days later and from then on I was part of the family. I was 'our Cath's chap', with cups of tea and questions about where I'd been working, and on Wednesday nights I started going with her and her parents to Alverthorpe working men's club for the old time dancing.

  This was the only night of the week where I couldn't really believe this was me, sitting in the concert room watching retired ex-miners wearing baggy old suits guiding grannies made up like Christmas trees round the dance floor. The military two-step, waltzes, foxtrots and a dance called the Valeta, where they went round four abreast and all cocking their legs up together like circus ponies, one of the funniest sights I could imagine, had the floor packed with couples whirling away to Eric on the organ, and Albert on the drums.

  All the tables had their full compliment of people resting between numbers or saving themselves to put on a show when a particular dance began. Every week I hoped Mick and Janet would turn up to razzle them with their rock 'n roll routine.

  Eddie, Cath's old feller, a short stocky chap not much older than me, would tell me confidentially all about the work he was doing for British Rail and giving the impression the entire railways system would collapse without him.

  My old feller had always referred to him as Dr Beeching and now I could understand why. To show my appreciation of the excellent job he was doing I bought him large whiskys and pretended to be fascinated with the intricacies of greasing the points and the complications involved when changing rotting sleepers. His mate, Tommy, came with us every week and would sit at the other side of Cath's mother blinking owlishly behind glasses like two telly screens. He was Eddie's second-in-command on the maintenance gang and followed him everywhere.

  They went to the bar together and the toilet and I'd been thinking they were in love until I'd been to Cath's and seen him while Eddie was out. The attraction had to be Teresa, Cath's old lady, but if it was it wasn't obvious. Unlike the other ladies present she hardly used make-up and wore the clothing she usually did. I bought her Black

  Russians, which consisted of a large vodka, a dash of Tia Maria and a splash of lime.

  'Ooh Paul,' she'd protest, 'You shouldn't, you'll have me tiddly,' and then she'd flatten them in two swigs and one inviting smile.

  Cath would read the expression I had for the dancing, the comments of her parents, the whole banality and pathetic atmosphere of the place and flash a warning with her eyes to keep my big mouth shut. Funnily enough Wednesday evenings were the highlight of the week for me. They brought me down to earth and made me realise just how easily pleased ordinary people are. It relaxed me. No conspiracies, deviousness, people out to cut my throat, no need to keep all my wits about me and I could lower my guard. It wasn't how I liked to be though, not permanently, like these. I enjoyed pitting my wits against others but for 3 hours on Wednesday evenings it made a pleasant change.

  Burky liked to pit his wits and if it could be measured by material wealth he was one of the trickiest fellers I'd come across. Not only did he own all the hot dog barrows but houses converted into flats all over the place. He
had shares in shops, garages, a building firm, and owned a lithograph printing press he rented out. He was a strange feller but very likeable and with him introducing me to the honourable profession of fly-pitching I was as grateful to him as I'd been to Alan Forbes back in Durham who'd given me Tommy's address. In the weeks since I'd met him in the Bull Ring we'd become firm friends but the more I got to know him the more he had me baffled. He had five kids, all at school, three to his ex-wife and two to the woman he was living with now, Molly Riley, a girl I'd always known. All the kids had been born alternately. How he'd managed to do that had me beat because he hadn't divorced his wife until they'd all been born.

  He lived in a 3-storey end-terrace house in St John's, an area noted for it's wealthy residents. On the ground floor he had a sitting tenant, an elderly German lady he encouraged the kids to upset by making a row and calling her names. Once he got rid of her the house would double in value. He knew the value of everything from Coca-Cola cans to old Comics, in fact he had every issue of 'The Exchange and Mart' for the past 15 years and read each new edition like a rabbi reading the Torah. He smoked but made it a point not to buy any if

  there was somebody he could cadge them from. He could, and often did make a bacardi and coke last all night. He very rarely wore anything but jeans because they didn't wear out but yet he'd bought his parents a house and had it modernised into a little palace.

  He didn't like it when I said he was tighter than a duck's arse and explained his miseries by pleading poverty. From his point of view he was; every pound note that came his way he used to make another and he said I was silly spending the way I did. We had some lively discussions on the subject in the car going to Inglestone, in Edinburgh, to work the Sunday market. During the week we worked separately but on Fridays we'd set off and work together, stay in a hotel, work Saturday, stay in another hotel, work the market and return home Sunday night.

  He wanted to die a millionaire, whereas I should have been born a millionaire and I'd do my best to die skint. That way we would both die happy. I liked spending money and couldn't see any other reason for earning it. Anybody would think I was a juvenile delinquent and he was the probation officer from the way he looked at me. He couldn't work as well as me, though, and couldn't alter his line of patter to suit the moods of the crowd and when he bought half a gross of watches I proved it to him.

  By this time we were going separately to buy our gear and I'd found little warehouses up back alleys and tucked away in corners which sold cheap, natty jewellery right up my street.

  He still went to the same warehouse and sold the perfume with the aid of Charlie's brochure, same old spiel pitch after pitch, no variation, no change of voice and no change of stock. He must have had a brain-storm to suddenly layout over £170 on the watches and then another £15 on fancy imitation boxes to put them in. His idea being I suppose, the boxes would sell them for him. He brought them home and asked what I thought of the idea of selling a watch, a penny on a chain and a bottle of perfume for £6.

  The best way to find out was to get himself into some precinct and have a go, I told him. He wouldn't because his line of patter didn't include working a watch. He'd learned parrot-fashion from listening to a tape recording. The watches, made in East Germany with a tick like a diesel engine, were eating his heart out so after a week I said I'd work them on a sale or return basis. Five days later I'd sold the lot,

  not with two lumps of rubbish but with a pretty cameo on a chain and a gold-coloured gate bracelet. The ease they'd gone at £6 a throw convinced me I could sell ice-cream to Italians. Regardless of the profit margin I was definitely giving value for money which is the art of selling. The old feller had said a million times when I'd been a nipper, 'If you believe in your stock you can sell anything.' He'd never said a truer word.

  Once the watches had been sold I was back to my usual stuff and when I opened the case, spread the piece of black velvet and laid out the various items in the lid, I'd step back and feel I was giving marvellous value for money regardless of the profit, 52p in the pound, or 100% plus expenses. The 7-part movable fish, the Czechoslovakian cut crystal, the Dorchester locket and half a dozen other gimmicks on chains. A choice of two gate bracelets. Any combination of three were well worth a pound if you could afford a pound. They looked wonderful sparkling on the velvet and it was worth a pound all day long just to listen to me. Once Christmas was over, though, I wouldn't be able to earn a carrot and I didn't want to try either. I wanted to start boxing and earn some real money but it would be a while before I'd earn more than I was doing now. On average £400 a week and I was spending freely. A month after Christmas, six weeks at the most, I'd be skint and wanting a fight.

  The only person who could get me going and I hadn't seen him, heard from him or even trained with since I'd been let out on bail, was Tommy. I had to let him know my intentions in person and the opportunity came when Alan Richardson fought Yernon Sollas for the British featherweight title, at Leeds Town hall, on Tuesday night.

  None of the lads on the under-card interested me in the slightest but Alan, challenging for the title. It wasn't we were bosom pals or even related but we'd shared two amateur clubs, trainers and seconds and I'd known him since he'd been a lad of eight when he'd first come to the gym. He'd had a long and brilliant amateur career, had been European featherweight Champion and was as tough as old boots. Nobody in the hall wanted him to win more than me.

  Leeds Town Hall and Liverpool Stadium was the difference between bows and arrows and nuclear bombs. There was more excitement in Alverthorpe club for the old time dancing and about the same

  amount of people. Terrible support for a local lad but Alan was so quiet very few people knew he existed.

  Alex was there with his entourage I was pleased to see but he didn't seem pleased to see me until I'd explained about Elaine and the turkeys. He'd been thinking I'd given up the idea of boxing altogether and all the work and running about he'd done on my behalf had been a waste of time.

  'Don't worry Alex,' I assured him. 'The minute Christmas is over I'll start training but the way things are now I'm earning too much to start training.'

  He broke into one of his rare smiles when I told him the gift I had for fly-pitching and patted my shoulder.

  'That's my boy,' he said happily.

  Once he'd given me his blessing the rest of the entourage did the same. I wanted to laugh but I wasn't sure how they'd react. It was the same mentality the cockney gangsters had when I'd been in Hull. Fall out with one, fall out with them all.

  What made it so ironical, Alex -was a Yorkshire lad, from Hunslet, a suburb of Leeds, but I didn't think they were aware of that with him living in London for 30 years. He'd been there so long he referred to living in his home town as living in the sticks and thought anywhere north of Hendon was prehistoric, but yet in his back garden he had the original name plate of the street where he'd been born. It reminded him constantly of where he'd started.

  He could think and do exactly what he wanted and it wouldn't alter the respect and admiration I had for him. He invited me to sit with him to watch the boxing at the precise moment Tommy appeared from the dressing rooms. He came up the aisle with the largess of visiting royalty, waving his cigar and smiling as if he was Barnum and Bailey rolled into one until he saw me sitting with Alex. Fortunately my seat was at the end of the row.

  'I'm earning too much to start training now Tommy,' I told him with immense pleasure. 'Once Christmas is over I'll start training and the minute I think I'm fit enough I'll give you a ring. I'll want a fight quickly Tom, so put the feelers out.' He blew a cloud of cigar smoke over my head, the smile fixed on his shiny red face.

  'You get yourself fit and I'll fix you up.' His face grew serious. 'You'll have to show your face at the gym. Let me see you're fit enough, though.'

  He turned and started back to the dressing rooms, acknowledging people on both sides using his cigar as a conductor would a baton.

  Now I'd done what
I'd come to do I could relax and watch Alan, and he was well worth watching.

  Sollas as wobbled him a couple of times in the first with long righthanders but he gritted his teeth and came forward throwing punches with all the speed, precision and economy of a Sheffield-steel lawnmower. Just how I'd fight when I started. Like all the lads from our clubs. He cut Sollas down in the sixth to win nothing more than he deserved, the British featherweight title. When his hand was raised, one of Alex mate's leaned towards me and said, 'Bobby Neil had three grand on Richardson, you know. You'll have to watch for people like him when you start.'

  If it was true, and I'd no reason to doubt it wasn't, boxing was more rotten and corrupt than I'd already thought. Bobby Neil was the trainer and second of Sollas, and if he was of the opinion he'd lose to the extent of having £3,000 on Alan there wasn't a cat-in-hell's chance he'd dedicate himself to the job he was being paid for. Maybe Soli as was in on it but from the way he fought the first few rounds it didn't seem likely.

  All I'd want was fights, nothing else. I'd look after myself and depend on nobody. It was the only way to ensure nobody was taking liberties but by now I was taking liberties myself and enjoying them all. I was taking liberties with Cath, and she'd found out. I'd said I would stop but I hadn't the least intention of stopping.

  * * * *

  It was Saturday night, November 5th, when the chain of events that led to me thinking I was taking liberties began. During the afternoon I'd earned over £50 in two hours in the precinct opposite Boots the chemist at the back of the Cathedral. It was the first time I'd worked in Wakefield and the response had amazed me. No wonder Burky and half a dozen fellers from Leeds worked here regularly. After tea, I'd taken Cath to the park to watch the city fireworks display then walked up into town to the 'Wine Lodge'. Besides having a liking for Australian red wine I hoped Elaine, or some of her mates, might be in and see me with Cath. It would give them something to talk about. Cath had had the abortion and looked just as lovely as the