Sweet Agony

by Paul Sykes

  The gradient to the Lupset Hotel told me I was now into my glycogen reserves and the two hills of Broadway saw them used. The run had taken 31 minutes 24 seconds. Not bad considering.

  The old feller filled the bath while I did stomach exercises on the rug in front of the fire. Afterwards I had 3 raw eggs beaten into hot milk and a dessert spoon full of brown clear honey. It had the consistency and flavour of custard. It would replace most of what I'd spent double quick. The ice was broken and I was back in harness with a purpose. The following morning I went twice round the perimeter of Ossett common, a tough assault-course of a run, hard on the legs and lungs and a run where concentration was vital. One wrong step would twist an ankle. It was just as important to keep my brain alert as it was achieving efficiency. Mornings when it snowed I did repeated sprints in the tunnel under the M I. It was long and steep, caused oxygen debt and sharpened me up.

  This, my basic fitness training, was entirely separate from the training I did in the gym. Five evenings a week I worked on improving my hand speed and reflex action. Getting the smooth fluidity in my movements so necessary to save energy and making counter-punching possible.

  Peter was in training to defend his Central Area title against Neil Malpass, a young lad from South Elmsall. He was getting rave reviews with a recent string of knock-outs, his latest being a 3rd round demolition of the ex-British champion Danny Mcalinden. Sparring with Peter

  I thought he'd have no trouble extending his winning streak. Peter had no confidence at all and sparred as if he'd explode like a balloon if he got hit. Tommy said he'd been like this since Eddie Neilson had knocked him out a couple of seasons ago. He'd been unconscious 15 minutes with his jaws clamped together and shaking as though he was having an epileptic fit. He shouldn't be still boxing even if he was only a side-show I thought and was tempted to say so. He should be compulsory retired and not allowed to kid the public. He was ranked 16th and Malpass 17th. There were 44 currently active British heavyweights and I wasn't in the ratings and the way Tommy was having trouble finding me a fight I never would be. As last summer, I sparred with everybody in the gym, skipped, punched the bags and performed all the traditional exercises every night.

  After 3 weeks I was ready to start, ready to fight on the under-card anywhere but Tommy still couldn't find a suitable opponent. He explained the predicament he was in by blaming me. My reputation was such that nobody wanted beating by somebody lower in the rankings but he'd do all he could to get me on the same bill as Peter, on the first Monday in February.

  It was the first Sunday in February and Tommy still hadn't found me an opponent.

  Cath was sitting at my side in the top room of 'The Malt', and opposite, across the room, was Wendy, whispering and giggling at the side of the gent's toilets, with Pauline Hamblyn, and both shooting furtive glances my way.

  The taproom had evolved into a youth club with the lads who played for the Manor making full use of the dartboard and the pool table. The girls naturally followed the lads and now there were at least 20 laughing, arguing and whispering about each other like Wendy and Pauline.

  Margaret, the landlady, kept order as though she was a head-mistress and wouldn't tolerate rowdy behaviour or swearing at all.

  'Out,' she'd say. 'Out, go on, get out and don't come back until you've learnt some manners.' I liked her and appreciated what she was doing.

  'There wasn't, isn't anywhere else for the kids to go,' she'd explained, 'and as long as they behave I won't bother them.' Her husband, Brian, was an ex-copper and still had influence with the local

  constabulary. Providing there wasn't any trouble the police wouldn't bother anybody even if they were under age. It was Margaret who'd told me about Wendy's old feller coming in.

  'He just walked in, grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out. It was awful, the poor lass. I don't think she deserved to be treated like that, do you?'

  He'd told her to be in at 9.30 and then sent another message at 10 o'clock to bring herself home. At 20 past he'd dragged her out. Yes she deserved it and Wendy agreed. It wouldn't do to tell Margaret everything, or little Cath.

  'How do you mean, you'll have to curb your love life?' Cath asked quietly. 'What's my love life got to do with anything?'

  'What I mean is, you'll have to curb your love life if you want to stay faithful to me,' I explained, 'I can't maintain the level of fitness I need if you demand to be fucked every night.'

  'What's your love life got to do with anything?' she asked suspiciously, her eyes creeping across to glance at Wendy.

  'I don't know, but I'm not taking any chances.'

  The door opened and Kay breezed in closely followed by her latest boyfriend, old Phil Swaine's lad, young Phi!.

  'Tommy wants you to ring him now;' she said before the door closed. 'What, now? Like this minute?' I asked, my brain racing with the thought he'd found me an opponent.

  She smiled, 'Well no, not right this minute, but tonight. It sounds to me as if you'll be boxing tomorrow.' She giggled, 'You should see Waiter, he's gone all dithery with his nerves. He said he'd have to go to bed early to get ready. He's had to get up so he can go to bed.'

  'It's a funny old time to let me know, don't you think?'

  'A cinzano and lemon,' she called to Phil, standing at the bar.

  'I expect he's been keeping it a secret so the coppers won’t stop you again.'

  It made sense and was in keeping with Tommy. I was floating, or I felt I was floating. This was it, this was definitely it! I wanted to do hand-springs round the pool table shouting and singing.

  Yes I was boxing, chief support to Peter. Box 2 minute rounds

  against a kid I'd never heard of in 'The Norfolk Garden Hotel', Bradford, tomorrow night.

  Hanging up 'The Malt Shovel' phone I decided to ring Burky and Norman, Ronnie and Del in that order. I hadn't enough change, yes I had. Only Ronnie couldn't make it. He was away working in London. I couldn't think coherently I was so excited.

  Wendy knew there was something up, I could tell from the way she flicked her eyes at me. I had to let her know but how could I with Cath watching me like a security guard? A minute later I made a general announcement to everybody in the tap room and invited them to come. Only one draw back though, they had to wear evening dress. Oh yes, it was men only.

  'That's a liberty,' complained Cath, 'I'd like to see you box.'

  'You'll get your chance Cath, don't worry about that.'

  She didn't moan when I saw her home for 10 o'clock and promised I'd see her at the first opportunity on Tuesday. I still couldn't kiss her properly because my mouth watered.

  Yorkshire Television were recording the fight at the top of the bill as a follow up to the documentary they'd shown of Malpass last year and with a bit of luck there might be some film left to record me. Tommy had told me this when I'd arrived and was showing me to the dressing room. It was the ladies' toilets in the hotel and the opponents were in the gents. It was pleasant and comfortable. A fitted carpet, a row of sinks and plenty of room. I was the last bout of four. There were two young lads laid on the floor with towels over their heads resting and psyching-up. Peter wasn't about, nowhere to be seen.

  Norm had turned up with four of his mates, including the feller with the gold tooth who'd been the library red-band in Leeds last year, the one who'd told me to look Norm up. They were all as smart as paint in evening suits and looking forward to seeing me fight.

  Delroy had brought another gang and Burky had brought all the lads from the Manor in his new Land Rover Safari.

  Not had a fight yet and I'd sold more tickets than all the others on the bill put together. The old feller came into the dressing room wearing a charcoal-grey suit he'd bought for his mother's funeral 20 years ago. He had a bow-tie too. Where he'd got it from I couldn't say but no doubt it had been somewhere in the house. He was nervous and timid but underneath I could feel his pride. Don't worry Dad, I thought, this is only a formality to get me underway. In a month or two
you can worry when I'll be fighting people who'll be dangerous.

  This feller tonight wasn't. In fact Tommy had ordered me to stay in the dressing room in case he saw me.

  'If he sees you, he'll pack his bag and go home.'

  The two young lads shadow-boxed, laid down, bent and stretched, laid down, shadow-boxed as nervous as prima donnas. The first one came back walking on air and talking at a 100 m.p.h. to his second. He'd won on points over 4 rounds. The other came back repeating 'Get me him again, get me him again.' He'd lost on points over 6 rounds. It was the main event and I wouldn't miss seeing Malpass for anything.

  It was a certainty I'd be fighting the winner, there wasn't another heavyweight in the north worth a carrot and when Tommy had mentioned the television he'd confirmed my suspicions. Apart from the lad who'd lost and his second there was only me in the dressing room. The doctor had been to check me over and I'd donned my kit. I was ready as soon as it was over. The foyer was deserted, everywhere was deserted.

  Peering through a crack in the door the first person I saw was Mal-pass, standing in the corner of the ring nearest me and talking to George Biddles, his manager.

  The atmosphere was that of a tap-room on a Sunday dinner-time. It wasn't a very big room, about the same area of a basket-ball court, and it was crammed with long tables and fellers in evening dress sitting either side. The ring was at the far end and behind it was a high table like the bench in a Magistrates court. Maybe 8 fellers were sitting there but they were too far away to recognise. The room was dark apart from the lights above the ring and the air was blue with cigar smoke.

  The first round Peter bustled forward bobbing and weaving, looking busy but doing nothing. Malpass stayed his distance behind a long left hand. Not a punch but a paw as if he was measuring the distance to throw the right. That's all he had, Dave Owens had told me last year at the Castleford gym. He'd sparred with him a few times.

  'Watch out for his right,' he'd warned, 'but you'll know when it's coming because he cocks it first.'

  Malpass didn't throw a worthwhile punch and neither did Peter all the first round. A minute into the second I saw him launch it, watched it travel to Peter's chin and watched Peter collapse. I'd seen enough.

  Kenny Daniels came into the dressing room, the feller who trained Tommy's lads in Manchester, and seconded them when they fought. He gloved me and asked if I was ready just like the young screw who'd opened my door in Durham last year.

  'Ready Kenny? I've been ready years and years. Come on let's get it over with.'

  Where Peter had changed was a mystery to me. Surely he couldn't have his own dressing room. Superstar status with being top of the bill. Maybe he'd demanded one to save him the embarrassment he'd had at Liverpool. It wasn't worth asking about him now he wasn't the champion, I thought, entering the room and looking for Del and the rest of my supporters. I could see him across the far side, the only black face in the entire place. He looked distinctly nervous. I was slightly, but it wasn't anything more than excitement.

  The opponent Tommy had found was a Scottish feller who now lived in Barnsley. He wasn't 6 feet tall and I doubted he'd weigh more than 13 stone.

  We shook gloves after the referee had warned us about obeying his orders promptly and I'd hardly got back to the corner when the bell rang.

  A straight left followed by a right-hand and the kid was dumped on his arse. It was more the shock than the power of the punch but he didn't regain his feet until the ref reached seven. Wading in like Jerry Quarry used to with a variety of hooks to the head and body he made me realise I wasn't hitting a punch bag, by hitting me with a thumping right-hander.

  Hang on I thought, this kids a pro, you've got to be more careful. Yeah, but it's only a two-minute round and I haven't got time to mess about. Anyway he's not good enough to carry my boots. Not big enough either. Going all out for a one hit knock-out I realised my timing wasn't quite right when I'm hit in the throat with a karate chop. I couldn't breathe, the air wouldn't go in, there was a rough brick wall across my windpipe.

  Fucking tobacca smoke I thought with disgust, the rising panic nipped in the bud. Stepping back out of distance I dropped my guard and relaxed for a moment, giving the sphincter muscles in my trachea time to adjust. I was so attuned to clean living they'd contracted in revolt. Two seconds later I'm stabbing with the left hand to smash his

  face in and adjust my timing when the bell rang. It was only a two-minute round I remembered to cancel the timekeeper from cheating. I wouldn't put anything past the likes of Tommy's mob.

  Sitting on the stool, lost in my body's control rooms, pulse, respiration, energy levels, the readout said, I wasn't properly warmed up. The stokers in the engine-rooms were only just coming awake but working like mad to make up for lost time. Nice and steady in the next round and then flatten him in the third.

  'It's all over,' Tommy said very quietly to Kenny and then beamed at the fellers on a table two yards from my left glove. He waved his hand carrying a thick cigar and a big gold ring. He turned to look at Kenny and said in his normal voice 'I'll see you later,' and then strolled away nonchalantly grinning like a Cheshire cat and nodding to the fellers either side of the aisle and saying, 'Not bad is he, not bad?'

  'It's all over Kenny? The kid's not cut is he?'

  'No,' he said dithering about wiping my shoulders and the back of my neck. 'I think he's hurt his hand.'

  'Hurt his hand. How can he hurt his hand Kenny, when he's not hit me yet?'

  The punch he'd landed didn't carry enough power to break bones. He was a pure Endomorph with short thick bones. Strong bones.

  'It'll be the excuse they're using to stop him being hurt,' he explained in a matter-of-fact voice as if it was an everyday occurrence.

  To stop him being hurt? He's packing up before I touch him' I thought' feeling cheated as I tried to see between his cornermen. They parted a fraction and the kid looked pink and soft. Smooth, fleshy and young. He didn't have a single body hair on his pale pink skin. I'd fucking kill him, a tough old cunt like me I thought, recalling what I'd heard about Bobby Neil. His seconds were only preventing the inevitable. I didn't blame anybody for cutting it short. It was a humane decision but it wouldn't please the crowd.

  Nat Basso announced the verdict, and from the cheers all the lads who'd come to see me first and foremost were satisfied I'd won fair and square and they’d not been cheated. I then felt pleased for the first time. They'd seen enough to want to see me again, I'd not disappointed them. The rest of the crowd clapped but some at the far side; two or three tables with 6 on each, all too busy talking into each

  other's faces to remember it was polite to cheer. They'd probably be the bookies or something, or maybe managers and promoters discussing business. Either way I'd got them talking.

  'Right on brother,' Del shouted with a slice of melon grin, standing to attention and giving me a thumbs up.

  Norm haw hawed somewhere, his laugh telling everybody he was tickled pink. As I passed the last table before 1 left the room half a dozen lads from the Manor leapt on me like bagsnatchers.

  'Well done, Paul lad, well done. Tha's showed em nar,' little Kev yelled with pride and spirit: he'd lost both legs and an arm in the Army but still lived life to the full with artificial limbs. He was in the darts and pool team for the 'Malt' and Manor and with half a chance he'd have played rugby too. The other lads gave him no quarter and often took the mick. Les Cullun knocked him out of the way while he patted my back and said much the same.

  'We're with you all the way Paul lad,' echoed in my ears as the doors swung shut behind me.

  * * * *

  Les, a good looking lad of 19 fancied Wendy something rotten. He'd give his right arm to fuck her he'd told me more than once, and over Christmas he'd walked her home from the 'Malt'. He'd only been allowed a kiss as they'd parted at the gate. He walked home 'sick as a parrot' he'd said.

  'Didn't you ask her Les?'

  'Fucking right 1 did,' he answered grinning
. His eyes dancing like gas jets on low and showing lovely white teeth. We'd been in the 'Malt' the following night.

  'She didn't let you Les?' 1 acted surprised, 'well that's all I did and she said yes.'

  'Yeah, but I'm not you am I?' he answered, still grinning. His eyes hadn't been dancing though. They'd been wistful. The memory came back the Tuesday morning laid in bed and thinking of how he'd said 'We're with you all the way.' No jealousy, no sycophancy, just genuine words. Like Delroy 's 'Right on Brother,' and Norman's laugh. Fuck the rest, just as long as I'd please them.

  The old feller was chuffed in his own quiet way, proud as Punch he was. He'd been to the paper shop already and it was only 7

  o'clock. I'd been still asleep when Mother and Kay had gone to Goldthorpe market. He'd woken me up with a pot of tea and announcing 'Two lines in the paper' and then left me to come round. It was Tuesday morning February 6th, Wendy's birthday.

  Tommy wanted me across at his shop this morning for some reason. I couldn't remember what but it sounded important. I'd go across and see what he wanted and then see Cath. Tell her I'd won and take her out somewhere late. Musn't forget Wendy's what's it, Estee Lauder perfume though.

  Tommy was standing behind the counter of the gent's department in his clothing shop, a small, split-level corner shop in the Town Hall block in Halifax and smiling. A nice friendly smile.