Sweet Agony

by Paul Sykes

Wendy lit every room she entered and like Kent seam coal there wasn't any warmth. She lacked warmth, she couldn't relate to people. She didn't know what to say. She was shy and covered it by withdrawing into herself and leaving everybody cold. She warmed

  me though with her mad questions, her sulks, her tempers and her laugh.

  She lived in the shadow of her sister, her clever, intelligent sister who worked in the NAAFI somewhere in Germany, or so she thought.

  'Our Ann's lovely,' she'd say 'she's even got her photograph in the hairdresser's.'

  She'd pointed it out, showing what a lovely haircut their Ann had, in the shop a week or two later. She wasn't in the same league as Wendy. She looked a real peasant from the Shangtung jungle in China. I'd know from the first time I'd made love to Wendy and got a whiff, a week since her last bath, that she was natural and lovely. I'd worked out the rest since. She was doing her best to smother her natural inclinations, smother her personality and now I knew why.

  She'd been born with too many teeth, 36 instead of 32. As they'd grown so she looked ugly and to top it off she'd been knocked over by a car when she'd been a toddler which had scarred her face. It was ramped on her brain she was an ugly little swine and not a quarter like her lovely sister who worked in the NAAFI in Germany.

  A dentist extracted the teeth and the scars healed. Her teeth were brilliant and the scars had vanished. She'd been an ugly duckling and now she was almost the swan, and she was gorgeous arid natural and growing more so every day. She'd let me do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted, and I saw her without fail every day in her diner-hour. Sometimes I saw her for an hour or so at night at the weekends, when I wasn't at the gym, but I was there Monday to Friday and saw Cath when I came home. Little Cath was pregnant again.

  We'd been sitting in the taproom of the 'Malt' on her birthday when she'd said quietly, 'I've got something to tell you.'

  In the morning I'd ripped round the circuit 12 times and trained in the gym harder than normal an hour before and I was knackered, totally relaxed and drained. My training was going like a bomb and I was all set for the jump into hyper-space. The transitional stage. I was contented. My arm was resting on her shoulders and I was thinking how lovely she was.

  'You've got something to tell me? Go on then, what is it?' I said, with a sloppy grin.

  She sipped her beer, sucked the froth from her top lip, shook her head and said, 'No, you'll lose your temper.'

  She couldn't possibly make me lose my temper. She could sicken me, she could make me laugh. She could inspire me, she could fill me with joy, but she couldn't make me angry. Her sheer presence worked on me like oil on water.

  'How can I lose my temper if you don't tell me?'

  She was so small and delicate regardless of her shape, so precious and fragile; her hands only covered the palms of mine and I could span her neck with my finger and thumb. I'd die if I hurt a hair on her precious head.

  'Promise?' she glanced up from her glass, her eyes wide with trust.

  'Promise.'

  'I've not been taking the pill since Christmas Day!'

  She'd missed a period, maybe two and thought she was pregnant. She'd bought a test from a chemist and confirmed it a few days later. Cath was having my baby. I'd been gutted when she'd told me, it would spoil her figure, tie her down, give me responsibility, tie me down. I didn't want tying down, a nail through my foot. What was the alternative? Have an abortion. No, not again, not so soon. No, the answer was simple. She has the baby and registers 'Father unknown.' She knows who he is and so do I and that's all that matters. If I wasn't down as the father not only was lout of legal responsibility but if he was ever battered the coppers might do something. He would stand more chance 'Father unknown' than having me. I'd do everything I could to look after them both, Cath and the baby. I'd give them all I could but I wouldn't be tied down. Having my emotions and feelings shackled. I was sick of being tied down with 13 years in the nick. I wasn't having shackles in any shape or form and the police were doing all they could to put some on.

  * * * *

  Ten days before the fight with Kiely I received a letter telling me the turkey trial would begin the same day. Kay said the police were worse than evil. Cath was having my baby, Wendy was gorgeous and the coppers wanted to stop me boxing. They wanted to nip everything in the bud.

  The thing to do was train all the time and let time take its course. I went up to Middlesborough for a week with John Spencely, and trained in his new gym in the 'Wellington' pub in the town centre until late Saturday night, the Saturday night before the trial. The decision was made, if he gave me bail I'd fight. If he didn't I wouldn't and being fit didn't matter. Anyway I was fit, dead fit, and getting fitter all the time and making love wouldn't affect me. That's what I told myself but I knew I couldn't wait, I had to make love to them both, like a junkie needs junk.

  The trial had been going on all day and the judge had given me bail without hesitation. He'd heard the prosecution evidence and seen Elaine and he only had to sum up in the morning.

  It was another sell out and only over 8 x 2-minute rounds this time because Kiely demanded it, 8 x 3's would mean he'd miss the last train home.

  It was a hard fight. I had to consciously push and push all the time, and he could fight too. A 6' 4" southpaw, 24 years of age and a long, long amateur career. I'd beaten Tom Kiely on points and was now in the top five in the country and my next fight, against Neville Meade, a KO specialist rated 2nd, was on the first Monday of next month, but first I had to give my defence.

  Norm had been right, he had been charged to connect the turkeys to me. We both had the same charge now and had been given bail yesterday dinner time and night. Norm arrived late for the second day of the trial: he'd been out all night celebrating my victory with all the lads. He didn't care a toss when the judge stopped our bail for the dinner time and he wasn't worried while the jury was out to consider their verdict and we were in the cells under the courts. He wasn't surprised when we were both found not guilty but he was when I told him about my next fight, that really livened him up. It livened everybody else up too, I was a real superstar now and there wasn't anything the police could do to stop me. I'd been out of nick over a year and at last I was free, absolutely nothing hanging over me at all. There was only one feller could stop me now, my next opponent, Neville Meade.

  * * * *

  He'd been one of the semi-finalists with me back in '73. He'd been beaten on points in the final by the kid who'd beaten me. The following

  year he won and went on to win a gold medal in the Commonwealth Games. Since turning pro he'd fought all over Europe and been in the top rankings for years. He was a big Jamaican who'd been in the RAF. He was fighting at Liverpool Stadium before he fought me against a Yank, a big black Yank I'd sparred with last year. The Yank wasn't up to much but he was big and strong. It would pay to see how Meade handled him at Liverpool Stadium I thought and decided to take Cath to see him, let her have a look at pro boxing and see my new game.

  'He's a fat slob,' she said, seeing him for the first time. He'd taken his dressing-gown off to shake hands with the Yank and listen to the ref's instructions. He was a fat slob, she wasn't joking, and after the last fight her opinion of professional boxing wasn't up to much at all. In the fight that had just ended the bell had gone for the first round and a Frenchman, imported to fight Robbie Davies, had sunk to his knees after 5 seconds and he hadn't been hit. The ref counted him out while the stadium jeered, catcalled and threw things. Now Meade stripped to show a belly like a landlord's wife. It hung over his shorts like a willow tree.

  'You'll beat a fat slob like him,' Cath announced. 'Just look at him, the fat pig.'

  The fight was a minute old when he threw a right and the Yank did a back somersault and landed on his head still in a boxing pose. Nobody saw it until it landed, a real peach of a right hand with the power of a bomb.

  The Yank climbed up the ropes until he was upright at the count of

 
9. He was in a neutral corner facing the crowd, still so dazed he didn't know.

  Meade steamed in but he couldn't get a clean shot because the feller staggered and reeled, went up and down four times, grabbed and mauled, anything to survive. The ref should have stopped it but he had to keep the crowd quiet after the Frenchman, and the Yank managed to survive. Meade had shot his bolt and in the 3rd the big Yank won. Meade had been too knackered to defend himself. Nothing to beat but another big right-hander like Malpass. But unlike Malpass he didn't advertise it was coming and looked to land it all the time. He'd thrown 40 in the first round and 20 in the second, all lethal, all instant winners. How the Yank had climbed the ropes at 9

  was a fucking miracle. He did a complete back somersault and landed on the top of his head still in the pose, like a cardboard cut-out. He weighed 221 lb, almost 16 stone and all muscle. Neville Meade was dangerous, really dangerous. The thing to do was train for speed, box him 3 or 4 rounds until he was knackered, then move in for the kill. Yes, I could beat Meade, providing he didn't land the right hand that was.

  Cath's opinion of the stadium and boxing in general was about the same as mine. It was a racket, a big phoney racket. She'd spotted the frauds, even those not as blatant as the Frenchman had been. She'd perked up like Tweetie Pie at the young kids and the old plodders who were giving their all. She'd had no favourites and agreed with the verdict every time. She jeered at the Frenchman and threw her cup' a little plastic one that hit a feller a row but one in front on the head. She ducked behind the seat when the feller turned round, giggled and put a finger across her lips saying ssshh!

  She thought boxers were supposed to be fit and tough and what she'd seen tonight told her they weren't, or not many. What she didn't know was how the racket operated right from the top, from the promoter. Opponents were carefully vetted, very, very, carefully vetted, for the top of the bill. The promoter didn't want his draw knocking down, he didn't want his meal ticket taken away. No upset decisions. I was Tommy's hope and Manny Goodall's. I was the star attraction now but I had to get past Meade before I could be properly exploited. It was a chance they had to take. They were fairly confident I'd win but you could never be sure against Meade. Manny was surer than Tommy because he was arranging for a feller from the States to come and watch me, a feller with inside knowledge of States side boxing. A big wheel. Manny twitched his nose and said he was arranging for me to move into the States if I won this. We'd be going into the big-time. NBC statewide television, national networks, big money, known opponents. Oh yes. if I won this there'd be no stopping me.

  Manny Goodall, big time promoter had. started with a shoe stall on Blackpool Golden Mile. He'd worked shoes like I'd worked jewellery, or like the lads in the mock auctions. Being tricky he'd spent his money shrewdly and now he wasn't only a big time promoter but owned property and businesses all over. I'd been given the full SP on

  Manny Goodall from the Vinnie who'd worked in Blackpool season after season. And been there as long as Manny, who'd moved from Hunslet, a suburb of Leeds, to Blackpool about the same time Alex had moved to London.

  The plot was thickening rapidly all round now. Alex had been needled the night I'd fought Malpass, not with me but with Manny. Manny had nicked me, Tommy and Manny together, from under Alex's nose. I'd been all set 5 years ago and the bastard stopped me. Alex had done all the work and now the penny had dropped exactly who was to blame. A feller from the same street more or less, 'Back Pear Tree Street,' a red-brick one up and down row of terraces in Hunslet.

  £125 for my first showing, £250 for Malpass. £250 for Kiely. Manny had made three grand profit at a tenner a ticket, Alex told me and added Manny was the meanest man he knew. He didn't like Tommy either. He said they were greedy. The lot of 'em were, the whole lot. He was right I thought and when I appeared before the full board of the Northern Area Council to answer a charge of bringing boxing into disrepute by butting Malpass and not having a spare pair of shorts, I knew I'd been right from the start.

  Nat Basso, Manny Goodall, Tommy Miller, Kenny Daniels, Tommy's lad, a referee, all the firm were the Northern Area Council, all the officials at every show and the ones I'd seen at the stadium when Conteh fought. These were all the ones who stopped me before and now I was on the firm. They cautioned me for butting, said they all understood my frustrations perfectly, fined me £2 for not having the spare shorts and invited me to be the boxers' representative on the council. I declined and wondered if I'd made another error. Should I have joined the firm and tried from within? I'd have been wasting my time like Manny had giving me the spiel about America and television networks. Pure flannel, called in the trade 'The Nailer.' He thought I was daft and no matter what I'd say I wouldn't alter it.

  I was just his latest line and doing a bomb.

  What I had to do was find somewhere local, somewhere nice and big and more or less promote myself. That's what I had to do I told Bob Shaw, a friend even longer than Mick Sellers: his parents were my godparents and mine were his, and if anybody knew about

  promoting he did. He'd been in full-time show business since leaving school.

  * * * *

  Bob had been married and divorced and was married again now. Since I'd first come home I'd been seeing him now and then, every few months depending on where he was working. He'd started out as the drummer in a pop group, Ronnie Storm and the Stormbeats and over the years worked with groups until he had the best comedy duo in Yorkshire, 'The Diamond Boys.' They won the best club entertainers twice, £2,000 each time, to prove it. He knew the very place.

  'It's perfect for boxing,' he said. 'It's made for the job. Plenty of seating, a good view and I know the feller who owns the place is keen to put on boxing.'

  He took me to the Wakefield Theatre club to prove it, let me have a look for myself and introduced me to the owner. Bob had appeared here himself as support to the Stylistics, Abba, one or two others and said they couldn't follow him, they weren't good enough. The big stars were pricing themselves off the market, £27,000 Abba wanted for 3 nights, £ 17,000 the Stylistics wanted, and the likes of Tom Jones and Tony Bennet he didn't like to think. Professional boxing was just the ticket. The theatre club made all its profit from drinks and food and the ticket money paid the acts.

  He was dead right, it was perfect. A beautifully upholstered amphitheatre with thick red carpets and reeking of opulence. To be the top of the bill here would be marvellous and in my home town too. It was real class seating for well over a thousand, four to a table in its own alcove and bags and bags of room. Once I'd beaten Meade I'd tell Manny about it, I decided. Once he'd seen it he couldn't help but promote me here. At the side of the stage was a steep flight of wooden stairs and at the top on the right was a small bar for the artists and on the left a rest room. It wasn't Bob who told me, I found them myself the following week when I took Wendy and her sister Ann, who was home from the NAAFI on holiday from somewhere in Germany, for a night out.

  Wendy was thrilled skinny her sister was home. It meant she could have a night out and it didn't matter what time she came home because

  she was with their Ann, her beautiful, intelligent sister. She couldn't wait to introduce me.

  Watching Ann, with her old friends and acquaintances in the 'Mitre' I thought I'd made a mistake. She smiled and chatted and greeted people like a duchess. All her old mates whom she'd worked with at the Magistrates courts, where Wendy said she'd been an usher but I reckoned she'd been one of the girls in the typing pool where fines are paid, came and paid their respects. She was sophisticated, articulate and gave me the impression she was talking down to people, as if she was better than they were. Seen more, been about a bit and pitied their ignorance. She'd never heard of me.

  'But you must have,' Wendy spluttered. 'Everybody knows him. He's the latest thing. Been on the telly and in the papers.' She was aghast.

  'Yes Wendy,' Ann said patiently, 'but I've been in Germany.' Wendy had lapsed into silence and played the younger, inferio
r sister ever since.

  Sitting with my back to the wall watching Ann, I was in two minds. Her thick black hair, her wide forehead, the slight tilt to her eyes, the bridge of her nose, her cheekbones, all said, so I'd originally thought, she was a native beauty from the jungle around Shantung. Her nose was too broad at the bridge, her cheekbones were just too heavy and prominent, her eyes were just too far apart to be anything but coarse and all her sophistication couldn't hide it from me. She was as coarse as rendered concrete.

  'Would you like to go to the Theatre club?' I asked at last orders.

  Wendy clapped her hands with glee, 'Ooh yes. Come on Ann it's ever so posh.'

  Ann couldn't leave her two friends so they were invited along too. After Bob had introduced me to the owner of the club and I'd met

  the lads on the door I knew I'd have no problems getting in free of charge but taking 3 guests was a bit of a liberty. They'd have to stand at the back and be grateful for small mercies.

  No sweat, Tony Fletcher, the resident doorman and a feller I'd known since I'd been a nipper let us in without question and said we could use the seats through the doors from the foyer.

  Ann was really impressed sinking into the carpet and looking at

  the huge photographs of the stars who'd appeared here. It was a small

  plot of Las Vegas and the mucky back streets of Belle Vue outside the door were thousands of miles away. They all seated themselves while I left for the bar to get them drinks. They were astonished at the grandeur of the place, looking every way hoping to see a star. Nipping the velvet on the chairs and settees to see if it was real. Touching the carpet and the tables. It was all too much and, like Wendy, they were all thrilled skinny. I had to be the top of the bill here.