by Paul Sykes
Just before Christmas I'd been sitting in the 'Wine Lodge' enjoying a glass or two of Aussie red when a young woman on her way to the toilet recognised me. She pulled her mate to a halt and pointed an accusing finger.
'You're Paul Sykes,' she said sneeringly. 'Why don't you get a woman your own age?'
Thinking she had to be a pal of Elaine's, I gave her my most charming smile and stayed silent.
'You can't handle a woman your own age,' she stated in the same sneering tone, and then carried on to the toilet pleased with herself for putting me in my place. I could handle you I'd thought, with a nice sharp slap across the mouth.
Her words had played on my mind until I'd realised I didn't want a woman my own age, not at any price. One like Janet or Elaine or Pauline. One rotten and twisted and warped.
Not much later Kay told me there was a rumour flying round the town I'd raped a schoolgirl and her parents daren't complain in case they were petrol-bombed. If I didn't then my mates would. I was a gangster. Everybody knew. It was a rumour I was sure had been started by Farrer. It was right up his street. Maybe Wendy's mother had heard it. No, if she had heard anything it would be the rape and she would think it had to be Wendy and know it was rubbish.
No, she was shaking her fist for the simple reason she thought I was too old to be her daughter's boyfriend. And she'd known she
had a boyfriend since the time she discovered the Estee Lauder perfume.
But what about Cath? She would be at home now playing houses with the new front loader, or more probably going through my pockets hoping she would find something to argue about. I could start the car and go home and not see Wendy again. Cath would be ecstatic. If I did I'd be gutted, hollow and empty, and so would Wendy. How could I possibly give her the feeling I'd suffered when I'd been in the kitchen in Durham gaol and waiting for a letter from Pauline? A letter which hadn't arrived. What had Wendy done to deserve torment like that? Why can't people believe it's possible to love more than one? Parents love all their kids, kids love both their parents, and I love both my girls. I couldn't love Cath any more even if I didn't see Wendy again, in fact there was every chance I'd love her less for blackmailing my feelings. Only Del understood properly and thought it wrong the Christian marriage ceremony should make you vow to forsake all others. He'd said in Nigeria a man could have as many wives as he wanted providing he could support them. They were the true sign of wealth. Not here though. Women wanted everything, the greedy bastards, and fellers stood for it.
Yeah, well I'm not having anybody shaking their fist at me, especially a woman I thought, and two minutes later I entered the pub.
It was the first time I'd been in the 'Smith's Arms' and was surprised to see it was a nicely polished pub with fitted carpets and clean ash-trays. They were sitting at the far end of the long saddle drinking halves of bitter.
'Do you mind telling me why you were shaking your fist at me?' I asked her mother as the old feller looked on.
'Because you 're old enough to be her father,' she fired straight back.
'Not quite,' I smiled, 'but I know what you mean.'
She was pleased I'd seen her point and congratulated herself with a
mouthful of beer.
There wasn't a trace of Wendy in her, not a trace.
The old feller said in a slow, quiet voice, before I had chance to
elaborate, 'You had her at Blackpool at Easter and then we see you
with her now. You want to leave her alone.'
'You mean when you saw me dropping her off?'
He nodded in the same patient way he'd spoken.
I couldn't see a trace of Wendy in him either, apart from his height. He was a tall, bulky man. His head was too small to be in proportion with his lumbering shoulders. He was a ponderous man and a ponderous thinker.
Mother was looking for clues, like the second copper does during interrogations, and pretending she couldn't care less.
'Wendy said when 1 asked why she wanted dropping at the bottom of Greaves A venue and not outside her house that if you saw her with me you would think evil thoughts.' 1 grinned in such a way 1 hoped it read 1 hadn' t had an evil thought in my life.
There was doubt in his eyes; but until I'd spoken he'd been utterly convinced Wendy had been to Blackpool.
Who'd told him? Probably Wendy had let it slip in the typing pool, another Gisela Kovaks.
'Did you have a nice Easter Wendy?' one of them would have asked, and Wendy would have said in all innocence, 'Oh yes, smashing thankyou.' Then unable to help herself would have added, 'I went to Blackpool. '
Mother, one of the shop floor stalwarts would have mentioned the old feller catching me dropping her off and one thing would have led to another. How many times had 1 told Wendy to keep secrets to herself? She hadn't learned her lesson from the Gisela Kovaks indiscretion last year. Maybe when 1 told her about this she would keep her mouth shut in future.
'Would you like a drink? ' 1 asked cheerfully. 'I'm getting one myself.' 1 didn't want anything but if 1 didn't have one it would look as if I'd only come to cause trouble.
'No!' Mother stood. She was wishing I'd leave. She wanted to convince the old feller what a dirty rotten liar 1 was. She changed her mind a second later and excused herself.
'No. I've got to go to work now.' She left our company and as she walked from the room 1 could see where Wendy had inherited her walk. It surprised me. She was a heavy woman with broad hips.
He said he'd have a half. He wanted to question me further. Find out if 1 really was seeing Wendy. Should 1 tell him about his other daughter wanting to spend the night with the bushmen from Zambia and then point out I'd been seeing Wendy for eight months? Tell him
she hadn't caused him to lose a minute's sleep since we'd met and he couldn't say that about her before. No, it would knock his plug in and be too much to comprehend. I'd play it by ear and give Wendy all the support I could.
His first enquiry, made as if he wasn't really interested, was how I came to be dropping her off outside the mill. What kind of questions were these to a feller who could earn a living selling snide jewellery?
'I was coming back from the gym when I noticed her running down from the top of Westgate. It's hard not to notice her with her being so tall so I pulled up and asked if she wanted a lift. She was pleased and said if! hadn't stopped she'd have been late. She'd been shopping or something. I forget now.'
His face was inscrutable and reminded me of a traffic warden's when they're caught slipping a parking ticket under the windscreen wiper.
'She's a big fine girl.' I remembered how her bum had taken my breath half an hour earlier. 'I reckon with some discipline and some proper training she'd make a decent runner. '
Those words were the key. His eyes brightened and his shoulders edged back.
'Yes, I know she would.' He was full of father's pride. 'She used to be a good runner at school until . . .' he paused as he recalled the night Wendy had spent in the kid's flat on Park Lodge Lane '... Until she left,' he added lamely. The ice was broken.
We talked of training and the discipline involved and then inevitably Trinity, the city rugby team became the topic. We were sitting like two four-ply 100% peckheads for 10 minutes and I went along to keep him sweet although I hadn't the slightest interest. He didn't want another drink and left to start the afternoon shift.
What he thought of me I couldn't guess but he didn't mention boxing once, didn't even come near. It was deliberate in case I started blowing my trumpet and making him feel what he was, a peckhead. He mentioned every hard-case who'd played for Trinity though, and from his tone he wanted me to know he thought any of them could put me in my place.
What did I think of him? Nothing much. He was just another predictable peckhead and about as exciting as a chimney pot.
* * * *
Blackpool illuminations were switched on and Burky was across in his Land Rover Safari -'I'd draw two grand profit for this if I shipped it to Belgium. Screamin
g for these in Belgium' -before it was dark. He'd thousands and thousands of the green necklaces stored in freezer boxes and 10 lads off the Peacock estate to sell them. He was paying 10p commission for each sale.
The first weekend some of the lads earned more money than they had seen in their lives before. They walked along the promenade with the necklaces on their arms and crying, 'They glow, they show, they're fifty pee a throw,' and sold them hand over fist. Burky smiled often during the following week and once or twice had his dinner in 'The Wakefield Pride', a pub at the top of Kirkgate that gave a two-course meal for a pound. If I hadn't been training I'd have been with them even if I did think Burky had reduced the art of selling to something parrots could do. But I had to train.
Manny was promoting in Blackpool again, the first professional boxing to be held in the Tower for over 12 years. My opponent was to be a giant African, currently the biggest pro boxer in the world and his claim to fame was he'd never been off his feet. He had lost a few times but he'd never been knocked over.
'He's had plenty of fights in Europe,' Manny had told me, 'and he's got a fair record, but you shouldn't have any problems if you're fit. Get yourself fit Paul, because I'm in negotiations for you to fight Evangelista for the European title. Do this feller and there will be every chance you'll be fighting for it very soon.'
Another load of old bollocks to get me to train and keep the golden goose alive.
Every day I trained in the old chapel at the same time but my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't understand why I didn't want to race the clock or attempt times I knew would really hurt. It played on my mind until I came to the conclusion I was stale. It was my body telling my brain to change the routine and shock it into life again. It wanted a fresh challenge. Slow down and bore myself silly with the old traditional training and after a while I'd be screaming for some real work. I skipped, shadow-boxed, lifted Jerry's rusty old weights and generally messed about until I was lathered in sweat and out of breath but I still didn't enjoy it. First thing of a morning I started running and would pass the Town Hall clock in the centre of Ossett before 6 o'clock
every morning but I still couldn't shake off the feeling of lethargy. It felt as if I was running through deep mud. From Flushdyke primary school the last mile and a half of Dewsbury Road is a steady gradient which I dreaded now. It was only months ago it was a challenge I'd looked forward to. There was something wrong somewhere I'd think checking the time with the stop clock when I reached home. My times were quicker now.
Could it be Cath having the baby and the knowledge she had told me a lie, a rotten diabolical lie and I'd only just realised.
She had said on her birthday she hadn't been taking the pill since Christmas Eve, she'd missed her period and thought she was pregnant. It had been a lie and the expected date of birth proved it. She had been testing the water and when she'd thought I wasn't bothered had stopped taking the pill then. She wasn't aware I knew and to bring it up would be pointless now. Could it be playing on my mind?
Could it be the responsibility of living in the house knowing it wasn't really mine and kidding myself it was? Could it be the conflict inside my head between Cath and Wendy? Could it be a hangover from Wilson's injury? Could it be neither of my parents had been to see me in my new home and still thought the same about Cath? Maybe they were both right. I didn't know for sure but there was something radically wrong with me. I didn't feel right at all.
Alex wasn't coming to this show. He was going to watch Alan Minter on a show in London on the same night. He was the only one from my army of supporters who wasn't coming. There were dozens and dozens of local people who wanted to come and watch me but they couldn't because they hadn't any transport. A week before the fight I went to the bus company and asked if they could lay on a bus.
'No problems,' a fat feller wearing homed rimmed glasses told me, 'only too pleased to be of service. You'll have a bit of a problem though. It's too late now to advertise. You'll have to do it yourself.'
Fortune was with me, my old mate Bob was appearing on Sunday at Alverthorpe WMC by special request. It was just what I needed. A night out and a laugh and at the end of his act he could tell them about the bus going to Blackpool for my supporters. If he told them all officially from the stage it wouldn't be brushed off as a rumour and it would only take a day for all the town to know.
It had been last Christmas when I'd last been in the concert-room but I'd been in the club a few times in the afternoon to play Bob snooker. It had a brilliant snooker room and two first class tables. The last time we'd been in, the concert secretary had begged Bob to appear and Sunday night had been his only free date for months. He'd agreed later, when he'd checked his diary, but he wanted to put on a show here for old time's sake.
The place was heaving with people sitting on each other's knees, shoulder to shoulder standing four deep around the edges. Lots of the audience had known him since he'd been a little lad and lots had come to see him for the first time. Not really believing he could be good enough to be a pro.
He had them all in stitches in less than a minute and they stayed like that until he changed from Oliver Hardy into Elvis Presley and asked if they had any requests.
'Love me tender,' cried a middle-aged Ann Margaret, who worked in the Co-op on Batley Road.
It was Bob's favourite. They hadn't a chance of remembering he was Bob Shaw who'd gone to Snapethorpe school until he'd finished. The only reason he'd never made the top flight was his dialect but he couldn't change it.
'Nar then,' he stated quietly into the mike and instantly there was silence. 'I'm going to tell you all something toneet that you din't know.'
He related the tale of the first time he'd ever been to this club, Christmas Eve 1960. He'd left school that very day and came here to declare his undying love for the steward's daughter, Mary Jones, but she'd been upstairs watching the telly. He couldn't get a message to her without declaring he was under-age. He could throw stones at the window but he didn't know which window to aim at. He could tie a note to the dog's collar, or he could wait on the off-chance she would come downstairs. He bought a pint for himself and his mate while he waited. His mate bought the next. The rest of the night he'd been outside 'Spewin' me ring up at the side of me mate an' ah never saw Mary Jones again.' Plenty laughed but he wasn't looking for laughs.
'The lad who was wi' me that night is familiar to you all, and on
Tuesday a bus will be leaving from the bus station to take those who
wanna see 'im across to Blackpool to watch 'im fight at the Tower.
You all know 'is name and a lad I'm proud to say is my friend. Stand up Paul.'
It was Alverthorpe club. Full of flat caps, mufflers, old time dancing, Fred on the organ and Eric on the drums but yet I had a lump in my throat like a half brick as I stood to resounding applause. Sitting down quickly I couldn't believe the people I'd seen clapping, people who'd disliked and feared me since I'd been a school kid. The same people who'd looked down their noses because I'd been in the nick. People who had said I was nothing more than an animal when I'd bitten Mick's ear. They were all clapping fit to break their hands.
The sound rekindled the fire, I wanted to leave immediately and try for a PB on the circuit or tackle the climb up Dewsbury Road. I wanted to win, I wanted to win. That's what had been wrong with me, I hadn't wanted to win. It wasn't any of the reasons I'd thought but a lack of motivation. These people wanted me to win, expected me to win. I gave them hope just like Richard Dunne had given hope to the young lads on the under-cards. 'The bus will be leaving platform 18 at 3.30,' Bob was saying when I came to reality. All the times I'd fallen at the final hurdle I thought and I'd come close to doing it again. There would be no tripping and slips this time. I'd win hands down.
The day before the fight I went across to stay with Ron and let Cath get herself dressed up without having to leave home. Ron was forever predicting bad tidings about having two girls but he'd promised not to mention the subject
or do anything to disturb my concentration. Ron was a firm believer in psyching yourself up. He had laid the law down to Josie because she crept about like a little mouse and clipped poor Jason a couple of times for making a noise. 'Sherrup you little bee,' she'd hissed and then he'd yelled.
It was Ron's home and if he thought I needed complete silence then that's what I'd have. I retired to bed and the uninterrupted peace made a pleasant change.
The weigh-in was held in the circus ring at one o'clock where the boxing ring would be erected later. The African had to be 6ft 8 or 9 inches tall, it was hard to be precise because he towered over me, and weighed 17st 100b. He wasn't fat and had a big bland, peasant face and couldn't speak a word of English. He lived in Switzerland and Manny said he spoke French. After the ceremony Manny had us go
onto the promenade to have our photos taken for the evening edition of the 'Blackpool Gazette' to advertise the fight. The African stared down at me. He didn't look bright enough to be using psychology but I couldn't be sure.
'Bon fortune,' I grinned. It may have been my pronunciation he didn't understand but he stopped licking his lips and glared suspiciously.
Mcgill called to see me during the afternoon to check me over and even he couldn't shake me out of the apathetic state I was in. My brain flitted from one subject to another like the bees went from flower to flower in the rose gardens and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't take this fight seriously. But I had to, this feller was a monster, and I had to have a battle plan. What battle plan against a feller his size? I'd take it how it came and bollocks to it.
