by T. S. Easton
‘You’ll need to wait for the drinks guy,’ the waiter said abruptly. ‘I don’t do drinks on Wednesdays. Monday night and Sunday lunchtime I do drinks, but never Wednesdays.’
‘Never Wednesdays,’ I repeated solemnly to George. ‘Still think Wednesday is best for Date Night?’ George sighed and started picking the skin off his chicken.
‘That’s the best bit,’ I protested. ‘That’s where all the flavour is.’
‘A hundred and fifty calories per thirty-five grams,’ George said automatically. ‘I’m running tomorrow.’
‘Well, you need some flavour,’ I said, reaching across to the next table and swiping two bottles of peri-peri sauce. I inspected the labels. ‘Medium, and … ooh, extra hot. Wanna try?’
‘No,’ George said. ‘I’ll try some of the medium.’
I splashed some onto his chicken. ‘Whoa, whoa!’ he cried.
‘Don’t be a wuss,’ I said. He took a tiny morsel on his fork and tasted it gingerly.
‘Oh, that’s quite hot,’ he said. As I went to splash some on my own food he shook his head. ‘Don’t give yourself as much as you gave me. You won’t like it.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Is it … is it because I’m a girl? You think I can’t handle spicy foods?’
‘No,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I just think medium is quite hot enough for … for anyone.’
‘It is because I’m a girl,’ I said.
‘It’s not,’ he protested. ‘Honestly.’
‘If you were with one of your navy chums, you’d be egging him on right now,’ I said. I was looking for an excuse to have some fun, but at the same time I was a little cross at his casual misogyny. ‘You’d probably be de-bagging each other and pouring extra-hot peri-peri sauce over your genitals.’
‘I really don’t think you’ve got a good idea of what goes on at college,’ he said, frowning. ‘Look, just put a bit of the medium on and leave it at that.’ But it was too late. I grabbed the extra-hot sauce and splashed it on, laughing like a maniac. Two splashes, three.
‘That’s enough,’ he said, looking anxious.
‘Hahaha!’ I cried. Four splashes. Five. George tried to snatch the bottle from me but I was too quick, holding it out of his reach. We glared at each other. He held out a hand. ‘Give me the peri-peri sauce, Fleur.’
‘Shan’t,’ I said.
‘Please, Fleur. Give me the peri-peri sauce.’ We sat for a while, watching each other, trying not to laugh.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Here you go.’ I held out the bottle, but as he tried to take it from me I quickly turned it upside down and splashed more sauce onto his chicken. He finally got a hand to it and we struggled over it, snorting with laughter. Eventually he got it away and hid it under his chair.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘eat your chicken.’
‘You eat yours first,’ I said.
He reached over and took my hand in his. ‘We’ll do it together,’ he said. And so we did. Together we picked up our knives and forks, together we cut off a piece of chicken, together we ate, chewed and swallowed. Together we looked into each other’s eyes.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.
‘I don’t think it’s kicked in yet,’ I replied, just as I felt the beginnings of a tickling, burning sensation in my mouth.
‘I think it might be kicking in now,’ he said, his face suddenly crumpling. I wanted to agree, but couldn’t speak. I knew if I opened my mouth fire would shoot out and turn my boyfriend into a flaming ball. And then who would protect us from the Russians? The burning sensation had by now become a raging fire. It felt as though dystopian overlord fire imps were roving around in my mouth burning rebels with flamethrowers. George didn’t seem to be coping any better. Sweat poured down his forehead, making him blink furiously. He’d gone deathly pale and was clutching his knife and fork so hard it looked like they might snap. As I snatched up a napkin and started dabbing my swollen tongue in a vain attempt to scrape off the residue, I saw, through streaming eyes, George stand and wave furiously towards the bar before gasping, ‘Where’s the drinks guy? Where’s the flipping drinks guy?’
Boudicca
George wasn’t the only one who had to undergo gruelling physical training the next day. Thursdays was PE with Bonita, specifically hockey. There were other girls playing too, I think, but Bonita was the only one who paid any attention to me. If it wasn’t for her I could happily spend the game sitting in a corner making daisy chains and thinking about death. The other girls knew I was a slacker and just ignored me, but Bonita made it her mission to drag the game in my direction and make sure I had to get involved and try to stop her scoring, which I was never able to do, of course.
I hadn’t slept well after Date Night. The chilli sauce had wreaked such destruction across my ravaged mouth parts that they continued throbbing all night, and not in a good way. George and I had joked about it afterwards but neither of us really felt like kissing when he dropped me off home and I was regretting what I’d done. I lay in bed and thought about George. We do have fun. He makes me laugh and I make him laugh. And I like that we see such different things in each other and appreciate them. George would never have gone to Chickos if it wasn’t for me. I would never go to Akvars on the Hastings Bypass if it wasn’t for George. But as the clock ticked over past 1 a.m. and I still couldn’t find sleep, I lay in the dark and wondered if the only reason I was with George was because he was different. Was I just doing it for a laugh? Was he just another sousaphone?
So I wasn’t entirely match-fit the following afternoon, and when I saw Bonita and her pals thundering towards me like Boudicca and her Iceni warriors, my heart sank. I groaned and held up my hockey stick like a Roman legionnaire with a short-sword. Needless to say I was trampled and went down heavily, my skirt flying up around my ears. Someone, probably Bonita, stood on my wrist as she charged through. I lay there in darkness with my skirt over my face, rubbing my wrist furiously, listening to the guttural whoops of the Iceni tribe celebrating the scoring of another goal.
I’m not competitive at heart, but it would be nice, just once, to get the better of Bonita.
Ricky
On Saturday, Pip and Blossom picked me up early in Pip’s car. It was overcast and I’d worn a coat and comfortable shoes, suspecting that Blossom might make us stand outside the boxing club for most of the morning. I was hoping I might be able to pop off to Superdrug at some point because I needed some face wipes and tampons. Maybe I could even sneak into Accessorize to buy something for Blossom’s birthday. Pip was wearing a long black coat over black trousers and jumper. He had wrap-around shades and would have looked like Neo from The Matrix if it hadn’t been for the stovepipe hat. Blossom was in full protest regalia. Her black jacket was covered with little badges, from Save the Whales through CND to a picture of Jeremy Corbyn made to look like Che Guevara.
Pip’s driving seemed even more erratic than usual. He never stopped to let oncoming cars go by, even on the narrowest lanes. They’d flash their lights and beep their horns but Pip would just trundle on through, oblivious, sending them swerving up onto the pavement or sometimes into fields. Because we were going so slowly there was usually someone right behind us, flashing their lights in annoyance or roaring past. It was never very peaceful driving in Pip’s car.
The boxing club was in the Bosford Memorial Hall, near St Peter’s church, not far from the train station and in a slightly dishevelled part of town. Just by the church was the boundary of the largest council estate in Bosford, the Gladwell Estate. Pip parked up and we walked down the street towards the hall.
‘What did the club organisers say?’ I asked Blossom.
‘I haven’t spoken to them,’ Blossom said.
‘You didn’t phone them?’
‘I find it’s always better to talk to someone face to face,’ she said confidently. We stopped in front of the church and I swallowed nervously.
‘It’s just that …’ I began.
‘It’s just that what?’ Blo
ssom asked impatiently.
‘Well, they’re boxers. What if it’s full of men with tattoos on their faces and no teeth?’
‘Come on, you two. Where’s your backbone?’ Blossom said, as she turned and marched straight in. Pip and I looked at each other, shrugged and followed, more hesitantly. A lady with grey hair sat at a trestle table just inside the door. She wore a tracksuit and had a ledger open in front of her along with a little box of coins. Blossom frowned at the woman.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’
I peered past the table. Beyond the woman, in the main part of the hall, about two dozen children of various ages were skipping, or at least trying to skip. A very large, stocky man with a shaven head was glaring at them. Most of the children looked about as co-ordinated as Pip. The oldest looked to be in his early teens, the youngest maybe five or six. They were mostly boys, but there were a few girls. I wanted to point this out to Blossom but she was busy talking to the lady at the trestle table.
‘I’ve come to talk to you about this,’ Blossom began, holding up the flyer.
‘Yes dear,’ the lady said. ‘Are you interested in our Thursday session?’
‘Why can’t I come to the Saturday session?’
‘Well,’ the lady said, ‘Thursdays might be more suitable.’
‘Why?’ Blossom asked politely. ‘Are Saturdays men-only?’
‘You’d better talk to Coach Ricky,’ the lady said. I turned to see the huge man approaching, his brow furrowed.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Are you in charge?’ Blossom asked.
‘This is my club, yes,’ Coach Ricky said. He had a deep voice and a South London accent.
‘Are you aware it’s an offence under Section 4 of the 2010 Equality Act to deny membership of a club on sex grounds?’
‘What?’ Ricky said, looking confused. ‘Sex what?’
‘You can’t stop someone joining your club just because they are a girl.’
Ricky turned to the children who’d all stopped to watch the exchange. ‘SKIP!’ he roared. They all leapt to it. ‘You’re a boxer?’ Ricky asked, turning back to Blossom.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think sports are patriarchal, especially martial arts.’
‘So what’s the problem then?’
‘Just because I don’t want to box doesn’t mean you’re allowed to exclude me.’
‘Look,’ Ricky said. ‘The women we get coming to the club are just doing it for conditioning. Y’know? To get fit? It takes commitment and focus to be a proper boxer and when you tell me that you don’t like sports, then I’m wondering why you’re even here.’ I looked around the hall as they argued. It looked a little shabby, to be honest. I saw a couple of ancient punching bags hanging from racks. The lady with the grey hair smiled at me.
‘Are you a boxing coach too?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I run the ladies’ session. We do boxercise, no pads or sparring. I’m Coach Sharon, that’s Coach Joe.’ She pointed to a grizzled old man in tracksuit bottoms who’d taken over leading the skipping exercise. He hardly looked able to walk, let alone skip, but he leaned over slowly, grunting with the effort, and got his fingertips to the skipping rope Ricky had left behind. Then he raised himself with difficulty. He flipped the plastic rope over his head and almost without seeming to move, hopped his feet over it.
Pip and I watched, fascinated, as the old man started skipping. Slowly at first, then gradually quicker as the kids shouted at him to hurry up. His hands twirled faster and faster, becoming a blur as his gnarled old frame bopped up and down steadily, bouncing like a twisted old spring. Then he did that odd flipping thing that fit people do with skipping ropes where they seem to twist the rope back and forth. Joe closed his eyes and concentrated as the rope became a whistling blur, his feet seeming to move in slow-motion, lifting just high enough to let the rope hiss by underneath.
‘He’s amazing,’ Pip said, breathlessly.
‘Would you two like a cup of tea?’ Sharon asked. I think she could tell our hearts weren’t in Blossom’s protest. Sharon led us to a trestle table and went to an urn to make our drinks. Blossom was still remonstrating with Ricky. I could see her pointing to something on the flyer.
Sharon came back with two cups of tea and some papers. She placed them down in front of us. ‘Have you ever thought you might like to box?’ she asked kindly. Pip looked up at her in alarm.
‘Not really,’ he said.
‘We’re a bit short of numbers, you see,’ Sharon said, hopefully. ‘What about you, dear?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘Me?’ I asked.
‘Yes, why not?’ she said. ‘You could come on Thursday, that’s ladies-only boxercise. It’s quite gentle.’ Boxercise and nattering with a bunch of old women? I might as well be at Mum’s Pilates class.
‘Hmm,’ I said.
‘What about Wednesday nights?’
‘Can’t do Wednesdays,’ I said. ‘Date night.’ Blossom came over then, having finished with Ricky, or been dismissed by him perhaps; I’d missed the end of their discussion. She looked cross.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ Sharon asked. ‘While you read through the forms?’
‘No we wouldn’t,’ Blossom said. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘I’d like a biscuit,’ Pip said.
Sharon brought a selection over on a plate and Pip grabbed one gratefully. Blossom shot him a look. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to sign up?’
‘No,’ Pip said.
‘Then why are you taking a biscuit?’ Blossom hissed. ‘You take their biscuits and then they’ve got you.’
‘It’s not some gateway drug to the patriarchy,’ I said. ‘It’s a custard cream.’
‘I’m just saying that maybe it’s a bit rude to be taking biscuits when you have no intention of signing up,’ Blossom said impatiently. ‘Now can we go? We’ve made our point.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t finished my tea yet.’
Blossom sighed and took out her phone. I looked at the forms. There were a lot of them. None were particularly reassuring. Health warnings, disclaimers, statutory obligations, next-of-kin, a list of local osteopaths. Even if I had wanted to take up boxing, I wasn’t sure I wanted to sign my name at the bottom of a set of documents which seemed to give someone the authority to inflict hideous damage upon my person. I wasn’t Anastasia Steele.
Coach Ricky had taken over the training session again and Joe limped gratefully off for a sit-down. ‘All right, my little champions,’ Ricky roared. ‘Are we going to train hard today?’ The kids screamed a big YES. ‘We’re a team, here,’ Ricky said. ‘We don’t poke fun at each other. If you see someone else struggling, you help them. Give them encouragement, all right? Show them how to do it better. And finally, what we learn here today stays in the club, got it?’ The kids nodded solemnly. ‘I say this every week, every session, because it’s important,’ Ricky went on, waggling a finger. ‘If I hear any of you have used your boxing skills out there on the street to hurt someone else, you’re out of the club. Understand?’
The kids mumbled general agreement. I saw one little lad at the side looking a bit guilty. ‘UNDERSTAND?’ Ricky roared.
‘YES COACH RICKY,’ the kids yelled in unison, even the guilty-looking one, who I suspected might be resolving to lift his game in future.
‘I wish Coach Ricky was my dad,’ Pip said, unexpectedly. I knew what he meant about Coach Ricky though. He was gruff and unsmiling, but he was one of those people you know you can totally trust just by looking at them. The sort of person you were desperate to please. The kids seemed to agree. They watched him constantly, followed him around, listened when he spoke and jumped when he said jump. We drank our tea and watched the kids leaping up and down. At one point some of them put gloves on and took turns tapping two big pads Ricky wore on his hands. ‘One, two, duck,’ Ricky would say. ‘One two, one two, duck.’ Whenever he said ‘duck’, he’d reach out with th
e pads and they were supposed to duck underneath, but they couldn’t ever time it right and he kept tapping them on the side of the head.
‘Keep your guard up,’ he said to the guilty-looking boy, who nodded and punched himself in the head to help the new information sink in. I liked Guilty Boy. He seemed the sort of person who was constantly striving to improve himself without ever quite managing it. Pip eyed the kids as they waved their massive gloves around unconvincingly. ‘I reckon I could take some of these guys down,’ he said.
‘Not that one,’ Blossom said, pointing to a mean-looking boy with close-cropped hair and an earring. He looked about eight.
‘No,’ Pip agreed. ‘Not him.’ I was enjoying myself. It felt restful there, sipping tea while fifteen mad children leapt about taking swings at each other.
‘Are you going to fill it in, then?’ Coach Sharon asked, appearing behind us.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, sitting upright. ‘Just reading through the fine print.’
‘OK, let me know if you need anything. Another cup of tea? Another biscuit?’
‘No thanks,’ I said.
‘I’d like another biscuit, please,’ Pip said. Blossom stared at him darkly. Just then a young man walked in through the door. Late teens, a little older than me. He had olive skin and dark hair and eyes. He looked Mediterranean, or maybe from the Middle East. He wore a loose T-shirt but even so I could see he was ripped.
‘Tarik!’ Ricky called to the new arrival. ‘Nice of you to show up.’
Tarik. That’s a nice name, I thought as I watched him stretch. He was lithe and muscular. He turned and of course caught me staring and I quickly pretended I was inspecting an interesting light fitting just behind him.
Pip brought another biscuit to his mouth and was about to bite down when Sharon said, ‘So, are you going to fill in these forms or not?’ Pip looked panicked.
‘You did take two biscuits,’ I reminded him. Pip shrugged. Then he reached over and grabbed one of the forms and the pen and signed his name. Blossom sighed.
