by T. S. Easton
‘How was it?’ she asked.
‘Hard,’ I said. I really didn’t feel like talking to her just now, but I knew she must have been sitting at home worried sick about me.
‘You look awful,’ she said. ‘All red and puffy.’
‘You should see the other guy,’ I said. But I went into my bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like I’d been attacked by someone carrying a paintbrush and a bucket of sweat. Some of the sweat had dried on my face, leaving little crusty, salty streaks. My hair was stuck down over my forehead and a curl had wrapped itself around my ear as if clinging to it for comfort. My face was blotchy red like Pip’s had been. Suddenly I felt sick and before I could do anything to stop it the pint of water I’d drunk came flooding back out into the sink. Don’t drink too much too fast, Ricky had said. I looked up at Mum, expecting her to be horrified, but actually she looked relieved.
‘I guess you won’t be going back then,’ she said.
Just at that moment, the thought of putting myself through that torture again made my skin crawl with horror. But I wasn’t going to let her know that. I wiped the sick from my chin, swiped back my sweaty hair and said, ‘Of course I’m going back. I loved every second of it.’
The Return
Obviously I had no intention of going back. And neither did Pip. When Blossom asked us on Thursday if we were working at Battle on Saturday I said probably. I needed the money and the weather was looking good.
‘Only probably?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going to boxing again?’
‘I’m not. It was horrible,’ Pip said. ‘You should have seen my outfit though. I looked amazing.’
‘Fleur?’ she said, looking at me.
‘It was OK,’ I said. For some reason I didn’t really want to tell Blossom how difficult I’d found it. I knew how she felt about boxing and didn’t want a lecture.
‘You the only girl there?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘Did they make you feel welcome?’ I thought of Helpful Boy, but then remembered Ricky turning his back on me. The others refusing to meet my eye.
‘I didn’t go to make friends, I went to get fit. Maybe you should give it a try?’
‘You don’t have to get involved in a misogynistic sport to get fit,’ she said, ignoring my barb. ‘You should come on a few marches, carrying placards is great for upper-body strength.’
‘Hmm, I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I don’t think boxing is misogynistic.’
‘It glorifies male violence and aggression,’ she said. ‘It’s a brutal and dehumanising spectacle, exploiting the most vulnerable people in society.’
‘Or,’ I said, ‘it encourages fitness and confidence. It teaches discipline and application to disadvantaged young people. There are two sides to the issue.’
‘You sound like your dad,’ she pointed out.
‘Well sometimes there are two sides to issues,’ I said. And we left it there.
Despite my fighting talk, I think if Mum had been able to leave the subject alone, then I might have decided to drop the boxing idea once and for all. But she just wouldn’t shut up about it. Mostly I dreaded the thought of going back. But there’s something about Mum that can make you want to swallow bleach rather than agree with her. So on Friday night I decided I wasn’t going to Battle, but back down to Bosford Boxing Club.
With no Pip, I would have to make my own way there. The hall is at least another half a mile further than school and I didn’t really fancy walking the whole way. So after breakfast I went into the garage and inspected my bike. It was home to a number of new species of spider and I had to evict an extended family of earwigs who had set up a cosy home in the left handlebar grip. But once I’d dusted it off and pumped up the tyres, it seemed OK. Except there was an odd scraping sound. I wheeled it around on the driveway, trying to work out where it came from, when Dad appeared and offered to help me sort it out.
‘Good to see you out on the bike again,’ he said as he set his tools down and peered at the back wheel. I wondered if he was going to ask me to come out for a ride with him. But he didn’t.
‘I’m going to ride down to Bosford,’ I said eventually. ‘To boxing.’
‘You’re serious about it, yeah?’ he said without looking up. He tightened a screw on the gear mechanism, then loosened another.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if it’s my thing, but I want to go back today.’
He looked up at me with an odd mix of expressions I couldn’t quite read. Though there was concern in there. ‘Your mother is worried sick,’ he said. ‘She asked me why you were doing it. Why choose boxing, of all things?’
‘I don’t really know,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s because people keep telling me I shouldn’t.’
‘That’s it? You’re doing it because of what other people say? What do you say?’
I thought about it for a while before answering. I had a good answer. ‘When I hit Ricky’s pad last week. When I got my balance right, and really laid into it. It felt right. I felt like I’d got rid of something negative.’
‘Do you think it’s cathartic?’ he asked. ‘That you’re getting something out of your system?’ I nodded.
‘I get that feeling when I’m on my bike,’ he said. ‘I can just get away, escape. And all the anger and the … negative feelings I have I can just … pour into the pedals. I’m not explaining it very well.’ But he was. I knew just what he meant. I waited to see if there would be more, but he just stood and said, ‘There, sorted. The gears were misaligned. Try it now.’
I cycled up and down Badger Lane. Ian Beale had been allowed outside for once and he lumbered along behind me, wheezing in delight. I nodded to Dad as he watched.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Ride safely,’ he said. ‘Do you know the way?’
‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘I think I know my way around Bosford.’
Fewer
I was lost. I’d foolishly decided to take a shortcut through the Malcolm Gladwell Estate, which is a bit of a maze. All the houses look the same and each one has either a mattress, a car on bricks or a caravan in the front garden. I stopped to ask a lady with a pram the way. She seemed delighted to have been asked but gave me such a convoluted set of contradictory directions that I decided just to ignore her. I looked at my watch. I would be late if I didn’t get a wriggle on. I was going to have to ask someone else. I looked around and saw a group of young men. I took a deep breath and cycled over to them. One looked up as I approached.
‘All right?’ I said in my best ‘street’ voice. ‘Looking for the Memorial Hall, innit.’
‘You that Fleur,’ he said, ‘from school. Why you in Gladwell’s?’ I didn’t recognise him. But he seemed to know me. That was odd. No one noticed me at school. The other boys wandered over. A couple of the older boys looked a little hostile. Suddenly I wondered if I’d made a big mistake. Riding through the Gladwell Estate? On my own? In Lycra?
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I’ll find it.’ I got back on my bike and tried to push off, but in my haste made a mess of it and nearly fell off. The boys laughed.
‘Wanna push?’ One of the boys walked up behind me and took hold of my bike seat. Instinctively I slapped his hand away. He looked about my age, with tattoos on his neck, and wore a baggy T-shirt. He reached forward again to grab the seat and this time his fingers touched my bum. I pushed off and pedalled away as the boys laughed. But a couple of them came running along behind me.
‘You need to get fit, Fleur.’
‘Don’t fall off, girly!’ I got to a T-junction and had to stop as a white van came past. The boys caught up with me, one came up on my left, the other on my right. Shouts and laughter from behind told me the others were following too. Suddenly I felt very scared. My breath caught in my throat and I lifted my hands in a defensive posture. The boy to my left laughed and imitated my posture. Then sudden
ly he was gone, knocked off his feet by a blur that came up from behind. I watched him go tumbling to the tarmac in front of my bike, then the boy on the right was sent the same way as someone gave him a hard shove. I turned to see who my saviour was.
‘Tarik?’
‘Get away from her,’ Tarik called as the boys clambered to their feet. The rest of them had caught up now and were standing watching. They were wary of Tarik. Maybe they knew of his skill in the ring. ‘You’re lucky she didn’t get off her bike. You didn’t know she was a boxer, did you?’ Tarik had the faint trace of an accent. The boys walked off, laughing in a show of bravado.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘It’s Fleur, isn’t it? What are you doing going down Belham Street?’
‘That’s victim blaming,’ I said, realising I sounded like Blossom. ‘Are you saying that I shouldn’t be allowed to go where I want? Because I’m a girl?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I just meant that you’re going the wrong way for boxing.’
‘Oh,’ I said. He grinned and I felt my tummy do a little flip. He wore a loose hoodie but I could still make out the firm muscles in his shoulders. ‘Well that’s OK, then.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Wheel your bike and we’ll walk together.’
I was still shaken from my experience, but Tarik’s presence was reassuring. We chatted about the club and Tarik told me about Ricky’s history. ‘He was a great boxer. Been in the ring since he was nine. Went to the Commonwealth Games and won bronze. Would have gone to the Olympics in Athens but got injured. Sharon reckons he would have got gold. Then he went professional. Seventy-three fights.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing in this dump?’
‘Not a lot of money in boxing,’ Tarik said. ‘Not in this country. Besides, Ricky wants to give something back. He trained in a club like this. Lived on an estate, like me.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to say there’s something wrong with this area.’ Nice one, Fleur, I thought. My smart mouth had got me into trouble again. Blossom would have told me to check my privilege and this time she would have been right.
‘Don’t worry,’ Tarik said. ‘It is a crap-hole.’
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bag of cashews, offering it to me. I took a handful.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘You should eat lots of these,’ he said. ‘Good protein, good for bulking up. Where do you live?’
‘East Bosford,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘Rangers’ Wood.’
‘Very nice,’ Tarik said as we walked into the club. ‘So what are you doing in this dump?’
‘I’m here to box,’ I said. Inside, I saw a group of boys chatting as Ricky fiddled with the ring.
‘… So she says, “I want you to make me feel like a real woman,”’ one of the lads was saying to the others as I walked behind him. Helpful Boy coughed when he saw me, but the first lad ignored him. ‘So I gave her my shirt and said, “Iron this.”’ They all laughed, except Helpful Boy, who looked slightly embarrassed.
‘Come on, ladies,’ Ricky shouted. ‘Let’s warm up.’
We were very nearly late for training and Ricky got us straight onto skipping. You had to skip for two minutes without stopping, but of course that was impossible, and every time the rope hit you on the back of the head, or got tangled in your legs, you had to drop it and do some horrible exercise, like squat jumps, or alternate lunges.
‘The longer you keep up the skipping the less reps you have to do,’ Ricky cried.
‘Fewer,’ I mumbled automatically.
‘What’s that, Fleur?’ Ricky asked, cupping a hand to his ear. I froze, suddenly aware that everyone was looking at me.
‘Um. Fewer reps,’ I said. ‘Not less. Because you can count them.’
‘You got breath to correct my English, you can do ten more squat thrusts,’ Ricky growled. ‘Count those.’ The boys all laughed. If I wasn’t already bright red from the exertion, I would have been bright red from mortification. I did the squat thrusts. When would I learn to keep my mouth shut?
‘To be fair, I didn’t think you’d be back,’ Helpful Boy said to me as we had a quick breather between reps. ‘I’m Dan.’
‘To be fair, I didn’t think I’d be back either,’ I said. ‘And yet, here I am. I’m Fleur.’
‘We don’t get many girls here,’ Dan said. ‘And those that do come usually don’t last very long.’ That made me feel a little better. It helped to have a friendly face, and a name. As we started the next exercise, Ricky went into the spiel I’d heard a couple of times before. ‘Boxing is for the ring only,’ he began. ‘What you learn here in the club, stays in the club. If I hear of anyone fighting outside you will be out of Bosford Boxing Club. If you see someone else struggling you do not laugh at them, you do not mock them. You help them, you encourage them, you support them. Is that understood?’
‘Yes coach Ricky,’ a few boys panted as we leapt up and down. The sweat was already starting to pour down my neck into Mum’s Lycra.
‘Is that understood?’ he repeated.
‘YES COACH RICKY!’ we screamed.
Forbidden
‘Don’t let the dog out!’ Mum cried as I came in through the kitchen door. She was at the stove, stirring a pot. Ian Beale had seen the door open and was lumbering towards me, intent on freedom. I closed it quickly, dropped my bag and dropped to my knees to give him a consolation hug.
‘Crikey, Ian Beale,’ I said, ‘you stink.’
‘It’s a side-effect of this medicine,’ Mum said. ‘It’s highly unstable, which is why I have to cook it up each time I give it to him.’ I stood and watched her tip some crystals into a saucepan as she stirred.
‘I’m pleased to hear it’s just the dog’s medicine,’ I said. ‘I thought for a minute I’d walked into a crack den.’ I poured myself a glass of water and peered at a magazine Mum had left on the table. It was called Women’s Health and had a picture of a toned, pony-tailed girl on the cover. Maybe if I got fit I could look like that, I thought. Mum glanced over.
‘You haven’t forgotten about Saturday, have you?’ she asked.
‘What about Saturday?’
‘You said you’d come along to my Pilates class with me.’
I groaned. I didn’t remember saying that to Mum, but it is possible I may have grunted agreement at her without really listening. Mum has been trying to get me to come to her Pilates classes for months. She says she wants us to bond, but I think she just wants to keep an eye on me.
‘Pilates?’ I said. ‘Isn’t that for … you know, older people?’
‘Not at all!’ Mum replied. ‘You’d be surprised. It’s harder than it looks, and much safer than boxing. You should come along, meet Carole, the instructor. Everyone loves Carole, she has an enveloping aura.’
‘Oh sorry, Mum,’ I said, slightly alarmed at the thought of meeting Carole and her aura. ‘I’ve remembered I have to help Blossom with something on Saturday.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Please tell me you’re not going back to boxing.’
‘Well, I thought I might,’ I said. ‘Anyway, need a shower.’ I escaped upstairs.
‘We need to talk about this, Fleur,’ Mum called up after me. ‘Please?’ When I came back down, Dad was there and the table was laid. There was a steaming soup tureen on the sideboard and a bit of an atmosphere in the room. And before Mum started ladling out the soup she asked if we could have a little chat.
‘It’s about your boxing,’ Dad said.
‘Is that tureen going to fit in the dishwasher?’ I asked, hoping to derail the subject by triggering a dishwasher discussion. No such luck.
‘Your mother and I are worried about you getting involved in such a violent sport.’
‘It’s just a bit of skipping and hitting bags. It’s not like I’m doing twelve rounds with Naseem Hamed.’
‘It’s dangerous, Fleur,’ Mum said. ‘Can’t you see I’m worried about you? I don’t want
to lose another daughter.’
‘Verity’s not dead,’ I pointed out. ‘She’s alive and well and living in Dunedin.’
‘If you’re serious about it, though,’ Dad said, trying to be the voice of reason, ‘then we will allow it.’
‘That’s good of you,’ I said. I could feel myself flushing with anger.
Mum took over. ‘But on the understanding that you only do the training. The … what did you call it, the conditioning? I … we don’t want you to fight in the ring.’ For half a second, I thought about arguing, but managed to bring my temper under control. Because I’d just seen she’d left a slight opening in the shield wall. I could win this while avoiding confrontation.
‘I have no intention of fighting in the ring, Mum,’ I said calmly. ‘I can’t even hit the punch bag a dozen times without coughing up a lung. I’d be murdered.’
‘So you promise?’ Mum said urgently. ‘Look at me and promise me you won’t ever fight in the ring.’
I sighed, but I looked at her. Part of me wanted to shout and tell her that I could do whatever I liked, but another part of me held back. Like it always does. Mum’s terror of everything was intense. I knew that. She was frustrating, but she meant well and there was no point in upsetting her more. And since the idea of me ever fighting in the ring was ridiculous, maybe it wasn’t something to get upset about. ‘Fight, fight, fight!’ Blossom would say. But Pip would tell me to choose my battles.
And on this occasion, Pip was right.
‘Mum, I will never fight in the ring. I promise.’
Mum nodded and smiled. She’d won the day.
