by T. S. Easton
‘They’ve broken through!’ someone cried. And he was right. Just as in the actual battle, the shield wall had failed when over-excited Saxon churls chased after fleeing Norman soldiers. Now the invaders had the upper ground, and were surrounding the Saxons, the Normans quickly overran Harold’s defences. Harold was located and cut down by a detachment of knights and the rest of the Saxon troops ran for the safety of the woods, or the tearoom. William had won the day.
‘All thanks to the clever soldier who pretended to run away,’ Blossom explained to the cheering observers. ‘He tricked the Saxon defenders into breaking up the wall. And the rest is history.’
‘That it be!’ I cried, and received a spattering of applause.
Blossom held out her pinafore and curtseyed as people threw coins. And that was that. I think it all happened a bit quicker than had been anticipated – the entire battle had lasted less than an hour – but it had started to rain and frankly everyone was ready for a Bakewell tart.
Down for the Count
Next Saturday, Sharon pulled me aside. ‘We got LOADS of girls on Thursday night,’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s all because of the newspaper story, and your photo.’
‘How many?’ I asked.
‘Twelve,’ Sharon said. ‘We turned a profit for the first time. If this keeps up, we’ll be able to start paying off the loan. We won’t have to close.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ I said.
‘And the newspaperman said he’d come along to the tournament and write a follow-up piece about it. I think he might want to ask you some questions if that’s OK?’
‘Me? Why would he be interested in me?’
‘Why wouldn’t he be interested in you?’ Sharon replied. ‘You’ve come on so well since you started. You’re fitter, stronger, more disciplined. More confident. You’re a role model.’
‘I’m a role model?’ I echoed, incredulous.
‘Why not?’ Sharon said, laughing. ‘When you arrived you used to slink around like a shadow, hardly saying a word. Now you’re standing straighter, asking questions, getting involved. Always in the middle of everything.’
‘God, I sound really annoying.’
‘Not at all,’ she laughed. ‘You just give as good as you get. Never mind the fight, you’re already a winner and the journalist can see that in you.’
‘Yeah, but will he still see that when Destiny knocks my block off?’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Sharon said. ‘Ricky would never let you fight if he didn’t think you were ready.’
I frowned.
‘You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?’ she asked, suddenly worried.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m definitely in.’
‘And what about the interview? Will you do that?’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked, hope in her eyes.
‘That I get control of the playlist.’
‘What’s wrong with my playlist?’ Ricky asked fiercely.
‘It’s dire,’ I said. ‘Too slow. I mean, what’s this song playing at the moment?’
‘It’s Simon and Garfunkel,’ he said. ‘You don’t know this?’
‘I know it makes me want to hang myself with my wraps.’
‘It’s inspiring!’ he said, genuinely surprised. ‘Uplifting. Doesn’t it make your heart bleed?’
‘No, it makes my ears bleed. Why did you put this on the playlist?’
‘It’s called “The Boxer”,’ he said. ‘It’s about boxing.’
‘It’s about a failed boxer,’ I said, mimicking his inflection. ‘Who’s on the verge of suicide.’ He paused for a second, giving me the eye of the tiger. I stared right back. Then he cracked and grinned.
‘If you fight that hard over a bloody playlist,’ he said, ‘then I wouldn’t want to face you in the ring.’
Tarik stayed late that night to work on some technical issue with Ricky, so I prepared to walk home on my own. I’d take the long route and avoid Gladwell’s. But as I left, Bonita came barrelling out and fell into step beside me.
‘Good sesh,’ she said.
‘Yeah, you trained hard,’ I said. ‘Not walking home with the other girls?’
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘They’re chatting up Jerome.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yeah, it might get ugly. I don’t think he likes either of them. Not like that.’
‘Oh dear.’ I grinned. ‘Well, anyway,’ I made as if to peel off to the left. ‘See ya next time.’
‘Where you going?’ Bonita said. She pointed towards the Gladwell Estate. ‘You’ll wanna go this way to get to the bypass?’
‘Yeah, I was going to …’ I stopped. It’d be all right the two of us together. No one was going to give Bonita a hard time. ‘OK, let’s head this way.’
Into the Valley of Death walked the two. ‘Great that you’re going to be fighting in the tournament,’ she said. ‘Destiny’s really looking forward to it.’
‘Yeah, well. I guess it’ll be fine. Ricky did say we should be careful not to be too aggressive.’
‘Sod that,’ Bonita said. ‘I’m going to hit Taylor so hard her kids’ll be dizzy.’
‘It’s just that Ricky wants us to demonstrate that boxing is a safe sport …’
‘No one’s safe in the ring with me,’ Bonita said.
‘You only have one setting, don’t you?’ I said, exasperated. ‘You are the most competitive person I’ve ever come across.’
‘Boxing is competitive,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Life is competitive.’
‘But boxing isn’t a violent sport, people aren’t really trying to actually hurt each other,’ I said. ‘It’s actually quite cerebral, don’t you think? Like chess?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bonita growled. ‘Of course it’s violent. And by the way, if you and I were playing chess, I’d pick up the board and smash you around the cerebrals with it.’
I sighed. Someone shouted in the distance and I shivered. It was cold tonight and I was damp with sweat.
‘My mum told me that you don’t get anything if you don’t fight for it,’ Bonita went on. ‘And I have three older brothers who are actual gannets in human form. If I didn’t learn how to fight I’d have starved.’ I glanced over at her and reflected that she must have learned to fight really well. Bonita was solid muscle. In fact I felt a little sorry for those brothers.
‘Don’t you think, though, that it’s important to show other women that boxing isn’t necessarily dangerous? And that it can be fun?’
Bonita thought about this for a while. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t. I think women are just as good as men and we should show them that.’ Suddenly she stopped.
‘This is the one thing I don’t like about you, Fleur,’ she said. ‘You think everyone can get on and be nice and not have to fight for anything. And that’s fine for you, because you’re clever, and you’re pretty and you live in a nice area.’
‘That’s not how I think,’ I said. ‘What would you know about me anyway?’
‘I know that if I had your brains, and your looks and your opportunities,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t waste them.’
Bonita didn’t move an inch as we stood glaring at each other. We were in front of a grimy little house, lit by a harsh orange streetlight, with a disassembled motorbike in the front garden and a mouldy pumpkin on the step. I didn’t like to stop here. I could hear boys shouting in the darkness, someone went by on a bike without lights. I shivered, wanting to get the hell away from the estate.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of this dump.’
‘That’s it?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’re not going to yell back at me? Call me names? Tell me to stick it?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Not everything has to be a fight. I think women should work together. Now, are you coming?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Why not? Because I won’t fight you?’
�
��No,’ she said, pointing to the horrible house behind her. ‘Because I live here. In this dump.’
The door slammed behind her and I was left alone, in the middle of the Gladwell Estate. At night. I looked around nervously. The body heat I’d built up during training had faded now and I could feel the cold. My hoodie was damp. I heard someone shouting in the distance and I could see that the boy who’d cycled by before had stopped under a streetlight a hundred yards down the road. For a moment I considered banging on Bonita’s door. I could call Dad and ask him to come and collect me.
‘Come on, Fleur,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Stop being so wet. It’s West Bosford, not Mogadishu.’ I put my hood up, wondering if I could disguise myself as a Gladwell’s resident. But then pulled it back down and took a deep breath. Face your fears, Fleur. You are strong, you are confident, you are disciplined.
I remembered what Emily had said about me standing taller, and thought of how people had started to look at me in the corridors at school. Like someone you don’t mess with. I walked down Carter Way, then turned onto Hutton Close and cut through onto Belham Street, which has a real reputation in Bosford. Mum calls it Bedlam Street. Someone was stabbed there last year.
I passed a few people; a couple of teenage girls who ignored me, a tired-looking mum pushing a buggy who I thought I recognised from the junior session at the boxing club. A man walking on his own who didn’t even look at me. I turned onto Queen Elizabeth Street, which took me all the way up to the bypass. I could even see the traffic lights in the distance. I was nearly there. But then, halfway down the street, I saw a gang of boys hanging about a bus stop. One circled lazily on a tiny bike, another was smoking. I breathed in deeply and walked on, refusing to cross the road. They looked up as I approached and one flicked a butt which arced past right in front of me, like the world’s worst firework.
‘Hey, you got a cigarette?’ he called out softly. I stopped and turned.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Don’t smoke.’ I walked on, my heart thumping. This was it; this was the moment they’d come running after me.
But they didn’t. Maybe it was to do with the way I carried myself. With confidence. Without showing how scared I was. I didn’t want to be scared any more.
Outliers
On Wednesday we were standing around, waiting for Ricky to finish faffing about with the bolts on the ring and come and start the session. I was excited because I’d finally completed the new playlist and it was cued up and ready to go.
‘I’m rubbish at organising things,’ Dan was moaning.
‘What are you trying to organise?’ I asked.
‘My stag do,’ he said.
‘But that’s on Friday,’ I said. ‘You haven’t organised it yet?’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I thought the best man was supposed to organise the stag do?’
‘Yeah, but it’s Jerome,’ he said. We looked over at Jerome, who was currently filling in his bicep tattoo with a red biro.
‘So just go to Brighton,’ I said. ‘Start at the pier and see what happens.’
‘Can’t go to Brighton because Simon isn’t allowed to leave the Bosford area,’ Dan said.
‘So what are you going to do?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at his shoes, ‘I wondered if you might be able to arrange something.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, you’re all organised and that. You know, classy.’
‘Oh, err,’ I said. ‘Thank you?’
‘Nothing cultural,’ he added quickly.
‘No, I wouldn’t do that,’ I said. ‘Somehow I can’t see Jerome enjoying a new installation at Bosford Beaux Arts Centre.’
‘No,’ Dan agreed. ‘His idea of culture is watching French porn.’
‘Right, before we get started,’ Ricky shouted. ‘Quick announcement. It’s Dan’s stag do on Friday, and he’s asked me to tell you that you’re all invited. Boys and girls.’
I felt a twinge of disappointment to hear that the other girls had been invited too. I thought I was the chosen one, sneaking into the boys’ tent. ‘Unfortunately,’ Ricky went on, ‘I will not be able to attend. I want you all to have a good time. You’ve been training hard. But at the same time, don’t be stupid. Don’t drink too much too fast, understand?’
‘Yes Ricky,’
‘Understand?’
‘YES COACH RICKY.’
‘Don’t want anyone ending up in jail,’ he said. ‘Or going back to jail,’ he added, glaring at Simon. ‘Now let’s get moving. I want you to work hard today, people. Train hard, fight easy.’ He reached over and hit play on the stereo. I hopped up and down in excitement as the opening minor chords of the first song of my playlist jangled out.
‘Oh, I love this!’ Jerome cried.
Ricky looked dumbfounded. ‘What is it?’ he asked me.
‘“Kung Fu Fighting”,’ I said.
‘That’s not boxing!’ he cried. ‘Do I look like bloody Bruce Lee?’
I grinned. ‘My playlist, my rules.’ Grumpily, Ricky started the warm-ups and everyone got into it. It was good to have some lively music for a change. It made a difference and I could see everyone was up for it tonight. We were dripping by the third song.
‘Sweat is your fat crying,’ Ricky shouted.
‘Well, then I reckon my fat’s just had a messy break-up,’ Destiny puffed next to me.
Ricky stalked over to me after the session. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Dan tells me you’re in charge of this little shindig on Friday.’
‘Apparently so,’ I replied. ‘I thought I’d reserve some tables at Chickos? The boys can have a beer and we can all have something to eat. They’ve got a hot wing special.’
‘If you ask my advice,’ Ricky said, frowning, ‘you should organise some kind of other activity, just so they’re not drinking steadily for six hours.’
‘Other than hot wings?’
‘Yes, other than hot wings. Can you just keep an eye on things? Make sure no one gets into trouble.’
‘Oh come on, Ricky,’ Sharon said. ‘They’re good lads.’
‘It’s not the lads I’m worried about,’ Ricky said, looking over at Bonita and Taylor, who were wrestling each other. They crashed heavily into the old piano, which gave out a plaintive chord of protest.
‘And make sure Simon gets back home for his curfew,’ Ricky said.
‘When is it?’
‘Midnight,’ Ricky said. ‘If he breaches his probation I lose one of my best boxers. If anyone gets into a fight, then I could lose my licence.’
‘No pressure then,’ I said.
‘I’m not expecting you to be a nursemaid,’ Ricky said. ‘Just be the voice of reason, OK?’
Hmmm. Me, the voice of reason? That was a first.
Start Spreading the News
When I got to Chickos on Friday, I found Jerome, Simon and Dan were already there, each halfway through a pint.
‘You started early,’ I said.
‘Lot to get through,’ Jerome replied.
‘Are you supposed to be drinking?’ I asked Simon. ‘You know, with that.’ I pointed to his ankle.
‘It’s an electronic tag,’ he replied, ‘not a breathalyser. As long as I’m home by midnight, then we’re cool.’
‘OK, Cinderella,’ I said. ‘Tonight I’ll be your Fairy Godmother. I’ll make sure you get home in time, but in return, you have to leave when I say, all right?’
‘Yeah yeah, sure,’ he said, finishing his pint and waving for the drinks guy. ‘Who’s for another?’
‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘Ricky gave me strict instructions to keep an eye on all of you, but especially you. He doesn’t want to lose any fighters.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Simon said, grinning at me and showing a couple of missing teeth. ‘I’ll be a good boy.’
I can’t believe how much boys drink. I thought George and his mates drank a lot but the boxing lads made them look like the Salvation Army. They were on their fourth pints and talking very loudly by the time an
yone else turned up.
It didn’t help that today, for some reason, we had two very attentive drinks waiters. They’re like buses. They all turn up when you don’t need them. They set up a sort of relay system, bringing trays full of huge foaming glasses of beer.
No one ordered hot wings. Just beer. Lots and lots and lots of beer. I thought time had slowed. It seemed to take forever before it was time to go to Tone Def karaoke. And then it took even longer to round everyone up and get them to finish their drinks. I’d get a few of them organised and with coats on, then go off and find the others. Then when I got back to the first group I’d find they’d sent the drinks waiter off again for ‘one last round’.
But eventually, with Tarik’s help, I got everyone out and down the street. Destiny and Taylor had already been a bit drunk when they arrived and they were now stumbling along behind us, shrieking loudly. It was 9 p.m. and I think Tarik and I were the only sober people within twenty miles.
We all crowded into a booth. I’d booked the largest one as there were twenty-two of us. Most of the people from the boxing club, plus one or two workmates of Dan’s plus some random girl who we didn’t really know, though Destiny said she thought her name was Fran.
There was another drinks service but I had a word with the waitress. ‘Could you take your time bringing the drinks?’ I asked. ‘Some of the boys have been going for it and I want to slow things down a little if possible. Could you bring some water too, please?’
‘Water?’ the waitress replied, as though I’d asked her for a bucket of spit. But she duly came in with a jug just as the opening chords to ‘Is This the Way to Amarillo?’ started playing on the karaoke machine.
‘Good idea bringing them to karaoke,’ Tarik said, appearing behind me. ‘They need something to focus on other than drinking.’
‘Are you not having a beer?’ I asked him.
