To her surprise, when she opened the door she saw a body asleep in the chair in front of the empty grate: a young man in trousers, an open shirt and socks. His shoes were placed neatly beside the chair. He had a narrow face, a straight nose and curly fair hair. Then he woke up.
‘Hullo,’ she said.
‘Hullo,’ he responded. Then, waking fully, he exclaimed, ‘Lily Strugnell! You’re Lily Strugnell! Am I dreaming?’
‘I’m the new lodger,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Gerry Finlay. I work here at night, helping out in the bakery. Mrs Sullivan lets me sleep here sometimes, when I’m finished.’ He bent down to put his shoes on. ‘I ought to be going. I don’t like to impose.’
‘Don’t let me push you out.’
‘I’d better go home,’ he said, finishing lacing his shoes. A thought struck him. Standing up, grinning from ear to ear, he said, ‘My brother will never believe I met you, here in Mrs Sullivan’s parlour. He’ll be green with envy. He’s a great admirer of yours, Miss Strugnell.’ In the doorway he turned round. ‘He’s dragged me off to see you dozens of times – not that I took much dragging. Any chance of you returning the compliment?’
‘See him?’ she asked. ‘Where is he?’ She was often asked to go and visit sick children in hospital, and frequently did. She saw Gerry Finlay’s brother as yet another little patient, lying in bed in a long ward.
‘Fighting,’ said Gerry Finlay. ‘My brother’s Jack Finlay, the boxer.’
‘All right,’ Lily replied. ‘I’ll come if I can.’
Three hours later, as she, Maggie and Mrs Sullivan were eating their dinner at the kitchen table, there was a loud knock at the downstairs door. Mrs Sullivan shook her head. ‘We shut for an hour, a bare hour, at dinner-time. You’d think they’d remember.’
The knock was repeated, louder this time. Mrs Sullivan got up with a groan and went downstairs. She came back, looking very surprised, carrying a huge bunch of lilies and roses in a box bearing the name of a smart firm of florists.
‘Lilies – that’s for you,’ exclaimed Maggie.
Lily read out the accompanying card. ‘Come and see me fight at the Wonderland tonight. I’ll win for you alone. Respectfully, Jack Finlay.’
‘You going, Lily?’ asked Maggie, thrilled.
‘I might,’ said Lily.
Chapter Eighteen
At this time Jack Finlay was seventeen years old and had been a professional fighter for five years. He had been a respected amateur virtually since he had been pushed away from his mother’s knee and taken to the tough streets of the East End.
His mother, Sarah Finlay, had been a servant in the house of a City merchant. Whether it had been the master of the house who had seduced her at the age of fourteen, as she sometimes claimed, or his son, as she said at other times, or someone else altogether, was uncertain. She told different stories at different times about Jack’s father – and his brother Gerry’s. Pregnant, she was sent home in disgrace, but there was no room or money for her there. She was the oldest of eight children.
Thus it was that her first son was born in Bethnal Green Workhouse. It would have been easier for Sarah to put the child, healthy and pretty, up for adoption and go back to her life as a single woman, but she was determined not to do this and obtained, from a newspaper advertisement, a position as housekeeper to an elderly man in Leicestershire. Her new employer had specified that he would be prepared to employ a widow with a child. Being almost penniless, Sarah walked to Leicester with the baby in her arms. Unluckily for her, though, the elderly man was not too old to make advances to his housekeeper. Another girl might have endured this, even been compliant in the hope of some kind of safety for herself and her child, and eventually, perhaps, a legacy. But Sarah, at fifteen, was one to go where her heart led. It led her back from Leicester to London, where, eighteen months later, she gave birth to her second son, Gerry, again in the workhouse. Gerry’s father was sometimes a soldier or a sailor, sometimes a toff from the West End. Whoever he was, like Jack’s father he was never seen again.
Sarah, still not eighteen, left the workhouse, rented an attic room and went out nightly to clean offices in the City. She had two jobs, one of them being in the counting house of her former employer. A tablespoon of one of the cordials sold for ailing children settled Jack and Gerry down for the night while Sarah worked. The medicine was laced with laudanum, so usually they slept, chalk-white in the face, but safe and sound, all night.
However, the strain of working at night while looking after two active children all day took its toll. So did Sarah’s knowledge that she had no hope of anything better. She began to have a glass of gin before going to work in the evenings, just to get her off to a good start. Then she started having one after work as well, then one or two during the course of the day.
She met Reg Champion, a porter at the fruit and vegetable market, one early morning in a pub after they had both finished work. Reg, a heavy drinker, moved into the attic room with the little family.
By the time Jack was five and Gerry three and a half, they were being regularly sent out to play in the street outside the house, while Sarah and Reg were asleep. From that street they strayed into the next, and the next. By the time the Finlay boys were eight and ten, the whole neighbourhood was their playground. Truants, they ran with a gang of boys who roamed Bethnal Green, then progressed to being part of a serious Whitechapel gang, all between seven and twelve years old, a mocking, ragged, thieving crew. They would snatch anything, from a pair of old boots to an unwary stranger’s watch; they were regular frequenters of pubs and billiard halls, and hardened gamblers. But their priority and chief obsession was attacking other gangs’ territory, and defending their own.
Jack, with his agile body and quick wits, soon became leader of the gang. He was the one who organised the daring raid on the pawnbroker’s in Commercial Street, putting a tiny boy through a loose grating and pretending to be asleep by the wall as the child passed out a clock, some broken watches and ten guineas in gold. He it was who knocked out Henry Watt, the worst boy in the whole dreaded gang based on the notorious area of the Old Nicholl.
Half the time Jack and Gerry did not bother to go home at night. They could sleep in the churchyard or in doorways in summer, at the Salvation Army or a friend’s in winter. They had started growing away from home before they went to school – which they seldom did – and their relationship with their mother, and hers with them, soon became tenuous, optional and by no means central to their lives.
Jack’s first public fight took place at Wonderland, a converted warehouse in Commercial Street which had been furbished with tiers of wooden seats and gas lighting. It was used as a boxing ring, a cheap music hall or a Yiddish theatre, according to need.
Jack did not know it himself, but he was bored with the life of the streets. He needed a wider canvas. He began to hang about outside Wonderland, watching the boxers come and go – they also trained there – and sometimes fighting for the chance to hold the horses of the carriages of the promoters who went in and out.
On one decisive day he started a fight with Kid Mandel who, at seventeen years old, was fancied as the coming lightweight champion of England. The Kid had come to train at Wonderland with his promoter, Mo Laschmann. When Mo left the building he found the Kid’s nose streaming on to his immaculate white shirt. Squaring up to him, feet moving and looking for another opening, was ragged Jack.
Mo, a hefty figure in a huge, fur-collared overcoat, shouted, ‘You – whoever you are – get your hands off the lad. If you want a fight, go inside and say Mo Laschmann sent you—’
Jack was off in a flash. He said later that the fight had been staged by him and the Kid to attract Mo Laschmann’s attention. Jack had known the Kid for many years. The neighbourhood was half Jewish, due to an influx of immigrants fleeing Russian and Polish persecution. Jack and Gerry Finlay were the boys the immigrant parents, who wanted their children to become hard-working, respectable adult
s, did not want their sons to associate with – though they did. They did not want their boys to become boxers, either; but many did. It was a way to get out of the East End.
Jack got into the ring one night in a pair of borrowed gloves, floored his opponent in the first round, took the prize money, ten shillings, and was offered a fight the following week. He was on his way. The second time he fought, Mo Laschmann was there. Mo signed him up.
Five years later, Jack had gone from five feet one and six stone to five feet five and seven stone. He was never to get any taller or, though the regulations about fighters’ weights were vague, be anything other than a lightweight.
It was fortunate for Jack that he had Laschmann as his trainer and manager. It was Laschmann who arranged his fights – Jack would have fought seven nights a week if he’d been able to. It was Laschmann who got him to the gym on three or four mornings a week to train. Jack co-operated with Laschmann. He arrived at the gym on time whatever state he was in and wherever he had come from. He spent half his nights away from home, a small house he rented for Sarah and Reg where he and Gerry shared a room with a little private stairway which ran up from the side of the house. He usually preferred to spend his nights where his girlfriend of the moment lived. It committed him to less.
He had everything to attract women – money, some fame, a well-muscled body and a ready tongue. He was also very handsome, with a head of riotous blond curls which he wore fairly long, a short, straight nose so far undamaged by boxing, big blue eyes with dark lashes, and white, even teeth, which he often displayed in a broad smile. The slums frequently threw up such beauties, as if they thrived on the foul air and bad conditions. Jack Finlay was one of them. He usually had two women on the go at once; none lasted more than three months, most were lucky if Jack Finlay spared them three nights.
Laschmann pleaded with him: ‘Jack – Jack! Go slow, for God’s sake. You’ll get a disease. You’ll have them all fall pregnant at the same time. You’re losing your strength.’ But Jack wouldn’t stop. Arriving at the gym with a girl on his arm, he’d plant her at the ringside, strip off and train like a demon, as if there were nothing in the world but boxing. The girl would sit there adoring him, hypnotised. Next week there would be another one.
If the girl had no suitable place to stay, Jack would bring them to the house. But he never offered to marry or set up house with them, and if they began to hint at a permanent relationship he shed them quickly.
At seventeen, Jack Finlay was an immaculate, unbruised hero in twenty-guinea suits, brilliantly white shirts and diamond cuff links. He had the face of an angel, a rising reputation, enormous physical courage and the air of confidence which went with it. He was on top.
Lily might not have gone to see him box that night. When she threw her cloak over her stage dress after her first show, her plan was to buy some hot pies before the shop shut and carry them to the pub next to the theatre. She’d share the pies with Harry Moran, who was on the bill with her, then they’d take a cab to their next engagement.
Just as she was about to leave her dressing room, one of the dancers put her head round the door and told her, ‘Carriage awaits at the door for you, milady.’
‘It’s not due for half an hour,’ Lily said.
‘This isn’t a cab. It’s a carriage. The driver said Mr Finlay sent it.’ She whisked off in a cloud of tulle, leaving Lily thinking, He’s as bold as brass, but it’s a free lift anyway.
She ran down the corridor and banged on Harry Moran’s door. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a free carriage to Whitechapel. I’ll drop you off where you want to go.’
Outside the theatre was a black brougham with two shiny black horses hitched to it. The driver wore a black top hat. ‘What’s this?’ asked Harry, climbing in. ‘Are we going to a state funeral?’
‘Sent by an admirer,’ Lily told him. They clopped through the darkening street in style. Harry got out at a theatrical pub in Charing Cross Road, while Lily went on to the crowded streets of the East End. She got out at the open door of Wonderland. In the entrance a burly man asked, ‘Miss Strugnell?’ and conducted her down the aisle, past crowded wooden benches crammed with men all shouting at two heavy boxers standing in the ring below, trading slow punches.
She sat down two rows back from the ring, in a space which had been retained for her by the burly man’s brown bowler hat. He put it on and retreated. Next to her, Lily saw a big man, red-faced, in a good black suit with a waistcoat. As the bell sounded for the end of the round and the boxers went back into their corners to a chorus of boos and shouts, her neighbour turned to her and said, ‘Hullo. You must be Miss Lily Strugnell. Pardon the informal introduction. I’m Mo Laschmann, Jack’s manager. Pleased to meet you.’ He added gloomily, looking towards the ring, ‘Don’t think those two clowns have anything to do with me. I’ve come to see Jack fight.’
In the ring one of the fighters, in long, tight black trousers, his feet stuck out in front of him, was sitting on his stool in the corner, shaking his head. Opposite him the other fighter’s cornerman threw half a bucket of water over his boxer’s head.
Lily shook hands with Laschmann. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Laschmann. It was nice of Jack to send the carriage. But I’ve only got half an hour – I’m due at the Tivoli at ten.’
‘Jack’s next. Against Joe Carter. These two time-wasters will soon be finished and you’ll get the chance to see Jack fight. And most probably win. He’s determined to do that. He talks about you a lot, Miss Strugnell. He’s got your picture up on his mantelpiece at home.’
‘How nice. But of course I don’t know the gentleman.’
The bell rang and the two boxers came out of their corners. There were shouts of abuse and encouragement. A voice behind Lily bawled, ‘Hit ‘im, Fred, and get it over with.’
‘I’m sure you’ll like what you see,’ Laschmann assured her. ‘Jack’s very personable.’ There was no encouragement in his tone, Lily noticed. She studied the two fighters in the ring. There was blood streaming down the face of one. The fists of the other were, with agonising slowness, thudding into the mess.
‘Ever seen a boxing match before, Miss Strugnell?’ enquired Laschmann.
‘No,’ answered Lily. ‘And I’m not sure I like it.’
‘Don’t judge it by this,’ he said. ‘Boxing’s a skill, an art, if you like. Wait till you see Jack.’
Blood was now spattering down into the ring. Lily quailed. She had seen men fight before, many times. From her earliest years she had been obliged to walk round brawls outside pubs. She had seen quarrels escalating into savage battles, where feet as well as fists were used. But this was different. It wasn’t personal. It was organised, and people had paid to watch. And the smell was terrible. The audience, close-packed on a warm evening, reeked, and she could even smell the fighters’ blood in the ring.
At that point the more damaged man fell heavily on to the wooden boards of the ring. Lily felt the vibrations. There was a shout as he was counted out. The winner’s great arm was lifted, and suddenly the ring was empty but for two men, one sweeping up the sawdust which was soaked with blood and sweat, the other throwing down fresh sawdust for the next fight.
‘Jack’s next,’ Laschmann said, and stood up. ‘Excuse me, Miss Strugnell.’ He edged past her, and was gone. Lily sat listening to the buzz of talk behind her, feeling the movement as people left their seats and came back. The two men with brooms and buckets jumped from the ring. She felt a little sick, shaky, unlike her usual self. I hope I’m not going down with the influenza, she worried.
The ringmaster, in suit and bowler hat, leapt lightly into the ring. He lifted his hat high in the air and proclaimed, ‘Gentlemen, the match of the night – the one you’ve all been waiting for – the lightweight contender of Great Britain here tonight in a friendly’ – there was a guffaw – ‘match, purely to entertain you – two East End boys well known to all of you – the very famous Joe Carter and the equally famous – Jackie Finlay!�
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There was a roar of applause as the two men raised their fists in the air. Both wore long, tight-fitting trousers ending in spiked boots. They had large belts and were bare-chested. One of the fighters was stocky and dark, with heavy black eyebrows and a mass of black curly hair all over his chest. The other was blond. His blue eyes sparkled. Lily had seen Gerry Finlay in his corner, acting as cornerman, and Mo Laschmann speaking to him from outside the ring. But if she had been in any doubt about which of the fighters was Jack Finlay, she would have found out when he kissed his red glove to her, smiled brilliantly and half bowed towards her from the waist.
Lily gazed at him. Her first thought was that she had never seen a man so beautiful. Her second was that together they would look like twins. She had no other thoughts, for her head was swirling. But stagecraft came to her aid as she stood up, blew Jack a kiss in return, half turned to the watchers, then sat down again. The crowd roared, then hushed. The two boxers were in their corners now, waiting for the bell signalling the first round.
When it came, Lily leaned forward intently. Jack came dancing out, moving lightly, feinting, almost mockingly. The two men were circling, close in, when Jack took one long step backwards and, before Carter could react, shot out his right arm and hit him on the chin. As Carter’s head jerked back, Jack grinned. Angered, Carter went after him, intending to deliver a similarly solid punch, but wherever he went, Jack was not. He was either to Carter’s right, or his left. Carter threw two punches at him, which went wide. The third time he missed again, but this time Jack was immediately in front of him, hammering at his face with short, dazing punches. And so the round went on, with Jack’s faster footwork frustrating the other boxer. The few punches Carter did land, however, were heavier than Jack’s. Jack – or Mo Laschmann – had evidently decided that dodging direct confrontation with Carter’s heavy fist was the best strategy.
Back in his corner, with Gerry sponging him down with water from a bucket, Jack looked at Lily and winked. He said something to Gerry, who held up three fingers in her direction. Lily frowned, not understanding what this meant.
Elizabeth and Lily Page 19
