‘Come on, Nicky boy! Give him your right!’
‘Stop dancing about, this ain’t the bloody Royal Ballet!’
Nick was barely aware of the sea of faces around him, all his attention fixed on his opponent. Little Billy Brown barely came up to his chin, but he was strong, stocky and as tough as teak. Nick had had him on the ropes several times but he kept coming back for more. He’d landed a few good blows, too: Nick could feel the drip of blood down his temple from where Little Billy had caught him on the brow, but his body was too tense to feel pain. That would come later, when the fight was over.
Little Billy grinned at him, his teeth red from a split lip. ‘Show us what you’ve got, big lad,’ he taunted.
Nick kept his focus, shutting out the banter. Billy was trying to rile him, but Nick had the measure of his opponent now. Little Billy might be tough, but he didn’t have a payoff punch.
‘Don’t let him get too close,’ Nick’s trainer Jimmy had warned after the fourth round. ‘See those short arms of his? He has to move in to drive the blows home. Once he gets in, he’s dangerous.’
Little Billy was tiring, too. He was in his late-thirties, he’d been in the game since he was Nick’s age, and all those years were beginning to tell on his stamina. That bloodied grin of his was all show. He could barely keep up as Nick sidestepped around him, drawing him in circles, playing a cat-and-mouse game.
Nick respected Little Billy too much to want to humiliate him, and he needed to put on a good show for the crowd. But it was getting late, he’d been working hard today, and all he wanted to do was go home and get some kip.
He timed it to the second. He lowered his guard for a moment, tempting Little Billy in. A wiser fighter might not have taken the bait, but Billy was greedy. As he moved in closer, Nick was ready for him. With deadly accuracy, he drove an uppercut to the other man’s chin that lifted him off the ground and sent him flying across the ring.
The referee stood over him, counting him out, but Nick knew it was all over. Little Billy made no attempt to haul himself off the canvas as the crowd roared.
Afterwards the two fighters made their way down the narrow, darkened passageway that led to the boxers’ changing room. Jimmy, Nick’s trainer, followed them.
‘Good fight tonight,’ Billy said, voice muffled by his swollen mouth. ‘You did well, mate.’
‘You too. Sorry about that last jab.’
‘I asked for it. Got a bit greedy, didn’t I?’ Billy ruefully nursed his jaw. ‘Still, it was a fair fight.’
‘I just hope Terry pays up.’ Terry Willis, the local promoter, had been known to sneak off without paying his fighters in the past.
‘I don’t think he’d dare pull a fast one on you!’ Billy grinned.
The door to the changing room was stuck as usual. Nick put his shoulder against it and gave it a shove. Inside the poky back room, the bare lightbulb cast a sickly light on paintwork yellowed with nicotine. Crates of empty ale bottles took up most of the room, filling the air with a stale beer smell.
Joe Armstrong was perched on one of the crates, his kit bag at his feet. He jumped up when the door opened, then sat back down.
‘What you doing here?’ Little Billy asked.
‘I’m waiting to see Terry.’
‘Don’t reckon he’ll want to see you, after what you did to Johnny Jago.’
Joe’s chin lifted. ‘I beat him fair and square.’
‘Nothing fair or square about that fight.’ Little Billy turned to Nick. ‘Did you hear about it? Disqualified for elbowing, he was. Caught him full in the face. Smashed his nose to a pulp and put him in hospital.’
Nick looked at Joe’s smirking face and felt the urge to land his fist in it. He knew Johnny Jago well. He wasn’t the greatest boxer in the world, but his family relied on the money he brought in from his fights. Everyone knew to go easy on him, to make him look good so Terry would keep booking him.
Everyone except Joe Armstrong.
Nick unlaced his gloves. ‘I expect Terry’s still in the bar, counting his takings, if you want him.’
‘I’ll wait here for him.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Nick kept his voice calm, his eyes fixed on Joe. ‘We’ve got no room for dirty fighters in here.’
They stared at each other, like feral cats meeting in an alleyway. It was Joe who looked away first.
‘I ain’t got time for this,’ he muttered, snatching up his kit bag. ‘Tell Terry I was looking for him.’
‘Well done, mate,’ Little Bily said, as the door slammed behind him. ‘We don’t need blokes like him in this game.’
But Nick wasn’t thinking about boxing. His mind was fixed on Dora, and the picture that still burned in his brain of her and Joe kissing at the hospital. He knew he had no right to be jealous, but when he’d seen them together it was all he could do not to march straight over and tear the other man off her. Dora deserved better than Joe Armstrong.
He stopped himself. The truth was, he wouldn’t have been happy if Dora had started courting King Edward himself. But she was entitled to a life of her own, and he had to keep out of it.
Terry Willis came to the changing room after the fight to give Nick his money. He fancied himself a bit of a gangster in his pin-stripe suit, with a homburg hat tilted low over a narrow, foxy face.
‘Easy money, eh, Nicky boy?’ He leered at Nick as if he knew what it felt like to win a fight.
‘You weren’t the one getting belted.’ Nick winced as his trainer Jimmy massaged his tense shoulders.
Terry sniggered. ‘True enough, lad.’ He counted out two pound notes into Nick’s hand. ‘And there’s more where that came from, if you fancy a few more fights?’
‘He’s already doing enough,’ Jimmy put in. ‘It won’t do to wear himself out if he wants a shot at a title fight.’
‘Still got your eye on making it big in America, then? Want to go over there and show the big boys what an East End lad can do?’
‘Something like that.’ Nick wasn’t interested in fame or glory. All he wanted was to find a doctor who could make his brother better again. He’d heard they were achieving all kinds of medical miracles in America, and if there was a chance they could make Danny right, he had to take it.
‘Shame,’ Terry said. ‘You’re already one of the best fighters in London. I could put you in the ring twice a week, if you were interested.’
Nick thought about it. He’d been putting away all the money he’d earned from his fights, and after four years he had a tidy sum saved – enough to get him and Danny to America at least. But he still had a long way to go.
And it wasn’t just Danny he had to think about now.
‘I’m interested,’ he said.
Terry flashed him a gold-toothed grin. ‘That’s my boy. You wait and see, I’ll make us both rich.’
‘If he don’t kill you first!’ Jimmy muttered when Terry had gone. He glared at Nick as he packed up his bag. ‘Are you daft or what? You’ll be knackered in three months.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘We agreed only title fights, remember? You’ll be in no fit state to go to America by the time Terry Willis has finished putting you through the mill.’
‘I’m going to America, don’t you worry about that.’ Nick threw his battered leather gloves into his bag. ‘But I’ve got a family to look after, too, don’t forget.’
Ruby had been on at him to buy new furniture for the flat ever since they’d moved in four weeks earlier. And the nagging had got worse since she’d found out about his savings.
‘Think of what we could do with that money,’ she said. ‘We could buy a new three-piece suite . . . a new bed. I’m sick of sleeping on that old mattress, aren’t you?’
‘We’ll get a new bed soon,’ Nick promised. ‘But I already told you, that money is to take Danny to America.’
‘And what do you think they’re going to do to him?’ Ruby’s voice was harsh. ‘Let’s face it, it would take a miracle, not
medicine, to set that boy straight!’
‘All the same, I’ve got to try. If there’s the slightest chance . . .’
Ruby had sighed. ‘It’s just a pipe dream, Nick. Besides, you’ve got a wife now. You should be thinking about me and our future, putting us first.’
‘I do,’ he insisted. ‘But I have to look out for Danny, too. You don’t understand, Rube. I’m the only one he’s got—’
But nothing he said made any difference. Ruby had cold shouldered him, turning away from him in bed that night. By morning the storm had blown over and she was back to her old self, laughing and joking as she fried up bacon for his breakfast. But her words had hit home. She was right, Nick thought. He had to start providing for his baby as well as his brother.
He trudged home down the narrow dark backstreets. It was nearly closing time, and drunks fell out of pubs on every street corner, weaving across his path, laughing and singing and squaring up to each other. Workers cycled past, wending their weary way home after their factory shift.
It was nearly eleven when he let himself into the flat. As Nick dumped his bag by the front door, Ruby came out of the kitchen to greet him.
‘Well? How did it go? Did you knock him—’ Her smile turned to a wince when she saw his eye. ‘Blimey, that’s a nasty cut.’
She moved closer and reached up, but Nick jerked his head away. ‘Don’t touch it, you’ll open it up again. It’ll be all right once I’ve bathed it.’
‘I’ll do it for you.’ She took his hand and led him into the kitchen. ‘You do know you’re going to have a right shiner by tomorrow morning? God only knows what that Head Porter of yours is going to say. You’ll need salt water on it, to stop it getting infected . . .’
But Nick wasn’t listening. He stopped dead in the doorway and stared at the contraption squatting in the middle of the kitchen. It looked like a white barrel on three legs, with a lid in the top.
‘Where did that come from?’
Ruby beamed at him. ‘It’s a washing machine. It arrived this morning. Isn’t it smashing? It’s the latest thing.’
‘I can see what it is. Where did you get the money to pay for it?’
‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I got it on HP. Half a crown a week.’ She was reaching up into a cupboard for the salt packet, so Nick didn’t see her face.
He felt his anger rising, making his swollen eye socket throb. ‘I told you I didn’t want anything on tick in this house!’
‘It’s too late, I’ve already signed the forms,’ Ruby said calmly. She couldn’t meet his gaze as she filled a bowl with water.
‘We’ll see about that! You’re going straight down to that shop tomorrow and you’re going to tell them you’ve made a mistake.’
‘I will not! Now sit down and let me bathe your eye. It’s bleeding again.’
‘Never mind that! You had no right to start running up debts without talking to me first.’
‘I did talk to you, remember?’
‘And I said no!’
Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick, it’s only a washing machine. And they’re easy instalments.’
‘Easy for who? We’ve still got to pay it back.’
‘Yes, but only two and six a week. Mr Wallis says—’
‘And who’s Mr Wallis, when he’s at home?’
‘He’s the bloke from Parker’s. The loan company.’
‘A tallyman!’ Nick’s lip curled.
‘It’s not like that. He helps young couples like us—’
‘By getting us into debt? That’s a big help!’ Nick sank down into a chair at the kitchen table. The pain of the fight was beginning to flow through his body. Every muscle seemed to ache at the same time. ‘We ain’t made of money, Ruby. We don’t want to run up debts, especially not with the baby on the way—’
‘And I don’t want people thinking we’re poor as church mice, either!’ Ruby shot back. ‘I’m ashamed to let anyone into this place, with all these shabby old bits and pieces. I don’t want people looking down their noses at us, thinking we’re not good enough . . .’
‘They’ll be looking down their noses at us when the bailiffs come round!’
‘Don’t be daft. No one’s going to send the bailiffs round. We’ll manage.’
‘If we live on fresh air.’
Ruby paused for a moment, then the anger seemed to leave her. When she turned to face Nick again, she was smiling.
‘Let’s not fight, Nick,’ she said softly. She dipped the cotton wool in the bowl and gently dabbed his eye. Nick flinched at the sting of the salt water. ‘I know I should have talked to you about it. But don’t you think it’s a smashing washing machine?’ she coaxed. ‘And won’t it be nice that I don’t have to do all that laundry by hand? You wouldn’t want me heaving wet washing about, would you? All that heavy lifting . . . scrubbing and rinsing sheets under the tap?’
Nick met her gaze and realised he was being played. Ruby knew just what to say, and just how to flash those blue eyes at him to get him to do what she wanted.
But not this time. ‘It’s got to go back,’ he said. ‘I told you, we’ll buy one when—’
But Ruby wasn’t listening. Her eyes immediately lost their softness, turning to hard chips of ice. ‘When, Nick? When the cows come home? I want one now!’ She stamped her foot. ‘Why do I have to live like my mum, scrimping and making do because her husband’s too tight to do anything about it?’ She threw down the cotton wool and knocked the bowl off the table with an angry sweep of her arm. It shattered on the floor, sending shards of china and water everywhere.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’ she screeched. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll get a new bowl, either!’ Then she burst into tears.
‘Ruby—’
‘Bugger off, Nick. I don’t want to talk to you.’
She fled out of the kitchen and he heard the bedroom door slam. He hauled himself wearily to his feet and started to clean up. His sides ached painfully as he bent down to pick up the broken shards. He thought about leaving them, but he knew Ruby wouldn’t pick them up. She could be a stubborn little cow when she wanted to be.
He couldn’t be doing with this, he thought. He’d had a long day, his whole body was sore with bruises, and all he wanted to do was rest.
He staggered painfully into the bathroom, kneeled down and eased back a corner of the lino. He’d found a loose floorboard when they first moved in, which made a perfect hiding place for his savings.
He groped around in the narrow space under the boards and pulled out the rusty biscuit tin. He opened it, and took out two five-pound notes, then slipped them into his pocket.
Ruby had locked him out of the bedroom.
‘Ruby?’ He rattled the doorknob. ‘Ruby, let me in.’
‘Go away.’ Her voice was muffled on the other side of the door.
He felt his temper spark, molten heat rising through his veins. ‘If you don’t open this door, I’m going to kick it down,’ he threatened.
Silence. Nick braced his shoulder against the door, ready to splinter the wood.
Then, suddenly, the door opened and Ruby stood there, her face puffy with tears. Without her usual mask of make-up she looked like a vulnerable child, her blonde hair falling in delicate tendrils around her pale face.
‘What?’ she said sulkily. ‘If you’re going to have another go at me—’
‘I’m not.’ He held out his hand. Ruby stared down at the cash.
‘What’s that?’
‘The money to pay for that contraption. Since you’re so set on keeping it, I want you to go down to the shop tomorrow and pay for it.’
‘Oh, Nick!’ She looked up at him, her face full of hope. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Just this once. And no more debts, all right?’
She threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off his feet.
‘No more debts, I promise,’ she said.
Chapter Nine
‘HAV
E YOU HEARD about that gypsy woman, Nurse? She reckons she can tell your future!’
Millie stifled a sigh. News of Mary Ann Lovell’s so-called powers had spread since she’d arrived on the ward a few weeks earlier. Now everywhere she went, the patients seemed to be talking about her.
Florrie Hibbert was more animated than Millie had seen her in a long time. The poor woman had been through so many tests since she’d been admitted with haematemesis, but as yet no one could tell her what was wrong with her. She’d spent days lying on her back, desperate with worry and unable to eat for vomiting up blood.
Millie smiled as she dipped a swab in the small pot of glycol-thymol, ready to clean her mouth. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘Well, you know, normally I’d say it was nonsense. But she seems to know such a lot. She’s a Romany, so she says. Makes her living telling fortunes with a travelling fair.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘She told that woman in the corner she could see a journey over water, and her sister’s just moved to Greenwich.’ Florrie Hibbert looked impressed. ‘How do you think she knew that?’
‘How indeed? Open wide for me, please, Mrs Hibbert.’
She finished swabbing out the woman’s bald pink gums, and then carefully replaced her false teeth. ‘There, all done. That feels better, doesn’t it? I must say you’re looking a lot brighter, Mrs Hibbert.’
‘Oh, I am, Nurse.’ Florrie Hibbert beamed at her. ‘Mary Ann told me I’m going to be going home soon. That’s good news, isn’t it?’
Millie frowned. Harmless predictions were one thing, but telling Mrs Hibbert she was going home when her chances of getting better were so slim seemed almost cruel.
But then she looked at the woman’s shining, eager face, with more colour in her cheeks than she’d had in a long time, and she wondered whether there was really any harm in it. If it cheered her up and stopped her fretting, then perhaps a bit of hope wasn’t so bad after all.
The Nightingale Nurses Page 8
