by David Essex
The call left Albert bemused. What did Cohen mean? Was it simply that they had spent money on the promotion, or that they intended to invest in Danny’s future? It had to be the latter. Perhaps he should take a longer-term view, and look past this upcoming tussle. Perhaps Costa and Cohen did care about Danny’s future after all, and were in it for the long haul. Maybe they were not the shady couple he thought they were.
“Oi, Albert!” shouted Maurice from the bar. “It’s getting busy out ’ere, you working or what?”
Still puzzling about motives, Albert reported for duty. Sure enough, the lunch-time drinkers were starting to form a crowd. The Live and Let Live was as popular at lunch time as it was at night, with the dockers there on their lunch break as usual and Lenny’s regular lunch-time visit already in progress.
Lenny always brought in his own lunch. At first Maurice had barred it, but after pressure from Albert he’d given in. Lenny’s packed lunch had now become part of the fabric of lunch time in the pub.
The pub menu included the usual pub fare like meat pie and mash, chicken and chips, and ham or cheese and pickle sandwiches, all prepared under duress by Maria, Maurice’s Italian wife. Maria had left Italy at nine years old when her father came to England, and had worked in her father’s cafe in Billingsgate. Now more Cockney than most of the dockers, she had taken on her father’s mantle in the firm belief that cuisine was in her blood.
She had asked her husband if she could introduce some more varied and upmarket dishes, but when her suggestion of prawn cocktail was shot down in flames, she let it slide. Anyway, the workers were happy and her sausages had quite a reputation.
“Hello Len,” said Albert as Lenny approached the bar. “The usual?”
“Yeah, thanks Albert. How is it going with Danny? Not too long now before the big fight.”
“He’s doing good. Training hard and looking pretty sharp.”
“Nice,” said Lenny. “Gonna put some money on him, invest in success.”
Albert’s mind shot back to the phone call with Cohen. Invested heavily.
“What are the odds?” he asked.
“Three to one,” said Lenny as he rubbed his hands together. “Not great odds, eh?”
Albert would have expected the odds to be more like ten to one. After all, Danny was an unknown, while the Dragon with his big, mainly Welsh following was a star. Perhaps when Cohen said “invested”, they had put money on Danny winning.
The pub rush started to ease. Lenny said goodbye with his usual “Oh well, some of us have to work”, and Albert collected and washed glasses.
Everything was as it always was, but Albert had this black cloud hanging over him and he wasn’t really sure why. He put it down to anxiety over the upcoming fight. The weigh- in, maybe. It was nerves, pure and simple.
To take his mind off the conundrum, Albert went to help Maria clear up in the kitchen.
Maria was grumbling as usual about her never-ending workload and her lazy husband. Albert dried up pots and pans with the odd nod of understanding, which he hoped would soothe her sometimes savage breast.
He had seen Maria blow her Latin temper a number of times, and had learned that the best option was to sympathise and keep quiet.
Job done, he made his way to the dry cleaners to pick up his one suit. He wanted to look smart for the big weigh-in next week. Next stop, Harry the barber.
The fashion for the time was for longer hair, but that was strictly for the young, or “the beatniks” as Albert called them. For Albert, the customary short back and sides was the way to go.
With suit in hand and a tidy haircut, Albert made for home.
“Who’s a pretty boy?” Rocky squawked in greeting.
This was more or less the extent of Rocky’s vocabulary. Seeing how Rocky was a girl, she was obviously addressing her owner. So Albert took it as a compliment, thanked his bird, and filled her tray with some fresh bird seed before sitting down in his favourite armchair. Rocky settled on her favourite lampshade and Albert took a nap.
*
With the baby’s birth due any day, Wendy and Mrs Bristow were packing her hospital bag in readiness for the big event. Danny was as involved as he could be, but his mind was on the fight and the face-to-face meeting with Davies at the weigh-in the following week. His hands went cold and his stomach turned as he carried the thought of what was to come, and as much as he wanted to concentrate on Wendy’s apprehension, it wasn’t easy.
As Danny prowled the back yard, deep in thought, he heard a cry from Wendy that brought him rushing inside.
Mrs Bristow was semi-hysterical. “Danny! Her waters have broken! We’ve got to get her to the hospital. Call a taxi, quick!”
Danny found a number as quickly as he could and called with shaking fingers.
“Ten to fifteen minutes,” he told Mrs Bristow a little breathlessly, trying not to look at the way Wendy was writhing and moaning in pain. “Get her ready to go, all right?”
His mind now was in overload. The fight, the baby, Wendy’s welfare. There was still the prospect of a new and exciting life ahead, but all of a sudden it seemed a long way off.
As he prowled up and down the street waiting for the promised cab, Danny forced himself to prioritise Wendy and the baby. The weigh-in and fight would have to wait.
At that moment a fairly clean, but rather battered taxi turned into the street. He waved to the driver and went inside to fetch the girls.
On the way to Howards Road Hospital, Wendy gripped Danny’s hand tightly, her face grey with pain.
“It’ll be all right, won’t it?” she said in a scared voice.
Danny reassured her the best he could. Looking at her, he wished he could take the pain away. She looked so vulnerable and child-like.
At the maternity ward, Wendy was led away by a friendly Irish nurse, who told Danny and Mrs Bristow to wait in reception.
“I’ll come and fetch you when Wendy is settled,” she said kindly, her gentle accent going some way to calming Danny down.
After a short while, Danny and Mrs Bristow were ushered into the maternity ward. Wendy, now in a robe and in a hospital bed, smiled a weak hello.
“You all right?” said Danny anxiously.
Wendy burst into tears. “They said there’s a complication with the baby,” she sobbed.
Danny’s heart thumped hard in his chest. “What? What complication?”
“Mr Watson?” said a voice.
Danny whirled round to see a doctor and nurse standing behind him.
“Mr Watson,” the doctor repeated. “I explained to your wife that the baby seems fine, but is not engaging in the position it should for a successful natural birth. I’m afraid we need to carry out a Caesarean.”
Wendy looked like the scared little girl Danny had first met in school. He wanted so much to take away the fear and the worry in her face.
“Is there no other way?” Wendy’s mother pleaded.
The doctor shook his head. “We should operate as soon as possible.”
Danny couldn’t believe this was happening. Holding Wendy close, he could feel her sobbing, although she was making no sound.
“This operation, Doctor,” he said, feeling terrified. “It’s safe, ain’t it?”
“As safe as it can be. I’m sorry, Mr Watson, but we have no choice.”
Looking around the ward of ten or twelve expectant mothers, Danny could see that some of the inmates already had their newborns by their side, their ordeal of childbirth over. One of the babies began to cry. It sounded like a mewing kitten, helpless and in need of its mother’s attention. This world felt alien to Danny. His world was a man’s world. He was touched by the sacrifices women make for their children. It was something he had never quite realised.
He lifted Wendy’s face up with his finger and looked into her frightened eyes. “You need to be a brave little soldier, Wend,” he said quietly. “It’ll be all right. Your mum’s here, I’m here, your dad’s on his way, you hear me?”
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Wendy slowly nodded her head, like a child reluctantly agreeing to go to bed. The nurse gently took her hand, helped her off the bed and led her away.
*
Mrs Bristow sat on a chair in the waiting room as Danny paced up and down the corridor, desperate for news and a happy outcome.
A flustered Mr Bristow rushed in.
“What’s happened?” he said. “Where’s Wendy?”
“She’s had to have a Caesarean, Brian,” said Mrs Bristow. “She’s in the operating theatre now.”
Wendy’s parents sat together, motionless. Danny went on pacing the corridor, his heart aching. There was nothing they could do but wait, and wait they did.
As Danny heard cries of pain coming from a nearby delivery room, he began to think of his own mother, Rosie. She may not have been the best mother, but she was his mother. He should remember that.
He decided to telephone her at work to tell her that Wendy was having the baby. He was touched by her reaction.
“You’re not to worry now, Danny,” Rosie said. “Everything will be fine. I’ll come by after work and see how you’re all getting on, all right? Give my love to Wendy and stay strong.”
When Danny returned to the ward, the doctor was in conversation with Wendy’s parents.
“Congratulations, Mr Watson,” he said. “You have a beautiful baby girl. Both mother and baby are fine.”
The emotion was just too much. Danny’s legs went from under him as if he had been hit by a knock-out punch, and he slumped to the floor. The next thing he knew, the lovely Irish nurse from earlier was helping him back on to his feet. The name on her badge said “Nurse O’Malley”.
“It’s all right, Mr Watson,” she soothed in her Cork accent. “It happens more times than you’d think.”
Danny felt embarrassed but elated as he got to his feet. His parents-in-law were both smiling fit to burst.
“So now,” said Nurse O’Malley. “Would you all like to see the mother and baby?”
Mr Bristow looked at Danny with watery eyes. “You go on your own, son. We’ll see them in a minute.”
Nurse O’Malley led the way along the same corridor that Danny had been pacing like a caged tiger barely twenty minutes earlier as he waited. The good news still had not totally sunk in. He needed to see Wendy and the baby with his own eyes.
As he walked into the ward, Danny saw clearly for the first time his beautiful baby, secure and content, lying in her mother’s arms.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Wendy said, her face radiant and happy. Danny thought how beautiful she looked.
“Indeed she is,” said Nurse O’Malley. “A beautiful six pound and five ounce baby girl.”
Danny reached out and took the bundle of joy for the first time. Tears filled his eyes as he looked down at this small, helpless miracle.
“She’s got your nose, Wend,” he said.
Wendy smiled. “And look at her little red ruby lips.”
“A little Wendy,” Danny said, almost bursting with pride and love. He felt completely different now. He felt like a man. He was a father to a baby girl, and this wonderful thing filled him full of pride and selfless love and a modicum of apprehension.
“Not a little Wendy,” said Wendy. “A little Ruby. That’s what we should call her, Danny. Ruby.”
Wendy and baby Ruby were going to stay in hospital for a few days to get over the operation. Visitors en masse duly came to see the newborn. Albert bought some grapes, Lenny a box of chocolates, Rosie a little pink dress.
“You have to be a father to a daughter,” said Albert as he took Ruby in his arms for the first time. “And a good one.”
Danny was determined to be just that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT was time to concentrate and focus on the task ahead.
Mother and baby were doing well back at home. As proud as Punch and keen to help, Mr Bristow had furnished the happy parents’ bedroom with a cot, and Mrs Bristow was proving a godsend with all the night feeds.
In the days before the birth, Danny had felt nervous about the head-to-head. Now a fearless determination prevailed. He had the extra incentive of his new baby girl. Her future was in his hands.
On the day of the weigh-in, Patsy arranged for Albert, Danny and Lenny to meet him at the Live and Let Live at two o’clock. Lenny had agreed to drive them to the venue, but again refused to wear a chauffeur’s hat.
At two-thirty, Danny materialised.
“Sorry,” he said, gasping a little. “The baby.”
Albert, Patsy and Lenny all nodded sympathetically.
“Test driving this one and all, Len?” said Albert as they all got into the swanky Humber Hawk parked outside the pub.
“You can’t say I don’t offer a thorough service,” said Lenny cheerfully.
“So, Danny,” said Albert as they drove to the York Hall, Bethnal Green where the weigh-in was taking place. “Why did you decide on Ruby and not Alberta for the baby, eh?”
Danny laughed. “I reckon Ruby is a good name. It seems to suit her.”
“I had an aunt called Ruby,” reminisced Lenny from the front seat. “Best cook in Jamaica. Her jerk chicken was magic.”
At York Hall, there were people already going in. As Danny got out of the car, there was a spontaneous cheer from well wishers, and people surged forward to shake his hand and ask for his autograph. It was obvious that the fight had attracted interest and caught the imagination of fight fans. Local boy, in his first professional fight, against a seasoned ex-champ. That natural British instinct to support the underdog was gaining momentum.
Danny and his entourage were shown into the hall like visiting royalty. Lenny looked like he was loving it, while Patsy took it in his stride. Albert stayed by Danny’s side as the team was shown to a room at the back of the hall and asked to wait.
Tommy Costa appeared, sweating and behaving like a mother hen.
“The press is going crazy for this, Danny,” he said. “Tickets are sold out. It’s gonna be a night to remember.”
Sold out. The news turned Danny’s stomach. He could hear the assembled fight fans in the hall, a chant from Davies’s followers of “Dragon! Dragon!” This was really happening.
Cohen appeared, as business-like as ever.
“Danny, you’re to sit on the stage on the right. Davies will sit on the left. Davies will do the weigh-in first and then it will be your turn. After the weigh-in, we’ll have a press conference and some photos. Got it?”
Danny took it all in, his mind racing. There was a surreal feeling of slow motion to the proceedings.
“Danny! Danny!” greeted him from a partisan cluster of supporters in the hall as Danny climbed on to the stage. The flashbulbs were going crazy as he blinked in the spotlights.
Another chant struck up, louder than the first.
“Dragon! Dragon! Dragon!”
Danny did his best not to feel intimidated, but watching Davies walk through the hall like the king of the ring was terrifying. Proud as a peacock, the Dragon hit the stage with his arms raised in triumph, like the fight had already been won. Shooting an ice-cold look to Danny, he took his seat.
The official prepared the weigh-in procedure as the fighters stripped and stood face to face. The hostility in the Dragon’s eyes was palpable. Danny stared him out the best he could, doing his best to keep any trace of fear from flickering in his eyes.
Davies was ten stone, twelve pounds: just two pounds inside the welterweight limit. He was shorter than Danny, but solid like Welsh granite, with muscles that looked ready to burst and a neck like a raging bull. Danny weighed in at his usual ten stone ten pounds, giving the Dragon a slight weight advantage.
As the fans cheered themselves hoarse, the Dragon’s shaved head glistened in the spotlight. This was a man from the Valleys, a hard man born from a line of miners. His record was impressive too. He had never been knocked out and had twenty-three contests to his name, with nineteen wins, a draw and two losses. Importantly,
in his last two fights – one of which had been for the British title – he had lost on points, and was now looking to find that purple patch back to the title to avoid entering the twilight of his career.
At thirty-four, he was ten years older than Danny.
Danny and his camp hoped that the age difference would go Danny’s way. Danny had a reach advantage too, being the taller man, plus a hunger that maybe Davies had lost in the sweat and tears of his past battles. It all felt like wishful thinking, seeing the prime shape the Dragon was in, but Danny was intent on giving it his all. This was Danny’s chance and he was not going to let it slide.
*
With the weigh-in done, the press conference started. Cohen was on stage to fend off any awkward questions and to organise the photo session. A few staged pictures were organised, with the two fighters staring at each other, each doing their very best to look as mean as possible.
Then the questions began.
“Dragon, why did you agree to fighting a relatively unknown fighter like Danny Watson?”
“For the money and as a stepping stone back to my title,” came the Dragon’s reply.
“Danny, you have been given the chance to fight a British ex-champion in your very first professional fight. Do you think you might be out of your depth?”
Albert couldn’t hold back. “Have you seen Danny fight?” he shouted at the journalist, raising a cheer from the fans.
“I would like to thank Mr Cohen and Mr Costa for this chance and I intend to do my best,” Danny said.
Cohen took up the baton. “Danny is a worthy contender and we believe he has a great future.”
“Yeah, but not against me,” drawled the Welshman.
Cohen, at that point, decided to call an end to the press conference. With the applause, jeers and cheers from fight fans ringing in their ears, the boxers and their entourages left the stage.
Back in the dressing room, the verdict was that the event had gone well.
“I liked your humility out there, Danny,” said Costa, slapping Danny on the back.
