In front of scores of hard, appraising eyes, Charlie Finnegan removed his shirt and tossed it over a chair. He pulled his elbows behind his back, loosening his shoulders, opening up his chest. The eyes roved over his rippling muscles. They noted the thick arms, the powerful hands. A murmur of approval moved through the crowd. Odds increased, bets changed, coins leaped from hand to hand.
Impassive, Charlie’s own eyes roved around the room. He liked what he saw. This was his first fight at the Taj Mahal – an old music hall newly converted to a sporting hall. The owner, Denny Quinn, had gutted the building, ripping out the stage and the seats, but leaving the fancy gas chandeliers and sconces and the florid wallpaper. The end result was a large, well-lit space, perfect for dogfights, ratting matches, cockfights, and bare-knuckle brawls.
He liked the crowd, too – mostly workingmen, but also some toffs. He spotted Thomas “Bowler” Sheehan in the crowd. Bowler, named for the black hat he always wore, was the most notorious criminal in East London. There wasn’t a whorehouse, dicing parlor, gaming hall, or fencing ring that he didn’t have a piece of. Wharfingers paid him to “protect” their property. Publicans paid him to keep their windows from going in. And those foolish enough deny him a piece of their pie usually turned up facedown in the Thames.
Sheehan’s presence was a testimony to the amount of money in the hall. He didn’t squander his evenings on small-time fights. Charlie was pleased to know that interest in him was high. He knew that lads Quinn liked, boxers who became his regulars, got a piece of the nightly draw, in addition to prize money. He was fighting for nothing tonight. Quinn made the new lads do a tryout before he took them on. Charlie was determined to make an impression.
A bell sounded. Amid cheers and catcalls, he and his opponent came together in the center of the room. They held out their hands for the referee, who turned them palm-up to make sure they weren’t concealing anything, then sent them back to their corners – opposite sides of the circle formed by the spectators.
Charlie sized up the lad. He knew him. His name was Sid Malone. He worked with him at the brewery. Sid lived across the river in Lambeth. He wasn’t a native Londoner. According to Billy Hewson, their foreman, he’d come up from the countryside after his mother died. He had no family. No friends, either. He was a bully, always picking fights, though Charlie never had any trouble from him. At least not until the day, several months ago, that Sid had taken a fancy to Fiona. He’d asked her to a pub, and when she declined, he’d tried to drag her into an alley. She’d broken his nose with a single, well-placed punch that had everything to do with luck, not strength, but Malone had never lived it down. He wanted to recover his pride and knew no better way of doing it than by beating Fiona’s brother to mush. Sid was about Charlie’s age and height. He had red hair, too, but he wasn’t built as solidly. Charlie knew his style and thought he could take him, but any fighter, Sid included, was better when he was angry.
Some boxers had to work up their anger. They needed a reason – a score to settle, a few jeers from the crowd. All Charlie had to do was open the box where his rage lived. Always a good fighter, he’d gotten even better in the weeks since his father’s death.
Fighting cleansed him. Of his fury, his guilt, his hopelessness. When he fought, he forgot his anxious sister and his pale, tired mother. He forgot his sad-eyed little brother, mutely reproaching him for never being around. He forgot New York and the life he’d hoped to build there. He lost himself completely in the circling, the faking, the crack of his knuckles against somebody’s jaw, in the smoke and the sweat and the bright, brilliant pain.
The referee took the center of the ring and raised his arm. The air crackled with tension. Charlie could feel it raising the hairs on his arms. The crowd surged in closer, voices urged him on. A bell sounded and the fight was on. Sid was like a marionette. Hurt pride and anger pulled his strings, jerking him toward Charlie, making him throw stiff, shaky punches. Charlie withdrew into the defensive, easily parrying Sid’s thrusts. From this position, he could watch him, conserve his energy, and decide exactly when to nail the bastard.
“C’mon, ya’ coward,” Sid hissed. “Fight me.”
The crowd didn’t like it; they wanted more aggression. Men booed and shook their heads. Charlie didn’t give a damn. He could’ve thrown a dozen giveaway punches, cutting a lip, swelling an eye, but he wanted to give them something memorable, so he held back, teasing the crowd, drawing the whole process out like a skilled lover who increases pleasure by delaying it.
But then, out of nowhere, Sid landed a punch under Charlie’s left eye. His knuckles drove in against the socket and split the skin. Charlie’s head snapped back. Blood streamed from the cut; the crowd roared. Charlie shook his head, throwing off a red spray. He was glad the cut was under his eye so the blood wouldn’t blind him. Sid was confident now, strutting. Charlie watched the position of his fists. There was more room between them. His cover was loosening.
Sid got a few more jabs in, harmless hits that Charlie let him have, all the while watching him like a hawk. His left fist dropped lower every time he threw a right. He was winded, jabbing in a pattern to preserve his breath. Charlie kept his own fists close to his face. Now was not the time to give Sid another crack at his eye. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, still watching Sid’s pattern. Right, right, right. The left fist lowered as he punched, then went up, then he took a rest. Another pattern. Right, left, right. Once more. Then all rights again. Lower and rest. He waited. Sid punched with his right again, his left fist dropped, and Charlie delivered a hurtling freight train of a punch directly to his temple.
Sid dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks. He groaned once, his eyes fluttered closed, he was out. There were a few seconds of stunned silence as the referee counted to ten, then he ran to Charlie, hoisted his arm, and declared him the winner. The crowd erupted into cheers, with many exclaiming they’d never seen the like. Men who only minutes ago had been jeering Charlie now praised his restraint and timing.
Sid was carried off to a table, where his mates worked to revive him. Charlie spat out the blood that had leaked into his mouth. In no time, admiring punters brought him a chair, a pint of porter, clean towels, and water. He wiped his face. A stout man in a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, carrying a battered black bag, introduced himself as Dr. Wallace, Denny Quinn’s barber-surgeon, and attended to his eye. He cleaned it with soap and water, then patted it with whiskey, which made Charlie wince. When he got out a needle and thread, Charlie asked what the hell he was doing.
“It’s a deep one,” Wallace said. “If we don’t stitch it up now, it’ll take forever to ’eal. Open right up on you the next time you fight.”
Charlie nodded, steeling himself as Wallace poked the needle through his skin.
“Sit still, lad. We want to keep your face pretty for the ladies.” He put in a few more stitches, five in all, then knotted the thread. “Nice wallop you gave that lad. Don’t see many like that and I see a lot. Needlework’s on the ’ouse. And there’s a plate of chops coming your way, courtesy of Mr. Quinn.” Wallace nodded toward Sid, splayed out on a table. “I’d better go see if I can wake up Sleeping Beauty. Keep that cut clean.”
Charlie thanked him, then downed his pint. As soon as the glass was empty, another appeared. And then a heaping plate of pork chops. He tore into them; he’d had nothing to eat but bread and marge for days. A man brought him his shirt, which he put on but didn’t button; he was too hot. Men who’d won money came over to express their appreciation.
“The odds changed twice during the match,” one told him, gleefully tousling his hair. “But I stuck by you and won meself a pot! You’ve got the makings of a great, lad.”
The man was so happy, he gave Charlie two shillings of his winnings. He pocketed the money and smiled. The fight had gone just as he’d hoped – he’d made his impression. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The mad excitement of the match had worn off and he was tired. He took a deep bre
ath, inhaling the stifling air. Like every other establishment of its kind, the Taj Mahal reeked of men and their activities – beer souring in the floorboards, sweat, smoke, greasy chops, and … perfume. Perfume? Charlie opened his eyes to see where it was coming from.
A pretty strawberry-blonde stood before him. She was wearing a tightly laced pink corset, a flouncy white petticoat, and not much else. Her long curls were pulled up in a loose knot; a few corkscrewed free. She had warm brown eyes, freckled skin, and a sweet smile. Charlie could not take his eyes off her bare arms, the tops of her freckled breasts. He’d never seen so much woman.
“Mr. Quinn said you might like some company,” the girl said, smiling. “I’m Lucy.”
Charlie couldn’t speak. God, was she pretty. He could see through her corset.
“Do you want me to go away?” she asked, frowning. “Do you want someone else?”
He found his voice. “No! No, not at all. Sit down, won’t you? Excuse me manners, I’m a bit tired. Fight takes it out of you.” But suddenly, Charlie found he was not tired in the least.
“I didn’t see the fight. Den doesn’t want us downstairs till it’s over. Says we distract everyone and mess up the betting. But I ’eard you was smashing!”
So, Lucy was one of Denny’s girls. He was tongue-tied; he didn’t know what to say, but he had to say something. He desperately wanted to keep her here, where he could look at her and talk to her. Where all the other blokes could see him with her. So he started talking about the fight, and Sid Malone, and how his sister had broken Sid’s nose. He made Lucy laugh and she didn’t go away. Instead she leaned closer and he saw even more of her cleavage.
Charlie felt a hand on his back and looked up. The hand belonged to a rangy man wearing a flash jacket. It was Quinn. He pushed his chair back to stand up, but Quinn told him to sit still.
“That was good work, lad,” he said. “Unexpected. Kept the betting ’igh. I like that. I want to take you on. Give that eye time to ’eal and then I’ll set you up, all right?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Quinn.”
“My terms are generous,” Quinn continued, his sharp eyes moving around the room as he spoke. “A set purse, plus a piece of the night’s draw. Now listen, Charlie. You’re good and others will want you, but I want you exclusively and I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket, peeled off a fiver, and gave it to Charlie. Charlie started to thank him, but he held up his hands. “If you’re not too knackered, the services of our lovely Lucy are on the ’ouse. She’ll get you a good ’ot bath, won’t you, luv? And if you’re nice to ’er, she’ll do one or two other things, I imagine.”
Before a red-faced Charlie could say a word, Quinn was off, moving through the crowd. He’d spotted one of his girls alone. “Get a man and get upstairs,” Charlie heard him yell. “What do you think this is? A church social?”
Lucy put an arm around Charlie, drawing him close. His heart was hammering. “ ’E must really want you, Charlie. It’s not often I see Denny Quinn willingly part with five quid.”
Charlie couldn’t believe his luck. All he’d wanted was to get Quinn to take him on. And now he had five pounds, two shillings, and the promise of more to come. And Lucy. He had Lucy. They would go upstairs and he could take off her corset and look at her. He could kiss her. He could take off her petticoat and lie down next to her and … and more.
He was nervous. For all his bragging with the lads on Montague Street about the fourpenny whores they’d had, he’d never done more than kiss his sister’s friend Bridget and grope her small breasts. He drained his pint. That made three. Four more and he might actually be ready for this.
“Come on,” Lucy whispered, taking him by the hand. She led him upstairs, to a narrow hallway with doors on either side of it. She paused by one door, drew him to her, and kissed him, trailing her hands through his hair and down his back to his bum, which she squeezed and kneaded like a batch of dough, pressing him into her.
“Want your bath now or later?” she whispered, moving her hands to his front.
“What bath?” he croaked, thinking of Denny Quinn and the five-pound note in his pocket, thinking of anything at all to take his mind off what she was doing to him with her hands. Because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t make it to her bed. To his relief, she stopped to fish in her corset for her room key. Giggling, she unlocked the door and pulled him inside. And in Lucy’s plump feather bed, in her soft, freckled arms, Charlie Finnegan found an entirely new way to lose himself.
Chapter 14
Over a breakfast of toast and tea, Fiona, her face beaming with happiness, reread her letter from Joe for the fifth time.
Dear Fiona,
Here’s two bob. Come to Covent Garden on Sunday morning. Take the number-four bus from Commercial Street where we took it the day I brought you here. Get off at Russell Street and I’ll be there waiting. I’ll only have half a day – I’ve got to leave for Jersey with Tommy at one, but if you got here by nine, we could have the morning. I’m sorry about the other day and Guy Fawkes. I know this is a hard time for you. I miss you and hope everything’s all right.
Love, Joe
The letter arrived yesterday afternoon. It was really more of a package – a small box wrapped with brown paper and twine containing the letter and two shillings, each wrapped in tissue paper so they didn’t rattle and tempt the postman.
Fiona was over the moon. For six days, ever since their awful fight, she’d neither seen nor heard from him and she’d been imagining the worst. He didn’t love her anymore. He didn’t want their shop. He’d taken up with Millie. These thoughts had tortured her during the day and kept her awake at night, staring at the ceiling, lonely and miserable and heartsick. Maybe she’d driven him away for good. Why had she fought with him when they had so little time together? It was all her fault; all he’d done was talk about his job.
She’d let her jealousy overwhelm her again. She was so anxious to make things right, but she couldn’t travel to him. She couldn’t even write, there was never enough money for paper. But now he’d written to her and she was hopeful and excited. She would see him. They would talk and everything would be all right. She needed him, needed the security of his love, so much.
He was right; it was a hard time, the hardest of times. Terrible, in fact. Every day there seemed to be a new crisis to deal with: Seamie needed mittens, a sweater. Charlie needed a jacket. The cold weather had come and with it the need for more coal. The little factory that supplied her mother with piecework had gone out of business. She’d looked everywhere – pubs, shops, cookshops – for a second job, but no one was hiring.
And, worst of all, Eileen had caught their mother’s cough. The other night she’d taken a very bad turn, hacking until she could hardly catch her breath, bringing up bloody phlegm. They’d rushed her to a doctor. He wasn’t sure what it was, he said, they’d have to watch her closely to see if the medicine he’d prescribe would help or not. Fiona had taken hope at this, but her mam had been strangely quiet. When they got home, she’d sat down by the fire and wept. Fiona, frightened more by her mother’s tears than the baby’s coughing, asked what was wrong.
“It’s my fault. Eileen caught my cough and it’s turned into consumption,” she said. “The doctor won’t say it, but I know it.”
“No, it’s not, Mam,” Fiona said forcefully, as if her words themselves could squash the possibility of that dread disease. “The doctor said it could be just that ’er throat’s raw or that she’s got an infection. ’E said to watch what the medicine did and come back in a week. That’s what ’e said and ’e knows more about it than you do.”
Her mam had wiped her eyes and nodded, but she hadn’t looked convinced. She’d watched Eileen anxiously ever since, getting little sleep, growing increasingly distracted and depressed. She’d lost weight, too. They all had. There was so little money for food. They’d eaten a steady diet of bread and tea for days until Charlie came home the other night wit
h a five-pound note and a cut under his eye. A moving job, he’d said. The doctor’s bills and the cost of Eileen’s medicine plus three weeks’ back rent and a trip to the market had eaten up most of their windfall, but now, at last, something good had happened. Joe had written and she would see him in only a few hours. She could bear whatever hardships came her way, as long as she had his love and their dreams to hold on to.
As she was wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, trying to remember how long the number-four bus took to get to Covent Garden, a boy’s face appeared in the window.
He knocked on the glass. “Is this the Finnegans’?” he shouted.
“Aye. Who are you?”
“Mr. Jackson from the Bull sent me. Said I was to tell Fiona Finnegan that ’e wanted to see ’er about the job. Said she was to come right away if she still wanted it.”
“What… this minute?”
“That’s what ’e said.” The boy’s eyes strayed to the loaf of bread on the table.
Fiona cut a slice, spread some margarine on it, and handed it to him. He ate it greedily and left to find himself another penny errand.
“Ta-ra, Mam,” she said, bending over the bed to kiss her mother good-bye. She wasn’t asleep, she was just lying on her side, eyes closed.
“Ta-ra, luv.”
Fiona sighed. Once her mother would have peppered her with questions about a new job – especially one in a pub – before ever letting her out the door. Now she was too tired to care. She hadn’t even asked about Charlie’s eye, or noticed that Seamie’s vocabulary now included “bloody” and “bastard.” We have to get out of here, Fiona thought. Life in Adams Court was harsh and defeating. It was changing them, doing them in.
She closed the door behind her and set off for the Bull, her fingers crossed. If she hurried, maybe she could get to the pub, talk to Mr. Jackson, and still get to Covent Garden before nine. When she’d spoken to him a few days ago, he hadn’t anything available. Someone must’ve left. His timing could’ve been better, she thought. Today of all days! But it couldn’t be helped and Joe would understand if she was a bit late. If she got the job, she’d have a few extra shillings in her pocket and maybe she could get some meat for their tea during the week or get her mam a bottle of tonic. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get this job. Maybe two good things in a row would happen. She was overdue for a bit of luck.
The Tea Rose Page 17
