‘Back other side!’
‘Eeya, Tinker, round here!’
‘Tinker!’
Several men broke from the line to scamper round the front of the engine but were met by a surge of others from the far side. The crowd re-formed, now three and four deep, eddying where a man was being pushed to the front. Tom climbed down onto the step.
‘You’ll let us through if I win?’ he said.
There was a growl of contented laughter.
‘Iffun you win,’ said a voice, mock-solemn.
‘And a silver coop, by pooblic subscription . . .’ cackled someone else.
More laughter.
‘Don’t let’s worry about the cup,’ said Tom.
He had to turn his back on them to reach the ground, then lost his footing on the slope of ballast beyond the sleepers, and half-staggered. A hand like an armoured glove gripped him by the elbow, steadied him and at the same time swung him round.
He found himself face to face with the man who, it was instantly clear, was to be his opponent—roughly Tom’s height but half again as broad; remote, dark, speculative eyes under brows white with scar-tissue; a much-broken nose, thick and unsmiling lips, a broad but stubby jaw. But for the intelligence of the eyes this was a face which Tom knew well, from gyms where the professional sparring partners waited for one of the young gentlemen to fee them for a bout.
‘Mr. Tinker?’ he said, holding out his hand. The harsh fist gripped it briefly.
‘Tinker Donovan,’ said the man. ‘And who may you be?’
‘Tom Hankey.’
‘Fought afore?’
‘Yes. Quite a bit. Not without gloves, though.’
‘It’ll have to be bandages. Three minutes the round?’
‘Suits me. How many?’
‘Till one on us stays flat.’
‘Oh . . . all right? Where? I don’t fancy fighting on the track. What’s the ground like out of the cutting?’
Slowly and with obvious confidence Mr. Donovan turned and spoke to the men beside him.
‘Stack of sleepers up by signal box,’ he said. ‘Lay us a stage across the tracks, willa?’
At once almost the whole crowd marched off up the line, leaving only three or four by the engine.
‘Ay,’ said one of these. ‘Better down in the cutting, then us can watch from off of the wall, like.’
The others grunted agreement. Apart from the prospect of fighting this formidable man, things seemed to be turning out remarkably well. At least it looked as though no one except Tom was likely to get hurt. The better humour the men were in . . . a thought struck him and he turned to see Horace craning, worried but thrilled, from the footplate.
‘Is your bookie friend still on the train?’ he asked.
‘Think so. He had a ticket to Hull.’
‘Fetch him along. Tell the passengers what’s up. Some of ’em may want to watch too.’
‘Righty-ho.’
‘Think any on the lads will be backing thee?’ said one of the men.
‘I suppose not. Perhaps they can bet on how many rounds I go.’
‘Aye.’
Mr. Donovan was already striding away along the track. Tom and the others followed. He was conscious of more movement behind him—passengers helping each other down the four-foot drop to the ground—but did not look back. The men walking just in front of him did not speak much to each other, but their mood seemed now entirely benevolent. Horace had been right, Tom realised. The ambush of the train, like the attack by the coal-throwers outside Leeds, had been only partly an act of war; it had also been a lark, a break, a longed-for defiance of authority. Given a different reception by the train-crew the war element would have prevailed and the episode have become an unpleasant skirmish; as it was, more by luck than design, the lark had for the moment come out on top. The ambush had worked as planned, and now there was going to be the bonus of a fist-fight to watch. Tom thought it possible that if he did well enough the men might let the train through after all.
The southern bank of the cutting rose steadily higher. From the crown of the curve Tom could see that the line ahead ran, still climbing, along an impressive chalk canyon. The effect was almost gothic—certainly romantic, as if he and his passengers had been ambushed by bandits in some remote Albanian pass, which they had been tricked into taking instead of the drab, safe levels of the Humber plain. Here the men were working systematically, unbuilding a stack of sleepers and laying them between the tracks; another layer, laid across these and the rails themselves, would make an adequate platform for the fight. It would clearly take some time before they were ready, so Tom walked past them, climbed the northern wall of the cutting, and sat down. He could see very little more from here than he had been able to from the tracks. The wood behind him rose steeply, blanking out all the northern landscape; so, for the most part, did the cutting wall to the south. Only to his right Tom could see a stretch of steep hillside, close-nibbled, crossed with sheep-tracks and sparsely dotted with thorn-bushes. Close to one of these, but on the skyline from where Tom sat, stood a man, presumably a look-out. There seemed to be absolutely no possibility of intervention from the outside world. If you were going to ambush a train you could not have chosen a safer or more secret place. Undisturbed by the bustle in the cutting a few Small and Holly Blues sunned themselves on the bank beneath him, while a pair of Speckled Woods danced up and down through the leaf-shadow. He wondered what Judy was doing. He had a card from her in his pocket, accepting his invitation to the Trinity Commem. and saying that she was staying at Brantingham to help with the strike, but not what that help would be. For a moment he imagined himself and her, walking hand in hand through the silence of this place, quite alone, watching the butterflies as they had at Hendaye. He was glad she wasn’t here now—he was fairly sure he was going to be hurt quite badly. Donovan looked immensely strong and hard, and though his movements were slow one couldn’t be sure that this would remain part of his fighting style or whether it was a deliberate restraint which he would put aside in the ring. He was older than Tom, but still young enough to be quick. Even bandaged, his fists would be a great deal more painful than any glove. On the other hand the scar-tissue above his eyes . . . A man picked his way slantwise up the cutting wall.
‘Can I take your shirt, sir, to cut t’bandages?’
Tom nodded, rose and began to strip.
‘I thought as you’d run,’ said the man, ‘till I saw you squatting up here.’
He took the shirt and stood inspecting Tom’s torso.
‘You’ve some meat on you,’ he said. ‘More ’n I’d guess. Think you can go three with him?’
He sounded genuinely interested. Tom looked down into the cutting to see what Donovan was doing but couldn’t for the moment spot him. A knot of men surrounded one of the passengers, a stout old man in the traditional loud tweed of the bookmaker.
‘It depends if he catches me with a couple of good ones, doesn’t it? It looks as if he could punch.’
‘Ay. Would have been Northern Champ, Tinker, but for having his fights stopped. Cuts bloody awful.’
‘Can you find me a second?’
‘We reckoned as your fireman . . .’
‘I’d rather have somebody who knew his stuff.’
‘Ay. I’ll ask.’
‘Thanks.’
Now Tom saw Donovan. He was pacing to and fro on the nearly completed platform, prodding here and there at the baulks with his feet. Tom put his jacket over his bare shoulders, slithered down the bank and went to join him. Somebody had found a length of thin cable and the men were using this to lash the top layer of sleepers to the rails. When they had done it would all be firm enough, though nothing like as smooth-surfaced as a proper ring. It would be dangerously easy to catch one’s heel at a place where one sleeper projected a quarter inch above its neighbour, or on the wires themselves. The platform was small, too, about fifteen feet square, with a fair drop at either end and a shorter one where it crossed
the tracks.
‘That’s not bad,’ said Tom. ‘I suppose we can’t do anything about ropes.’
‘I’ve fought on worse,’ said Donovan. ‘The lads’ll keep the ring. Ready?’
‘If you are.’
A thin man with a long grey face came up, shook hands with Tom and said that his name was Percy Garner and he would be Tom’s second. Other men had been elected time-keeper and referee, and they too came and shook hands with Tom, as if anxious to demonstrate to him that the fight was going to be fairly fought and judged. Mr. Garner took from one of the other men a series of two-inch-wide strips of Tom’s shirt and started to bandage Tom’s hands. He at once gave the impression that he knew what he was doing. In the middle of this Horace came bustling up.
‘I say,’ he said. ‘You should have let me be your second!’
‘Mr. Garner’s done it before, you see,’ said Tom. ‘But he’ll need some help. He’ll tell you what to do. I hope you haven’t bet on me.’
‘Yes, of course I have. I got twenty to one.’
‘I’ll do my best. Are you sure that’s tight enough, Mr. Garner?’
‘Close tha fist, sir.’
With his hand flat the bandages had felt distinctly loose, but as Tom bent his fingers the cloth tightened, making a taut pad several layers thick from the back of his hand to the first knuckle. He tried the feel of it against his cheek while Mr. Garner started on the other hand. It seemed, if anything, harder than a bare fist might have been—in fact the function of the bandages was clearly to protect the hand rather than the target.
When Mr. Garner had finished bandaging the other hand Tom began to jig a little, loosening up his leg-muscles. It felt strange to be doing this in boots. He was still getting used to the sensation when the time-keeper blew a long blast on Dampier’s whistle and the crowd in the cutting began to climb the banks, looking for ledges and footholds on the steep slopes. Tom went to his corner. There were no stools, so he stood and waited until the referee waved him to the centre of the ring. Tom and Donovan and the referee closed together into that strange, almost conspiratorial, instant of peace that precedes any fight. The referee said the usual brisk formula, solemn as any official at a regular championship. On his way back to his corner Tom saw that five men stood along each side of the ring, ready to prevent the fighters from falling through where the ropes should have been. He handed his jacket to Horace. The whistle blew.
Tom had been expecting an immediate rush from Donovan after the first ritual touch of fists and was on his toes to cope with it, but Donovan simply moved to the centre of the ring and stayed there, firm-footed in the classic pose with his chin tucked down as he watched Tom from under heavy brows. Tom tried a tentative lead and Donovan knocked it away. The men on the banks gave a yapping cheer at the contact and fell silent, apart from individual shouts of encouragement to their fighter. The closeness of the cutting picked out every sound, but to Tom, concentrated into his task, the shouts were as irrelevant and remote as birdsong. Stripped, Donovan was very impressive, a bit over-muscled but without the beer-induced suet common in gymnasium pugs. Tom led to the body and landed a sound punch, but it was like beating a tree-trunk. The jar of his own gloveless fist into hard flesh was shocking but exhilarating. Donovan had barely altered his guard to meet the blow, had simply allowed it to land. Clearly he was going to cover his face at all costs.
At least the punch stimulated him to attack. He came forward, suddenly and much more nimbly than Tom had expected, with a smart double-jab. Tom swayed inside it, ducked out of an incipient clinch and circled away. There was barely room for such work. His heel must have come within inches of the drop before iron hands met his shoulder-blades where the rope would have been. To discourage Donovan from a series of such rushes he jabbed hard for the face, swayed clear of the predictable counter and got in a right to the body with all his weight behind it. Though it seemed to him that his fist rebounded like a ball from brickwork, he saw the brooding eyes flicker with the impact.
By the time the whistle blew for the end of the round the pattern seemed clear. Donovan was a competent, orthodox fighter who relied on sheer strength to wear his opponent down. He could be held more easily by a threat to his head than an actual blow to his body. No doubt the ungloved fists and his known tendency to cut contributed to that. He knew that Tom was having to spend twice the energy he himself was, because he could hold the middle of the tiny ring and merely turn while Tom had to circle round him. He had not yet landed a true punch—indeed on orthodox scoring Tom had won the round by several clear points—but he had effectively established dominance. Tom rested after the whistle with head bowed and shoulders hunched, systematically heaving in the clean hill air. Horace fanned him with his own jacket while Mr. Garner whispered pleadingly as he adjusted the bandages.
‘He’s playing with thee, man. Tha must go for his head. Forget about the body. Never been stopped, Tinker, but by punching to the head. And watch for his right. He’ll be coming at thee with a one-two and tha’ll be thinking he’s done, when he’ll fetch another right at thee. Won fight after fight that gate, Tinker.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Eeya, man, but tha’s quick! Happen he don’t catch thee with his right and tha’ll last three rounds yet!’
Tom nodded and looked at him. The grey, gaunt face was fanatic for the cause, Tom’s cause, loyalty to one’s own corner. The strike and the ambush were swept away by the flood of the fight.
‘Hope so,’ said Tom. ‘Wish I was in better training.’
Early in the next round he misjudged the speed of Donovan’s left. It caught the side of his head, at an angle only, but he felt as if he’d banged into an oak beam. A flurry or two later it became clear that Donovan had changed his tempo, was coming forward more and faster, and was now prepared to risk a counter-attack to the head. The round was running to a new pattern, its rhythm quickening towards a climax. Donovan was still only using his left, but with each attack his right hung a little lower, a little further withdrawn. A full-blooded left walloped into Tom’s guard, and deliberately he let the impact throw him back against the waiting hands so that Donovan’s right had to reach too far for its target. As it went back for the second stroke Mr. Garner had foretold Tom loosed his own right, looping high to the temple. His bandaged knuckles seemed to crack with the impact and the bones of wrist and arm to jar to the shoulder-joint. Donovan stood back two paces and nodded, not as though clearing his head but as if accepting a new fact. Tom became conscious of the pain in his hand and wondered if he’d broken a bone. The yells of the men filled the cutting.
And then there was a change. The intensity of focus, the sense of all the universe peering down into the cutting through a lens of sky, blurred. Tom first became aware of it at the edge of his vision, in the background to the fight. It was as though cloud-shadow had lifted from the watchers on the steep southern bank, though the light on the ring had not changed at all. At the same time the shouting faltered, then swelled on a quite different note. All this he was only vaguely conscious of. But now Donovan frowned, backed two clear paces away and held up a hand, palm forward. He was looking not at Tom but over his shoulder. Tom saw that the alteration in the texture of the crowd was caused by the same thing—they were no longer watching the fight, but the bank behind him. He dropped his guard and swung round, panting.
There was some sort of a disturbance in the crowd here. At first it seemed merely that some of the ones at the top had lost their footing and, falling, brought down the watchers below them in a series of slithering tumbles. Then it became clear that those who remained on the rim of the bank were not part of the crowd, but newcomers, deliberately spaced a few yards apart. They wore sporting clothes and carried shotguns and rifles held half-raised. They might have been an out-of-season shooting party, except that their heads were covered by dark and shapeless hoods.
One of them tilted his gun skywards, without lifting it to his shoulder. A sharp explosion filled the cutting, foll
owed by silence.
‘Don’t anybody move,’ said a voice. ‘These guns are all loaded and we won’t hesitate to shoot.’
The men who had fallen from the bank picked themselves up. Whispers and mutters began to spread.
‘Eeya!’ called a voice from the southern bank. ‘Wunnit be the close season?’
‘Not for vermin,’ answered one of the hooded men towards the end of the line.
The man who had fired the shot raised his gun slightly, imposing silence.
‘Passengers back in the train,’ he said. ‘Who’s the driver?’
Tom raised his hand. The speaker was clearly Bertie Panhard, not only from his voice, but also from the characteristic tweeds of his suit, which would have looked more at home on Horace’s bookmaker friend. The man who had made the remark about vermin had been Dick Standish. They were pretending not to recognise Tom, and he was relieved. He wanted, he now saw, absolutely no part in Bertie’s schemes. Indeed, for an instant when he had first realised that the newcomers were not part of the crowd he had thought that they were the coal-throwers from the cutting outside Leeds, returned for a fresh onslaught; and now, though he knew them to be in other contexts his own friends, they retained for him a sense of the same horror and revulsion. These armed and hooded intruders were wrong, alien, both to him and to his idea of England, whereas the fight with Donovan, for all its absurdity, had been acceptable, a meeting-ground. Ignoring the men with the guns he turned to his opponent and held out his hand.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I think you’d have done me in the next couple of rounds.’
‘Aye,’ said Donovan, unsmiling.
At once his glance returned to the line of armed men.
‘The buggers,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse.’
‘Aye.’
‘Get moving!’ called Bertie. ‘Passengers and crew back in the train, I say. You men, start taking those sleepers off the line. Number eight, you take a dozen of them and clear the tree-trunks. I want to see that train moving in ten minutes.’
A Summer in the Twenties Page 7
