(Draw of strength, launch into next bit.)
Back over the fences, past the pit-bull now growling at me and running around a bit to the woman’s back door. There I am/ covered in blood/ sweat/ and dog shit/ asking if could I please/ walk through her house again. I bounce up the road on cloud nine, leaving a bloody trail behind me, jangling my keys, I am very/ proud of myself. I feel liberated/ like a proper/ accomplished/ woman/ like a fucking super hero. I get in and check the time, I did all that in half an hour! Ladies and Gentleman, gold medal Olympian Chloe Jackson, oh yes, I am the best/ I am triumphant/ I am the mother-fucker-champion of cat burglars! The phone rings, ‘Ah/ Len! Yes mate! You will never/ guess what has just happened to me, I am the best fucking cat burglar in the world! Seriously/ I just. What?’ And then he tells me. Dad’s dead. Just like that. Two words.
(The bell rings. Sound effects of the gym snap back. CHLOE launches into some fast and furious shadow boxing. She has now one hour until her fight. As she warms up she remembers a conversation with LEN on her return to the gym after the funeral two weeks ago. Her movements are around one side of the bag. This allows her to shift round to the other side and become LEN, who stands still leaning on the bag talking to her.)
AS LEN: Alright Chloe? How’s it going?
AS CHLOE: Alright Len. Yeah I’m good.
(CHLOE drops her hands in one rotation to stretch them as she manoeuvres around the other side of the bag.)
AS LEN: Listen. Chloe? No one was expecting you back this quickly. I mean, Christ the funeral was only yesterday. You can afford to take off more time sweetheart, honestly no one thinks/
AS CHLOE: /Nah got work to do ain’t I. Only couple of weeks left.
(CHLOE ducks and dives around to the other side of the bag in one swift motion. She turns to us exhausted but impassioned. The sounds of the gym cut out for the next speech and return after ‘not one’.)
I fuckin’ hate funerals. Nah really/ I don’t get it. All that money spent on flowers. Flowers? My dad never bought no one flowers, so why now all of a sudden was he getting hundreds of ’em? Beautiful sweet-smelling lilies lined the pavement outside the church/ shining in their crisp cellophane coffins, I couldn’t believe it/ he got more fuckin’ flowers than Diana. Everyone turned up, all the kids from the gym, their parents, their parent’s parents, the lot. Like a day trip out. All in their Sunday best, bloody hypocrites, not one of ’em goes to church normally/ only to get married in or chuck a load of flowers at a dead bloke. As if he can appreciate ’em. If you wanna spend your money spend it down the gym/ that’s what he’d ’ave wanted, that or the pub. Not on flowers. And everyone kept hugging me all the time, crying on me, telling me how very very sorry they all were and what a terrible waste it was. Yeah you’re right/ I wanted to say, waste of money on all this shit. And I could tell they were watchin’ me, all sly like, out of the corner of puffy red eyes. Waiting for me to crumble so they could be the good ones who picked up the pieces. They shed tears like they got paid for it. Everyone sobbing their fuckin’ hearts out. And I couldn’t squeeze out one drop for him. Not one.
(CHLOE resumes her shadow boxing but she messes up her combination and stamps on the floor in frustration before continuing. LEN sees the mistake.)
AS LEN: Listen Clo, right. I know you had your heart set on this, but shit happens, yeah. Honestly Clo, no one is gonna think bad of ya if you don’t wanna compete, I mean it’s understandable/
AS CHLOE: (Stops and turns to him.) Fuck off! Of course I’m gonna compete! I’m not letting anything get in the way. I can’t believe you’d even think I would drop out.
AS LEN: Alright, alright! I’m just worried about you Chloe, that’s all.
(Beat.)
I wanted to give you this. Your dad gave it to me when Jan passed. I’ll put it in your bag.
(Beat, he does.)
Now about training/
AS CHLOE: I’m fine. Look, if you ain’t gonna train me/ I’ll go somewhere else mate.
(CHLOE finishes her round of shadow boxing. She appears strong and empowered, confident she has made the right decision but conscious her every move is being watched for signs of weakness. A bell clangs pulling CHLOE back into the present, pre-fight. She drinks some water, puts the rope away and takes off her vest top. She pulls on a hoody and stretches her legs. The boxing-club music is still playing quietly in the next room. She stands still for a moment; her eyes closed enjoying the calm, her hands inside her hoody pocket to keep them warm. A beat before she pulls an old folded piece of paper out of her hoody pocket. She appears confused for a split-second before she opens and reads it. She looks up to us before speaking.)
It’s Jamie. He’s always leaving notes round the house. Sticks ’em on back of the toilet door or/ in a drawer or/ on the wall. In my pockets, in my socks. He’s barmy that boy.
(Beat. She gently shadow-boxes as she speaks. The boxing-club music has subtly shifted into night-club music and it slowly fades up as the shadow boxing shifts into dancing. By the line ‘I ain’t been out with the girls in weeks’ we are fully in the club with music and lights. on the line ‘and tonight I’m feeling hot’, CHLOE takes off her hoody revealing a dress underneath that she can pull down to wear over her shorts.)
We met in Destiny. It’s a shit club but there ain’t nowhere else to go round here. Drinks are cheap and sickly sweet, sticky dance floor clings to my feet are caning boy! But I carry on. With months before the fight the girls have got me convinced that one night off can’t hurt, and besides it’s bezzie-mates-forever-Katie Mitchell’s twenty-first! The lights are flashing, music pumpin’, heavy bass pulsing straight through my knickers. I ain’t been out with the girls in weeks! And tonight I’m feeling hot/ downing shot after shot/ we hit the dance floor. I take on a few lads, grinding up against ’em, twirling and spinning, all the time I know he’s watching me. I saw him at the bar. It’s like a game, and I know I’m winning. He comes over and says sumink. ‘WOT?!’ He tries again frowning. ‘WOT?! I CAN’T HEAR YA!’ He gives up, laughin’, and I notice he’s got well nice teeth.
Outside the fresh air slaps you in the face, sobering you up quick, as I realise I left my swagger on the dance floor. In the cool light of early morning, I’m suddenly feeling pretty shy and I’m freezin’ ma tits off! He gives me his jacket to wear. And I’m standing there/ all tongue-tied and blushes. We ain’t even kissed yet. Katie and Lauren stagger over ‘Oi babes you coming back to mine? Let’s get a taxi yeah then we’ll BLURGH!’ Katie’s sick splatters the pavement just missing Jamie’s bright white trainers and I think I’m gonna die I’m so embarrassed. He takes my hand and it felt strange.
(Beat.)
Leaving my mates like that/ it ain’t on/ nah it’s proper out of order, you never ever put a fella before a mate, ever, it’s a golden rule. But you know, some rules are made to be broken, right? And Jamie made my stomach flip/ oh my god, proper butterflies.
(Beat.)
He calls me Rocky. ‘Hey Rocky!’ Dick’ead. He tells me I’m beautiful. Cooks me dinner, buys me chocolates, perfume ’n that. It’s a bit cheesy but, it’s nice ain’t it.
(Pause. She shakes her head smiling.)
He likes me best when I’m ill. Says I’m too weak to keep my guard up and I just let him love me. When you’ve been a fighter all your life it’s hard to let someone else take care of you. When Dad died I just had to get on with things you know, carry on because I didn’t have the time to stop and cry about it. What’s a few tears gonna do anyway? No amount of crying is gonna bring him back so I didn’t let ’em fall. Just held ’em back and got on with life, like Dizzy says ‘Fix up, look smart!’/ ‘Get ma shit and get gone’. Jamie thinks I’m mad for not crying. I tell him to shut up and remind him that a face full of snotty tears ain’t an attractive look fella.
(Beat.)
Love’s a funny thing. Sometimes it comes along when you least expect it. You get a knock in life, and it winds you for a moment/ you can’t breathe, but you pick yourself
back up and you get your game face on. You’ve got it all worked out, totally planned, do this/ do that/ left jab/ straight right/ left hook/ then all of a sudden. Life surprises ya. One great big Sucker Punch of love spins out of nowhere and you’re blinded, you’re seeing stars/ trust me. That’s love/ BAM, like a punch in the guts. You feel sick with it...
(Beat.)
Thing is though. I’m a fighter/ yeah and now’s my time to stand up and battle on regardless. Fighters don’t get sick.
(Bell rings. She tugs off the dress. She leaves her wraps on. She moves the bench, tidies away her things and puts on another top. She catches herself in the mirror and stops for a moment looking at her reflection. She smoothes down her hair, and prods at an old bruise around her eye.)
I met up with Mum/ a few days after the funeral. For ‘coffee’. All hair spray and lipstick she struts in like some slapper, nearly twenty minutes late, orders a tall skinny latte and gives the waiter a wink. Straight out of training I sit with my tea, my top’s a bit grotty/ stickin’ to the back of my chair, my face is scrubbed bare and my hair’s still a bit wet. Neither of us impressed with the appearance of the other we sit in silence.
(Pause.)
Eventually she begins, says we need to chat about a few things apparently, I need to make a few decisions, like/ where I wanna live.
AS CHLOE: I’m staying at Dad’s!
AS MUM: Oh yeah? And how you gonna pay for the rent? By boxing? Don’t be so ridiculous Chloe. Look at the state of you.
(Pause.)
She left us when I was eleven. Buggered off with some bloke she’d met in Tesco/ I shit you not. Romance down the aisles, love at the checkout, Tesco’s full of it. Every little helps. My dad was gutted. Like, she taken his heart, chewed it up, spat it back out/ stamped on it in her cheap stilettos then pissed all over it with her dirty-smelly-can’t-keep-her-own-knickers-on-fanny.
(Beat.)
Came home from school and my dad was sat on the sofa/ crying.
(Beat.)
He stayed like that for two weeks/ that’s how much he loved her. I smashed the house up. School got wind of it and put me through counselling. Some posh twat in tweed I’d never met asking me questions ’bout my home-life? Yeah alright sunbeam, I’d love to tell you all my problems, you’re from Cambridge? Oxford? Windsor? I’m from Leytonstone. Sitting there talking?! Nah mate, get off your arse and do sumink about it!
(Beat.)
Dad knew what to do. Dried his eyes and took us down the gym. Stopped me smashing things up round the house and started me training. Taught me to control my anger. Focus it in to power, strength and speed. Just me and my dad fighting the world together/ and I loved it. And low and behold, natural talent. And do’y’know, after all that madness. That hot/ sweaty/ angry/ pumping/ fighting/ madness, when that all dies down and your body’s sore. You feel calm. Quiet. And for an eleven-year-old who wants to smash everyone’s fucking face in for what Mummy did to Daddy? That calm’s a nice feeling.
(Pause.)
Every fighter’s got a reason they fight. Deep down. And of course boxing’s dangerous, yeah, it’s really fucking dangerous. That’s why we do it. It’s addictive, like war is for the silly buggers who go out and fight in Iraq or whatever. It’s the same thing. Addiction to that buzzy feeling you get, when that adrenaline kicks in, ain’t nothing like it. And I’m good. Really good. Just one more fight to win and I’m there, The Olympics. And if I get there no one’s stopping me getting gold but myself. I have this dream, where I’ve got lights in my eyes and sweat on my face and I can hear the announcer’s voice, and the winner is/ Chloe Jaaaaaackson!
(She makes the noise of the crowd and smiles.)
People saying shit ’bout my dad and how I should probably give it a rest, take a break they say. Try again next year. Fuck that. This is 2012, this is my fucking year. First year women can fight and it’s in London. Of all the places in the world to pick they choose Stratford. Could have been held anywhere and it’s down the fucking road?! If that ain’t fate then I dunno what is. Someone’s trying to tell me sumink though eh? It’s practically on my fucking doorstep/ throw a stone and I’m there. I’ve got to fight. I just have to. And bollocks to all the haters. I’ll prove ’em wrong. Can’t be an embarrassment to that silly slag with a gold medal can I?
(Beat.)
Look, I was in the gym ’bout eighteen years old. Sweating away working the bags, out of the corner of my eye I saw my dad. Pads on he approaches, ‘Come on then kid, show me what you got.’ Two blocks/ two straights/ two body shots. Swing to two upper cuts and a heavy hook/ ‘Good.’ He says. Smiling. Len too. Both of ’em like a couple of kids, big grins on their faces like they’ve won the lottery. ‘What’s going on? ’ ‘You’re in Clo, women are gonna fight in the Olympics 2012.’ And whooping with delight we ran round the gym laughing/ all the blokes there watching like we’d gone mad. And without saying a word, it was all agreed. That was the new goal. I’m gonna fight at the Olympics. We made battle plans like it was Waterloo. Stuck charts up on the wall, a carefully precise organisation like I’d never seen. A beautiful thing. My dad and Len, in their element. Every competition planned, every fight one step closer to my new dream. A chance to prove to the whole world I’m worth sumink, to prove ’em all wrong. Women can’t box? You watch. And now it seems that’s all I’ve got. Just that one shot. That one chance to seize everyfink I’ve ever wanted. Capturing that moment with my dad at my side. Full of smiles, brimmin’ with pride.
(Beat.)
And now he’s not around I’m gonna do it anyway. Cus I know that’s what he’d have wanted.
(Beat.)
Sitting still, I listen to the sound of her manicured nails absent-mindedly tapping the side of her glass as she impatiently waits for me to speak. She’s offered me a room at hers/ but we both know that ain’t gonna work out. Jamie’s said I could stay with him.
(Beat.)
All I wanna do is box. She just don’t get it/ silly slag, only one who did was my dad. ‘You gotta fight for the things you love Chloe.’ Yes Dad.
(Beat. Bell rings. CHLOE tightens her hand wraps and gloves up as she speaks.)
Sometimes Jamie kisses my chin. Then he does this/ nuzzle thing on my nose/ with his nose, like the way lions kiss. It’s a nice feeling. And it’s the closest we ever get you know, those lion kisses.
(Pause.)
Jamie only met my dad once. He came to watch one of my fights, sat there ringside/ smiling, pint of lager in his hand, even though I’d told him not to. My dad went mad. Jamie was the only thing we ever argued about. I’d get bloody earache listening to him going on and on. ‘You don’t have time to be messing about with boys Chloe, you’re losing focus, there’s plenty of time for all that after the fight.’ And I knew he was right but/ I couldn’t help it.
(Beat.)
See I met Jamie two months before my dad died, to the exact day. It’s like I met one just as the other was about to leave. Kinda like/ bringing it back to your chin to throw the other one.
(Slowly demonstrates as she speaks.)
And sometimes I think he was sent to me you know, to like/ help soften the blow of my dad. And then I think that’s just mad cus you know/ we met in a club when I was off my face on cherry sambuca/ I’m surprised he even fancied me at all/ I could hardly walk! The point is though/ he’s come along at a good time. And sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am.
(Smile.)
He’s proper perfect. Well/ as perfect as a bloke can be I suppose. I don’t like some of his trainers, and he’s got pretty awful taste in music, his feet are minging, and he’s got weird hands.
(She laughs as she reaches for her gloves and puts one on.)
Sort of bumpy fingers/ so like when we hold hands they don’t quite fit right. It’s sumink I’ve tried to ignore but it’s always secretly bothered me. My hand fit perfectly in Dad’s.
(Beat.)
I’d slip my hand in Dad’s whilst we walked to the shops or sumink an
d he’d look down at me and smile. We used to hold hands everywhere/ Dad and me, probably started as a way to stop me from running off/ little shit, but when I grew up a bit/ I still held his hand. Liked the feel of it. Got to that age though at some point where I didn’t want to hold Dad’s hand anymore, wasn’t cool. I remember finding excuses to pull away, looking for stuff in my pockets or faking this like/ burst of energy to run ahead. I could tell that he was hurt by it, but he never said nuffink.
(Beat.)
And I kinda regret it now. I wish I’d just thought fuck you to the other kids in the playground and just held my dad’s hand forever/ but you don’t at that age.
(Beat. She puts the other glove on and stands up.)
Dad taught me to have pride, in myself and what I do. ‘Be proud of the decisions you make Chloe.’ Yes Dad. ‘But remember – mistakes are there to be learnt from. Now get back on the bags and sort it out.’ Yes Dad.
(Round of punches in mid-air, suddenly stops.)
I wish I’d never been embarrassed/ I wish I’d been proud of holding Dad’s hand/ cus yeah, I miss it now sometimes. Jamie’s just don’t fit quite right.
(CHLOE slowly puts on her gloves, a perfect fit.)
‘You’re losing focus Chloe, forget everything else and think about the fight.’ Yes Dad.
(The bell rings. CHLOE works the bag, hard and fast. She stops, exhausted, her hands on her knees, breathing deeply. She finds some strength inside herself and starts again, hitting the bag, bobbing and weaving.)
‘Move faster Chloe.’ Not now Dad.
‘That’s it use your jab, use your jab.’
I am!
‘Move your feet! Move your feet! Don’t get tired on me yet girl. Now jab and a hook! Jab and a hook! Don’t lean! Use your reach!’ Not now Dad! ‘Work harder Chloe, go go! Hit the bag, hit the bag, hit the bag, bam-BAM, bam-BAM, bam-BAM, hit the bag Chloe, go, go! Bam-BAM, bam-BAM, bam-BAM!’
Bitch Boxer Page 2
