Kitty nodded. ‘Yes.’
The woman went on, ‘On the paper the bird gives you are written predictions for your future.’
Her listeners were entranced, eyes wide and lips parted. ‘How much does it cost?’ asked Kitty.
The bird’s owner eyed the girl and estimated at one glance what she was likely to have in her pocket – she couldn’t guess about the half-sovereign, however. ‘It costs a silver sixpence,’ she said.
‘Sixpence!’ the girls all breathed together. It seemed a fortune.
‘A silver sixpence isn’t much to pay to see into the future, is it? Kings and princes would give thousands of pounds for the chance,’ said the big woman.
Kitty counted out two copper pennies and a silver threepenny piece. ‘Will this do?’ she asked holding it out.
The woman pretended to ponder and then nodded. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll take that because you’ve got bonny hair and I can tell from the bird’s eye that he’s got an important message for you.’ She cupped her large hand and the money was poured into it. Then she produced her sheaf of grubby papers, riffled through them like playing cards and, opening the door in the side of the cage, shoved them inside. The bird hopped onto her index finger and idly pecked at it with its bright bill, while the girls watched entranced, their faces close to the bars of the cage. The mynah played up to the papers, dithering about pushing its head in among them. Sometimes it seemed to be about to take one but always drew back at the last minute making its audience give a sharp intake of breath at each essay.
‘Tell him your name again,’ whispered the woman to Kitty, who breathed in an awestruck tone, ‘I’m Kitty Scott from Camptounfoot…’
The bird opened its mouth and gave a little croak, then ducked its head down and firmly grasped one sheet, hauling it out of the woman’s fingers. It drifted down onto the floor of the cage.
‘That’s it, that’s your fortune,’ cried the bird’s owner and reached inside to retrieve the piece of paper that would reveal Kitty’s destiny.
It was well folded and grubby but the writing was in clear copperplate in very black ink. What it said was, ‘Good luck will attend you at the full moon throughout your life. You will be blessed in many ways and loved by many men but you will only feel love once in return. Women betray you often but you will meet some who are true to you. Cherish your friendships. Your family plays a large part in your destiny. You must never forget them. You will travel far and be richly clothed.’
‘Believe what that paper says,’ said the woman.
Kitty nodded. ‘I do, I really do. There’s a lot in it that’s true already, you see.’
By this time it was four o’clock and the girls were tired and thirsty. They sat in the shelter of a wooden booth, for the wind was cutting though the rain had stayed away, and drank a bottle of ale which May bought in the jug bar of the Red Lion. That made them feel better and they decided to go in search of MacPhee, who could tell them when to rejoin the farm cart which had brought them from Falconwood early in the morning and would take them back again.
Money was running short – Kitty’s funds were down to ninepence, having laid out for her fortune, the ale, a bag of treacle sweets and a small and nasty meat pasty sold for twopence a time by an old woman with a tray suspended round her neck.
MacPhee was sitting with a couple of other women on a bench beneath the leafless elm trees that encircled Maddiston square. This was a position of vantage from which they could see all the people passing through the fair and make comments while they ate an assortment of food which was laid out on a bit of red-and-white-chequered cloth beside the woman at the end of the line. When they saw the girls approaching, they all moved along the bench and made room for them to squeeze on at the end.
MacPhee leaned forward and introduced her companions. ‘These are my sisters,’ she said. ‘They’re a’ bondagers like me and we meet here every year. Ellen brings the food and we catch up on each other’s news.’
Ellen, the only one of the three who had any spare fat on her bones, grinned cheerfully and offered the girls the remains of a loaf that had been cut down the middle and filled with cold meat. They fell on it gratefully.
‘When does the cart go back?’ asked Kitty.
MacPhee looked up at a big clock facing out from a turret on top of the Corn Exchange on the other side of the square. ‘In another three hours, at half-past seven. See and no’ miss it or you’ll hae to walk to Falconwood and that’s a good four mile.’
She grinned directly at Kitty and said, ‘I’m glad you took the place wi’ Henry Goodson. He was saying to me he’d take you sooner than the term if you like. I’ll ask Laidlaw to let you go when we get back tonight.’
Kitty was pleased. ‘I’ll have to say goodbye to my mam then,’ she said.
‘Go and see her tonight. The cart can drop you off at Camptounfoot Road end,’ said MacPhee, who could be relied on to arrange everything.
By this time it was five o’clock and the fair seemed to have taken on a second lease of life. A roar of music burst out on the far side of the press of people. It was a catchy tune with the thud, thud, thud of a big drum running through the sound of trumpets and euphoniums, the sort of music that set people marching. The source of it, the girls saw, was a wooden stage set up in front of a tent with a banner along the front proclaiming, ‘Gentleman Joe and His Boys… World-Famous Fighters Under the Management of Grandma Kennedy.’
‘It’s only a boxing booth,’ sighed Kitty in disappointment.
Her friends and she were about to turn away when a big man in a stained singlet and black tights shouted down to them from the platform, ‘Don’t any of you lassies fancy yourselves as lady boxers? I’ll give half a guinea to any girl that goes into the ring with Joe tonight.’
May shouted back at him, ‘How much is a ticket?’
‘A shilling.’
‘We’ve nae money.’
‘If one of you fights, I’ll let you all in for nothing,’ he said, leaning down and pointing at Kitty. ‘What about you? You look like the fighting sort.’
May and Emily giggled. ‘Aye she is!’ and fell about laughing at the memory of Liddle’s bloody nose, but Kitty shook her head. ‘I can only fight when I’m mad,’ she said.
The promoter was interested. He knew that the crowds would turn out to see a girl fighter, especially one with hair like blazing fire. ‘Go on, get mad then,’ he advised. ‘It’s worth getting mad for half a guinea.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m feared I’d get hurt.’
He put a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, ‘You’ll no’ get hurt. It’s all a fix-up. Joe’ll not hit you. How do you think Grandma Kennedy does it? A real big punch would go through her.’
‘Who’s Grandma Kennedy?’ asked May.
The man looked astonished. ‘You’ve not heard of Grandma Kennedy! The most famous woman boxer in the world. She’s on here tonight fighting Joe. Come on through and meet her. She’ll tell you that you’ll not get hurt.’ He lifted a flap in the canvas, inviting them to go into the shadowy world beyond the stall façade.
They hesitated, but not for long. Taking comfort in each other’s presence, one after the other they climbed onto the platform, through the canvas door and into another world.
Grandma Kennedy turned out to be a wiry little sprite of a woman with a wrinkled face and greyish hair which was twisted tightly back from her hook-nosed face into a straggly bun. She stood with her hands on her hips staring at the girls as they walked in behind the busker.
‘What’s this, what’s this?’ she asked in a tone that would have scared a sergeant of the Dragoons.
‘It’s some lassies that might fight tonight if you tell them they won’t get hurt,’ said the man.
Grandma Kennedy stared at the three in front of her. She pinched May’s arm and said, ‘Too flabby.’ She ran an eye over pale-faced Emily and merely snorted. Then she turned her attention to Kitty and looked at her for much longer. ‘This one�
��ll do,’ she said eventually.
‘But I dinna want to fight,’ protested Kitty. ‘I’m feared of getting hurt.’
‘Feared?’ asked Grandma Kennedy with raised eyebrows as if Kitty had expressed a belief in dragons.
Kitty nodded. ‘I might get a broken nose or something.’
‘What’s so special about your nose?’ asked the old crone peering at it.
‘Nothing, but I dinna want it broken,’ said Kitty, who felt she was losing this argument before it really began.
‘It’ll not get broken. Joe canna box his way out of a paper bag any more. I’ve got to make it look as if he’s hit me, groan and stagger about like this…’ The redoubtable old dame staggered back from them, threw a hand over her face and fell flat on her back as if she’d been pole-axed. After a second she raised herself up on one arm and asked Kitty. ‘Could you do that?’
Kitty was amused. ‘Yes, I think I could,’ she said.
‘We’ll give you ten silver shillings and a sixpence if you do,’ said the busker and Grandma joined in with, ‘Get her a breastplate, Bill lad. There must be one to fit her.’ In seconds someone appeared with a metal contraption like a solid corset with leather straps that was put over Kitty’s head and buckled round her waist, though she protested, ‘But I haven’t said I’d do it. I don’t really want to fight anybody.’
May and Emily were no help to her. Giggling they said, ‘Go on, Kitty, go on, you’ve got a punch on you like the kick on a horse.’
They were eager for her to fight because Bill the busker had promised them a shilling each if they could talk her into it.
Now he added his argument to theirs, ‘And mind it’s a half-guinea for you even if all you do is get into the ring and run about a bit.’
Another half-guinea, thought Kitty. Added to what she had already that would make her worldly fortune one pound and one shilling… two hundred and fifty-two pennies. It seemed like a fortune. If she wasn’t happy at Duns, she could take the train to Edinburgh and look for work there.
She clanged the metal breastplate with her fist and liked the hollow sound it made. No blow could penetrate it.
‘If you’re sure he won’t hurt me,’ she said and they all shouted, ‘Of course he won’t.’
‘Hey Joe,’ called Grandma Kennedy to the back of the tent, ‘Come and meet your opponent for tonight. Tell her you’ll miss with every punch.’
Joseph Maloney Brady was over six feet tall and heavy with it. He rolled slightly when he walked as if the ground was shifting beneath his feet like the deck of a ship and, in fact, he had spent a lot of time on board during a stint in the Royal Navy from which he’d deserted to travel with the Kennedy family.
‘This lassie’ll come up from the crowd tonight and offer to fight you, Joe. Don’t hurt her and don’t hit her on the face. Do it the same way as when you’re fighting me,’ Grandma explained in the tone of one talking to a small child.
Joe nodded and smiled seraphically, his small hazel eyes shining. ‘Right, Grandma,’ he agreed.
Satisfied she turned back to the girls. ‘All right, now be out there in the crowd when we start at six o’clock. And you,’ she said pointing at Kitty, ‘keep that breastplate on but make sure it doesn’t show.’
Kitty was still not sure she was doing the right thing. ‘If he’s not going to hit me why do I need it?’ she asked.
‘Just a precaution,’ Grandma Kennedy assured her.
There was still half an hour to go before the boxing began and the girls walked round the attractions again.
‘I think I’ll just go back to that tent and give her back this thing,’ Kitty said, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the metal breastplate that hung from her shoulders like a leaden yoke.
The others wouldn’t hear of it and urged her to think of the money, theirs as well as her own.
‘It’ll all be over in a couple of minutes,’ they assured her. ‘Just pretend to fall down like the old woman did and lie there.’
When the Corn Exchange clock was striking six they found themselves in the middle of a crowd of people pushing their way into the boxing tent. Bill the busker, in a clean singlet, was shouting out the attractions…
‘Five shillings for any man brave enough to go one round with Gentleman Joe!
‘A chance to see the amazing woman fighter, Grandma Kennedy, seventy-five years old and as tough as any man!
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the best boxing booth in the world. Roll up, roll up, to see fighters who’ll go on fighting till they drop dead!’
When she heard this Kitty turned round and was about to head for open country but May grabbed her skirt and held it tight.
‘Come on, Kitty, this’ll be a laugh,’ she whispered.
‘For you maybe, but what about me? I’m the one who’s going to be hit,’ she moaned, but she couldn’t get away because the crowd had closed behind her like a human wall.
The first bout, a contest between two stable lads, ended quickly with one of them carried off on a stretcher; then a burly man with a red face climbed into the ring and was sent flying by Joe’s second punch. Joe was cheered to the echo every time he made a hit and the crowd grew more and more hysterical.
Bill climbed through the ropes again, held up a hand and yelled hoarsely, ‘Now for the bout we’ve all been waiting for. Is there a woman in this town brave enough to fight Joe?’
Silence.
‘Half a guinea for the woman who’ll stand up to Joe,’ yelled Bill again.
No one moved, though May and Emily were trying to shove Kitty forward.
‘What a pity the women o’ Maddiston are all feardies,’ said Bill sadly when there was a shout from the back, ‘I’m no’ feared’ and a fat woman in rough working clothes came waddling through the crowd. Her face was purple and she had obviously been drinking.
She glared up at Bill the busker and though he looked puzzled, he bent down and extended a hand. She was so heavy that she almost pulled him over the ropes when she took his hand and it took three of them to haul her into the ring. The crowd was howling with delight… ‘Let her get a punch at him. Go on, missus, punch the hell out of him!’
She advanced on Joe and swung a punch that sent his head back and made his eyes roll in shock. Then she lowered her head like a maddened bull to charge at his stomach but he saw her coming and stopped her with an uppercut that stiffened her limbs and sent her flat on her back on the canvas. They revived her by pouring a bucket of water over her head and she was helped away to the Red Lion bar where she spent all the money Bill had given her on treating her friends to drinks.
By this time Bill had pinpointed Kitty’s flaming head in the crowd and was yelling directly at her, ‘Is there another brave woman in Maddiston? This is a last chance to prove lassies are as brave as laddies!’
It wasn’t the challenge and it wasn’t the money. It was because she had said she’d do it and he was shouting directly at her. She stepped forward with her friends at her back and found herself by the ring, where she was met by a stifling smell of sweat and embrocation.
‘I’ll take him on,’ she said and the crowd went wild, yelling and cheering, ‘It’s Carroty Kate from Camptounfoot. It’s Wee Lily’s lassie!’
Bill was delighted when he heard her nickname. ‘Carroty Kate’s our challenger then. Give her a big hand.’
They hauled her onto the square of taut canvas, someone tied her hair back with a strip of linen and a bell gave a fierce little tinkle. The crowd roared like a surging sea as she stepped up to face Gentleman Joe, an impressive sight in a skin-tight vest and buckskin breeches.
She felt as if she had stepped into a horrible nightmare. Joe’s fists went whooshing past her ears and he leaned towards her grunting, ‘Pretend I’m hitting you. Pretend it hurts.’
She tried and next time he threw a punch at her, drew her head sharply aside and gave a horrible groan that elicited a delighted yell from the bloodthirsty spectators. She felt the round would never end
but at last the bell rang and people began jumping round the ring with their hands above their heads shouting, ‘She stayed one round!’
In the corner Bill handed her a sponge and said, ‘Go another round. Joe’s going to take a fall for you.’
‘What?’ she asked bemusedly.
‘Hit him as hard as you can.’
‘But I don’t want to hurt him.’
‘He’s been hit by bigger folk than you. He’ll be all right. In you go…’ and she was pushed into the middle of the ring again. When Joe came towards her she drew her arm back as she had done when she hit Liddle and punched him full on the chin. He shook his head like a stalled ox, reeled a little and toppled over sideways.
The silence was shattered by yells of disbelief. ‘She’s knocked out Gentleman Joe. A lassie’s knocked out Joe!’
She had little time to enjoy her triumph, however, because Grandma Kennedy came bursting through the ropes, dressed like a man in breeches and vest that did not conceal the fact she, too, was wearing a metal breastplate. Her taut little body radiated energy although the skin was loose and wrinkled like the skin of a tortoise.
‘Knocked out my Joe did you?’ she snarled, advancing on Kitty. ‘Then you’ll have to knock me out too.’
She swung a fist at Kitty’s head and it connected, making the startled girl see stars. This, she thought, is serious. Grandma Kennedy is fighting mad. She backed away but the little woman kept coming on, bandaged fists pummelling away without mercy.
‘Stop it, stop it,’ she managed to whisper but Grandma was not listening.
‘Take that and that,’ she was saying as she punched and each blow hurt more than the one before. Finally it was too much for Kitty. Back went her fist, she found her balance and the blow connected with Grandma Kennedy’s jaw.
The old woman went over in a heap and ended up on the ground like a broken doll. Kitty dropped to her knees by the body crying out, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just got angry.’
As she looked into her opponent’s face, however, one eye flickered open and the lid dropped in a definite wink before the old woman was carried away on the shoulders of her men.
Wild Heritage Page 24
