Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  Sophia straightened in her chair. ‘That’s how I can understand what she’s going through. She’s a woman now, not a lassie any more. She can make her own choices and I’m pleased she’s not going to run off with the first man that takes her fancy. I’m glad this lassie is proud of herself tonight. It’s better than being scared all the time.’

  ‘Scared! Who’s scared? You wouldn’t go into the boxing ring with men like I do, would you?’ Grandma shouted.

  Sophia was scornful. ‘That’s not the kind of scared I’m talking about. You’re not scared of taking a punch, I’ll give you that, but you’re scared of living, of taking a chance. And now you’re too old. But this lassie’s not scared. Don’t punish her for it.’

  Grandma glared at Kitty, who stood in the doorway about to leave for she was sorry to have raised this row between the sisters. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going at this time of night? You’d better come in and Sophy’ll mix up that potion of hers. For God’s sake be more careful in the future,’ Grandma said sharply and Kitty ran across the floor to hug her.

  ‘I know I was wrong to let you down. I won’t do it again… but he was so lovely. I knew I’d never find such a good man to be my first so I took him. Was that so bad?’

  Sophia laughed, a gurgling laugh that seemed to well up from deep inside her. ‘That wasn’t bad at all. It makes me very jealous,’ she said.

  The draught worked. Next morning Kitty felt slightly ill but she did not become pregnant and deliberately did not wonder about it. She had an enviable ability to put disturbing ideas out of her mind.

  The boxing booth’s next stop was Newcastle where they set up on the dockside. The crowd there was very rough.

  Challengers who climbed through the ropes were heavy stevedores and drunken sailors offships tied up alongside the crowded quays. The show intended to stay for a week but on the fourth night Joe had his jaw broken by a devastating blow from one of the challenge-takers and they closed down immediately.

  Groaning, Joe was carried off to his wagon where, once he was attended to and given a bottle of brandy to kill the pain, Grandma, Bill and Sophia, with Kitty listening in, held a discussion about what they should do next.

  ‘Joe’s finished. He’s getting too old anyway,’ said Bill sadly. ‘He’s all right for little village fairs but not for a place like this. We should break camp and get out of here tonight before something worse happens.’

  ‘What could be worse?’ asked Grandma morosely. ‘We’ve got no big fighter, only a lot of sparring partners. None of them are any good really. We need a strong man to take on all comers.’

  ‘This is the sort of place we’ll find one,’ chipped in Sophia. ‘Joe joined at Portsmouth, didn’t he? We need a tough deserter. Let’s put the word round… How much will you offer, Beattie?’

  Beattie pondered the problem. ‘Well, a good man’s worth a hundred guineas to us. We could offer that I suppose.’

  Kitty was astonished to hear this vast sum talked of. She knew that Grandma kept money in a box sunk into the floor of her van but had no idea it could contain so much.

  Bill shook his head. ‘That’s too much to start off with. Let’s have a running knockout contest for the next three nights… the winner to receive a purse of forty guineas and the chance to travel with the show. How about that?’

  They all thought his idea a good one and next day handbills were printed for distribution around the neighbourhood announcing the contest.

  On the first night a crowd of men stormed the tent door at opening time demanding to fight, so it did not look as if there was going to be too much trouble finding a replacement for Joe.

  Only Grandma remained gloomy. ‘The good thing about Joe is his gentle nature. He’s not mad and he’s not wild and that’s unusual with those fighters. Some of them are killers. We’ll have to watch who we take,’ she warned the others.

  While they were in Newcastle she and Kitty did not do their put-up routine because the crowd there was too volatile and if they suspected a fake contest, they would wreck the tent. So in order to be of some help, Kitty went round with Bill distributing leaflets, for they wanted to drum up as much interest as possible. The sight of her was another inducement for men to come to the booth. Although she was not aware of it, she had a knowing, sexy air that turned heads in the street.

  Men and boys presented themselves as possibles and in the afternoons, Bill weeded out the unsuitables, leaving only the best behind for the evening show. Kitty and the two older women watched from behind a canvas curtain that cut them off from the howling crowd as fighter after fighter went on, fought his heart out and was finally carried off. One man went through all his bouts unscathed, however. No matter which opponents were presented to him, he brutally demolished them, knocking them down and had to be restrained from hitting them while they were lying at his feet. He was a killer and everyone soon learned to treat him with respect, for he was universally feared. His name was Samuel Poole.

  Grandma watched him perform with admiration but also distaste. ‘He’s what I mean when I say we’ve got to watch who we get. He’s a dirty fighter and a bad lot that one,’ she said.

  ‘He might not win in the end,’ Sophia told her. ‘Somebody usually turns up at the last minute and confounds all expectations.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ was Grandma’s rejoinder.

  The dirty fighter was an Australian off a merchantman that had recently docked in the harbour. During the day he walked around the quays with a little group of cronies who spent their time flattering him and buying him drinks. When he fought, they wagered heavily on him and, so far, he had not been beaten so they had done well. Physically he was unprepossessing, being short and very squat with huge muscled shoulders and upper arms that he held out stiffly from his body as he walked. His head seemed much too small in proportion to his torso and when he stripped for a fight, it could be seen that his upper arms and legs, his chest and his back were covered with tattoos, great convoluted circles and coils in deepest purple.

  By the last night of the contest, he was expected to win and it was difficult to get a bet against him. Even the people who were not wagering were eager to see him fight, for his fame had spread all over the city and swells drove down from their clubs and smoking-rooms to join the spectators. Bill charged a five-shilling entrance fee that night and stood at the tent door with a metal bucket into which they threw the money.

  There were four contenders – a young man from Newcastle city; a sailor off a Royal Naval vessel in the roads; a huge black man with a brilliant smile who was off a vessel that plied between the Tees and Lagos, and the terrible Poole. All of them had demolished their opponents in previous bouts but none so cruelly as Poole.

  The Newcastle lad and the black man were matched against each other first and their contest did not last long because the negro’s lightness of foot and superior reach soon overwhelmed his opponent, who was carried off to catcalls and jeers.

  Poole climbed into the ring next and stood with his hands clasped over his head acknowledging the plaudits of his cronies. His opponent, a tough-looking man with his hair in an old-fashioned pigtail, stood watching this display with crossed arms and a sneering smile. He put up a good fight, scoring several hits on Poole’s jaw, but he could not match the Australian’s weight and soon he was literally bowled over. When he was down, Poole kicked him in the guts and that put him out of the running for good.

  Kitty and the two old women were breathless with excitement when the bell rang for the final bout.

  ‘I hope that black man wins,’ said Grandma but they all knew such an outcome was not very likely. The man from Lagos seemed too good-tempered to defeat Poole. And so it turned out. Within three minutes, he lay spread out with blood pouring from his nose while Poole pranced around him with his arms in the air.

  ‘Bastard!’ hissed Grandma and it was the first time Kitty had heard her use such a word. But she was smiling ben
ignly when she walked into the ring to present the winner with his purse of forty guineas.

  When he took it, she told him, ‘I hope you’ll team up with us and tour the country, Mr Poole.’

  He grunted, ‘I’ll think about it.’ Grandma smiled sweetly but when she got back behind the scenes again, she shouted at Bill, ‘Doesn’t he know that part of the deal is that he joins the show? What does he think he’s getting forty guineas for?’

  Her son threw up his hands. ‘I told him before it started. He’s only playing hard to get.’

  Grandma looked dangerous. ‘He’d better not play games with me or he might find he’s taken on more than he can cope with,’ she said.

  Half an hour later Poole and his gang came sauntering through from the front of house to speak to her. He was dressed in a bright blue jacket with brass buttons and tight trousers that showed the muscles of his upper legs and calves. His little eyes, beneath the curled brim of a tall hat, shone with cupidity and guile.

  ‘Well, missus,’ he began, ‘what’ll you offer me to join up with you? You need a fighter now that your old man’s crooked.’

  ‘There’s plenty of fighters around,’ said Grandma coolly. ‘We’re thinking of taking on the black man you fought tonight.’

  ‘Huh, not much of a punch on him. He won’t get into the big money,’ said Poole. ‘But if you get me, you could make money, a lot of money. I could be a champion.’

  Grandma was, rolling up hand bandages and she didn’t even bother to look up as she said, ‘We’re not looking for a champion, just for a good steady fighter who’ll put on a good show.’

  Poole laughed. ‘So your fights are fixed, are they? I thought as much. You need a good man. You need me, missus.’

  Grandma’s eyes were large and innocent as she asked, ‘Do I? How much more will you cost? You’ve already had forty guineas off me.’

  Poole drew down his brows. ‘I’ll need a wagon of my own and twenty pounds a week…’

  Grandma and Sophia laughed disbelievingly and the older sister said, ‘Twenty pounds! We don’t take twenty pounds in a good week all told. You’d better get back to your ship if that’s what you’re wanting.’

  He reckoned he’d overstated his case and climbed down a little. ‘All right, I’ll take ten a week but I’ll make that back for you because I’ll be fighting the big names in the business within a year.’

  Bill leaned forward and whispered something in his mother’s ear but she made no sign whether she agreed with what he suggested or not, only directed herself at Poole as she said, ‘When you fight a big name we’ll give you ten a week. In the meantime I pay five — top rate. Take it or leave it.’

  He went off with his friends to discuss this and half an hour later he was back. ‘I’ll take it,’ he told her, ‘but there’s something else I want if I sign up with you.’

  ‘I’ll give you a wagon and a pair of horses,’ said Grandma bleakly.

  ‘That’s all right but I also want a woman.’ Poole was leering at her, showing stubby little teeth with dark lines down them.

  ‘A woman? Can’t you get your own woman, a big strong man like you? How do you expect me to get one for you?’ she asked in genuine surprise.

  ‘Because you’ve got the one I want. I want the tall girl with the red hair. That’s the woman I want. Throw her in and you’ve got a bargain,’ said Poole.

  It took a couple of seconds before the significance of what he’d said sank in with Kitty but when it did, she felt as if all the blood left her in a huge ebb, only to come surging back again like a tide of anger. She could not restrain herself from giving a derisive snort but Grandma glared at her ferociously and she knew better than to say anything.

  The old woman was smiling sweetly at the pugilist and saying, ‘You’ve got good taste in women, Poole.’

  He preened himself like a fighting cock.

  ‘That’s the one I want,’ he said arrogantly.

  Grandma smiled again and said, ‘I’ll have to speak to the girl in private but we might be able to come to some arrangement. All you’ve got to do now is sign up to come with us and be here tomorrow morning early so that we can get on the road.’

  ‘Where are you going first?’ he asked.

  ‘Berwick-upon-Tweed and then Edinburgh. We plan to be there in time for Leith Races. There’s a lot of good fighters there. You’ll have your work cut out with them,’ she told him and he bridled. ‘There’s no fighters in Edinburgh who can put me on the floor, missus,’ he boasted.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said mildly, ‘that’s what we all hope, isn’t it? Just be here tomorrow and then we’ll see.’

  Kitty managed to control herself till he left but when he was out of earshot, an angry torrent of words burst from her… ‘If you think you’re going to give me to that ugly brute, you can think again. I’d sooner throw myself into the harbour. I’m telling you I don’t care what you say, I won’t do it. Not even for one night will I do it.’

  Grandma, who had begun counting the takings from the bucket while this outburst was going on, looked up and said calmly, ‘I never said I’d give you to him, did I?’

  ‘You said you’d be able to come up with some arrangement – not with me, you won’t, not with me!’

  Kitty’s face was red and her voice trembling. She couldn’t believe Grandma was doing this to her.

  ‘Calm down,’ said the old woman. ‘Calm down and listen to what I’ve got to say. We need that pug. With him we’ll make a lot of money. He’s drawn more tonight than we’ve taken in six months. People pay to see a dirty fighter more than they’ll pay for a clean one, I’m sad to say.’

  Kitty opened her mouth to protest again but Grandma held up a hand to hush her. ‘Listen, I’ve worked it out. Here’s some money. Take it and get your things together. Bill’ll take you to the station. You’ll have to be well away from here before Poole comes back. If you stayed, he’d get you in the end. We’d never have a moment’s peace. His kind don’t court girls, they take them and they don’t take them gently, not like your Alston lad.’

  Kitty looked at the pile of silver coins that had been pushed in her direction. There was about ten pounds there and she wondered if her ears and eyes were playing tricks on her.

  ‘You’re paying me off?’ she whispered. ‘But where will I go when I get to the station?’ Tears were stinging at the back of her eyes.

  Grandma’s face was sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry, lass, don’t cry. I’ve thought of that too. You’ll go to London. Sophy and I have another sister there, in Whitechapel. We’ll give you her address and a letter. She’ll look after you.’

  It didn’t take long to gather her meagre possessions together. Her precious knife and the gold half-sovereign from Tim Maquire went into her pocket and the rest of her money into a carpetbag that Sophy provided.

  On the verge of tears, Kitty patted Toby on the head, embraced the sad-faced sisters, who did not, of course, shed any tears though it was obvious that they were sorry to lose her, and shook hands with all her friends from the boxing show before she hopped up on the pillion of a big draught-horse that Bill was using to take her up to the station.

  The coins in her bag clinked as she heaved it aboard and one of the men shouted, ‘Shove some clothes in beside all that money or you’ll be knocked on the head for it the moment you set foot in London.’

  Grandma provided an old shawl to act as a muffler for the money and at last Kitty was ready to leave, waving back to the people standing round their wagons as she rode away. She wondered if she’d ever see any of them again and tears stung her eyes. She could not believe in the suddenness of the parting.

  The station was cavernous and gloomy in the darkness of the night. Porters in green livery were pushing heavy carts to and fro but there were few passengers to be seen, for the next train was scheduled to leave at midnight, not a popular departure time for ordinary people.

  Her head was swimming and her eyes stinging with tiredness but she knew she had to keep
awake and alert, because she was carrying so much money.

  Bill stayed with her till the train was ready to leave and she asked him, ‘How will you get Poole to go with you when he finds out I’ve disappeared?’

  ‘He won’t find out till we’re well on the road and by that time Grandma will have worked on him. She’s good at that. She’ll convince him that he has to go with us and anyway, his kind like to fight. He’ll soon pick up another woman, some of them go for men like that,’ he said.

  When the train came clanking into the station he saw her into a window seat, put her bag at her feet, hugged her and stood waving on the platform as she was borne away. She dropped her head and let the tears flow again because it seemed that what had been the happiest time of her life was coming to an end and she did not know what lay ahead.

  For several hours no other travellers shared her carriage and she was able to rearrange her bag in order to make sure the money did not clink and also to read the letter Grandma had given her.

  By the flickering light of a small oil lamp above her head, she saw that it was addressed to Mrs Cora White, by the Plume of Feathers, Whitechapel High Street. It was unsealed so she was able to read what Grandma said…

  My dear Cora,

  Both Sophy and I hope that you continue to be in good health as we are ourselves. Sometime soon, God willing, we might be in London and can all meet again. By this letter I am sending you a good girl who has travelled with us for nearly two years and never put a foot wrong but one of my pugs is after her and we have to get her out of the way. You know what trouble that sort of thing can cause. Look after her and keep her away from those jockeys. Your loving sister, Beatrice.

  The letter, which sounded so like Grandma, cheered Kitty up and she laughed aloud. So Beattie was a shortened version of Beatrice. Beattie certainly suited Grandma better than her given name. She was very far from being a prim and proper Beatrice.