A Kid for Two Farthings (4 page)

5

After the cannibal king tried to steal Africana, Joe was more careful. Before putting Africana’s collar and lead on for the morning walk, he went out into the street to see if it was safe. Even if it was, he no longer led Africana past the shirt factory, because you couldn’t be too careful. He also decided to brush up his wrestling in case it should come to that, so it was good luck that Shmule was just then in a period of intensive training.

Shmule had already beat Louis Dalmatian, who was, to tell the truth, a push-over, and the Stepney Thrasher was off with a broken collarbone. So Shmule’s manager, Blackie Isaacs, who ran the gymnasium, thought it was a lucky opportunity for Shmule to do Turk Robert and Bully Bason on the quick, and have a go at the dreaded Python Macklin, who was anyway not in such wonderful shape, he heard, owing to his stomach ulcer proving troublesome because he couldn’t leave fried food alone, not to mention the booze. It was Shmule’s big chance and Blackie fixed for him to fight Turk Robert and Bully Bason in the same week – Bully on the Monday and the Turk on the Friday.

It wasn’t so bad as it sounds, Blackie said, because Bully was being paid off to be disqualified in the fourth for persistent gouging. ‘Supposing,’ Shmule asked, ‘I only lose one eye, do you take half commission?’

‘Suddenly,’ Blackie said aloud to himself, ‘suddenly our Maccabaeus has got the wind up. I’m telling you,’ he told Shmule, ‘the Bully is being paid off – just keep your eyes closed and scream – it’s too much to ask for a five-pound purse?’

As for the Turk, he only had two tricks, a deathly rabbit punch and a back-breaking full-Nelson. ‘You’re up to that, kid,’ Blackie told Shmule. ‘I know you won’t let us down by letting that deadbeat murder you.’ And he gave him a good rub-down.

Though he wouldn’t talk to Joe about wrestling, except to say it was a mug’s game, Bully and the Turk were on Shmule’s mind all the time. Between stitching he weaved his head from side to side, and as he lifted the iron he would suddenly duck. All Joe had to do was watch.

The weather was cold, so by special arrangement with Mr Kandinsky, Africana was sleeping in the workshop, and as the workshop had a double lock for insurance purposes it was safe. Joe could consequently pay more attention to the wrestling business than he could with Africana living in the yard. Someone might get into the yard by climbing over the backs of the houses, but you couldn’t break in through a double lock for insurance purposes. Also Africana liked it better in the workshop because it was warm and there was nearly always company. He lay under the bench in the nest of off-cuts, looking with bright eyes from one face to another. He needed rest because he had a bit of a cold.

Mr Kandinsky was worried, which didn’t make things easier. He was first of all worried about his rheumatism, which was always worse in a sharp spell. He was also worried about Shmule and all this prize-fighting. He was, into the bargain, worrying about a patent steam presser because with the work short it was getting to be more and more difficult to compete. And now there was the unicorn to worry about as well. ‘He don’t look so good to me, Joe,’ he said. ‘A little animal like that should be full of beans, jumping and skipping, not lying about the whole day with hardly appetite for a lettuce leaf unless you beg him to take it.’ He bent down to Africana. ‘Go on then,’ he said, offering a piece of leaf, ‘get it down; it’ll do you good. Oy – the roimatismus is killing me. And business so bad into the bargain.’

Business was so slow that Shmule said could he spend a couple of afternoons at the gymnasium, especially since he had the two fights coming off and needed all the training he could get; not that he would mind how long he worked if there was the work there, but like this even his finger-muscles would be cramping up waiting for the next pair of trousers; not that he wanted to put the mockers on the business, far from it, but why should he sit here messing about making new patterns when they didn’t have the work? ‘Do me a favour,’ said Mr Kandinsky, ‘go and wrestle.’

‘Can I come with you?’ Joe asked, and Shmule was so pleased to be going off he said Joe could, so long as he didn’t talk too much and take his mind off serious matters.

Then, after telling Joe to be quiet, Shmule didn’t stop talking all the way to Blackie Isaacs’ in Middlesex Street, behind Isaacs’ fish shop, which was his real business.

‘You see,’ Shmule said as they walked round the back streets, ‘I got to think of all the angles. Take the Bully, for instance. He may take the duck in the fourth all very well, but suppose he doesn’t? Also I got to think of my self-respect. If I can beat him fair, it’s better, I don’t care what Blackie says. So it’s no good you saying don’t worry because the Bully is taking a duck.’

‘I didn’t say don’t worry,’ said Joe.

‘I got to keep after him whether he wants to drop out or not,’ Shmule went on. ‘After all, that’s his business. He can be paid off if he likes; that’s not my affair. If it pays him better, good luck to him, let him lose on purpose.’

‘Why does it pay the Bully better to lose?’ Joe asked.

‘You can’t tell,’ Shmule said. ‘Maybe his manager put money for him on me and they got good odds because the Bully is an old-stager and they thought he would wrap me up with no trouble. On the other hand, supposing he don’t get thrown out for gouging, and I’m taking it easy thinking, what the hell, no need to break my neck, and the Bully gives me a welt, I’m out. No, say what you like, no matter what, I got a fight on me hands. Then there’s the Turk. I see him fight three, four times. True he’s only got the two grips, but never mind, you’ve only got the one neck; he’s only got to break it the once, no more. And he’s got a nice style the Turk, even if he is a bit past it. He must be turned forty.’

‘So old?’ Joe asked.

‘At least,’ Shmule said. ‘At that age you haven’t got the speed; well, you can’t expect it, can you?’

‘No,’ said Joe.

‘But he knows a thing or two all right, all right, one or two tricks to give somebody something to think about and no answer back. I got to keep out of his way and watch out for that little opening, then rush him and give him the lot. Otherwise curtains. Also I’m giving him half a stone, remember, and weight counts in the wrestling. Supposing he gets his knee into me gut, I’m finished, had me lot. Just because he’s got the weight. No good complaining then, is it? It’s all right for Blackie. He don’t have to fight ’em, but if he did he wouldn’t be so pleased. Two in a week. I ask you.’

‘I ask you,’ Joe said, ‘I ask you.’

‘It’s too much, Joe,’ Shmule said, shaking his head as they got to Isaacs’ fish shop.

‘I ask you,’ Joe said.

In the shop they were hosing the fish down, being as it was late in the afternoon and still not sold out. Mrs Isaacs, who had a great mane of red hair like a lion and a hoarse whispering voice, sprayed the hose over the floor.

‘Hello, Ham,’ she said to Shmule, short for Hammer. ‘Hello, sonny,’ she said to Joe. ‘Gonna wrestle him, Ham?’ she said, laughing till she coughed.

‘Hello, Hammer,’ said Miss Isaacs, who was also redheaded, giving Shmule a friendly smile. Sonia made a scene once because she was so friendly, too friendly Sonia said, to anyone in trousers, and Shmule a trousers-maker into the bargain.

‘’Lo, girls,’ Shmule said; ‘behaving?’ He hitched his shoulders.

‘Going to win for me next week, Hammer?’ asked Miss Isaacs, with that smile. That was what Sonia called it, that smile. Miss Isaacs looked up from under her long lashes, and her eyes were a nice green-grey, very nice with deep red hair.

‘For you alone, Reen,’ Shmule said.

‘And is Sonia doing well with her weight-lifting then?’ asked Miss Isaacs, looking down.

‘Such a strong girl,’ Mrs Isaacs whispered.

‘Very nice,’ Shmule said.

‘I do admire her,’ Miss Isaacs said. ‘Sometimes I wish I was a bit more developed myself,’ and she gave Shmule that smile again.

‘This way, Joe,’ Shmule said.

‘That Miss Isaacs has got nice eyes,’ Joe observed.

‘I got no time for such things,’ Shmule said.

In the gymnasium, Blackie and Oliver, the second, were putting Phil Jamaica, the coloured boy, through his paces. Blackie smoked a cigar and watched closely, grunting every time Phil Jamaica hit the bag. Oliver was a punchie and you couldn’t knock him out, though if he hung one on you, you knew it. He was a porter when there was work, at Spitalfields Fruit Market, and could carry eight baskets on his head at once. He helped out as second and would give anyone a fight for five shillings, hit him all you like. Now he was crouching by the bag, his fists following Phil’s. The coloured boy was covered with sweat and his eyes stared fiercely at the bag as if it might hit back if he wasn’t careful. Blackie saw Shmule come in and waved his cigar.

‘All right, Phil,’ he said, ‘turn it in.’ Oliver sat Phil down, puffing and blowing, and whispered into his ear as he rubbed him down.

‘Good boy,’ Blackie said, when Shmule told him he was putting in extra training, ‘good boy.’ Shmule went into the little changing room at the other end of the gym. ‘Put ’em up,’ Blackie said to Joe, squaring off to him, ‘put ’em up and let’s see what you’re made of.’

Joe got into the proper position of defence and Blackie sized him up, still puffing at his cigar. Then Joe suddenly let go and punched Blackie all over his stomach, so that he swallowed some smoke.

‘Turn it in, kid,’ choked Blackie, ‘I wasn’t ready. See the kid?’ he said to Oliver; ‘a champ in the making. Save it for Phil,’ he said to Joe, ‘he’s in training.’

‘What your name, boy?’ Phil Jamaica asked Joe. His eyes were not staring now, and he had his breath back.

‘Joe,’ said Joe.

‘Watch that old defence, boy,’ Phil Jamaica said; ‘you was wide open. You got to watch that old defence or you is cooked. Like this.’ He squared up to the punch-bag again, shadow-boxing it like mad. ‘Easy, easy, Phil,’ said Oliver. ‘Easy, easy, boy; don’t tax yourself, Phil.’ Phil whipped round and shadow-boxed in circles round him. ‘Easy, easy, boy,’ Oliver said.

‘Was you watching the old defence, boy?’ Phil asked Joe.

Joe nodded his head.

‘Now you show me, boy,’ Phil told him.

Joe took up the position of defence again, and jumped into action, weaving round Oliver while Phil Jamaica shouted.

‘Box him, boy; box him there, boy.’

Joe was puffed afterwards.

‘I watched the old defence,’ he said.

‘You’re all right, kid,’ Oliver said. ‘Always lead with the right and follow with the left, one-two, one-two, like that. Don’t forget, one-two, one-two.’

‘One-two, one-two,’ said Joe, punching hard. ‘And keep up the old defence, boy,’ said Phil Jamaica.

‘The old defence,’ said Joe.

Meanwhile Shmule limbered up. He wore crimson briefs with a white hammer in the corner, and as he lifted the weights his muscles stood up in great bands. Blackie Isaacs watched him, rubbing his hands.

‘What a boy!’ he said. ‘What a boy, Olly! What a boy, Phil! Run a couple of rounds with him, Phil. Take Phil for a couple, Hammer,’ he said.

Joe watched them wrestle for a while, but though they threw one another about, and grunted and puffed and shouted, beating the canvas, he couldn’t see how it was done. First they walked round one another with their legs bowed and their arms bent. That was all right. Then suddenly one jumped on to the other, but it was usually the one who jumped first who finished up with his back on the floor grunting, while the other one twisted his leg backwards and forwards.

First one, then the other, the black man and the white man, and first a black grunt, deep and dark, then a white grunt, higher and lighter. And Oliver, the second, and Blackie Isaacs shouting first for Phil and then for Shmule, while the two of them twisted round one another on the floor.

While Joe was examining the gym, which was a big shed where they used to smoke fish in the days when it paid, and which still smelt of fish, Shmule won the bout. Joe didn’t notice him winning, because he was trying to lift himself up on the horizontal bars, but his arms weren’t developed enough. He knew Shmule won because Miss Isaacs was watching from the door, and suddenly there was a groan from Phil Jamaica, and a quick beating on the canvas from his hands with palms which were quite pink, and Miss Isaacs shouted out, ‘Great, Hammer.’

Afterwards they had fish and chips in the frying tonight part of the shop, Blackie heaping their plates with great mountains of golden chips and fillets of plaice, all very good because the establishment used only the best frying oil.

While they ate, Blackie talked to Shmule about his two coming fights and what he had heard about how both the Bully and the Turk were finished.

‘Get your scissors well up,’ Blackie told him.

‘And watch the old defence,’ Joe told him. ‘Lead with the right, one-two, one-two.’

As Joe took up the position of defence two chips dropped off his plate, one-two, on to Mrs Isaacs’ clean floor.

6

No one expected Shmule to lose his two fights, but at the same time, to win two fights in the one week is very good and you shouldn’t expect it. Consequently when Bully Bason was disqualified in the fourth round, due to persistent gouging, and Shmule went the whole length with Turk Robert to win on points after a hard fight and fairly clean, everyone was delighted.

People kept dropping into the workshop to congratulate Shmule and ask him how it felt to be a champ in the making, and what he thought his chances were against the dreaded Python, and how their money was on him. It was just as well work was a bit short, otherwise it would have been held up, and that means dissatisfied customers, which is very bad for business. So that if business is bad anyway and held up, at least you aren’t losing goodwill.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Mr Kandinsky, ‘with the best goodwill in the world, a patent presser can still be a help, because in the long run people want good work, but they want it cheap as well; and how can handwork be so cheap?’

Business all over the East End was, as a matter of fact, a bit slow, and Joe’s mother got a couple of days off. Not that it was a holiday. She was piece-working at the milliner’s and consequently didn’t get paid if there was no work. But Madame Rita, her boss, a big fat man with very fine fingers, swore that it was often like that just before the spring started, and the weather was after all extra cold for the time of the year. Without sunshine to wear them in, who wanted hats? All the rain and sleet would ruin a good hat, and in bad weather who anyway would be bothered to notice whether a customer wore a new hat or not?

Joe’s mother had plenty to do at home. She ran herself up a dress on Mr Kandinsky’s machine, a green dress with a small red flower in it, and she made Joe three shirts and a linen jacket for the summer, if it ever came. The net result of all this being that Joe was at a loose end, because women don’t talk much when they are making things, and there were so many people in and out of the workshop to talk to Shmule and Mr Kandinsky about the wrestling, that he couldn’t get a word in. As for Africana, except for his bit of a sniffle, which was only seasonable since most people were coughing and hawking and sniffing and sneezing, he was all right, although he still didn’t want to play about much. Joe could play the Africa game silently, but it wasn’t so real indoors, especially if you had to be quiet, and you did have to with so many people about.

Though Joe kept a careful look-out, there was no sign of the cannibal king. His spies must have told him that Joe was learning a trick or two, and knowing what was good for him, he kept away from Fashion Street. But you could never tell when he might strike, so Joe mounted guard three times a day at the doorway, well muffled up against the cold weather for the time of the year.

As it turned out it was just as well, because on the Tuesday he was sucking a bon-bon and thinking that he might as well go down and at least listen to other people talking, when he saw the cannibal king turn into the street.

Joe pressed himself against the wall of the passage and waited. Sure enough the cannibal king stopped when he got to the workshop, bending down to look into the window below the grating. He watched quietly for a moment. Then he stood up, took his nose between his fingers and blew it. Then he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and studied it for a while. Afterwards he folded the paper up carefully, took a last look through the grating, and walked on.

Joe watched him the whole time. That piece of paper was his plan for stealing Africana, and the only thing to do was to follow him, find his lair, and tell the sweetshop man, the informer, who would then tell the police. As it was only cold and not raining, Joe waited until the cannibal king was a bit ahead, and followed.

All the way along, Joe watched the cannibal king carefully, ready to take up the position of defence at a moment’s notice. But the old man didn’t look back once, which showed how cunning he was, trying to make Joe think that he didn’t know he was being followed.

Once he sat down on the kerb for a short rest, and Joe turned to look into the window of a magazine shop where there were thousands of covers in full colour. They showed horrible monsters about to eat beautiful ladies with torn dresses, and rockets going to Mars, the red planet of mystery, and boxers beating one another bloody, and cowboys shooting and gangsters shooting and Huns shooting. Joe was thinking that the pictures were exciting but not very real because you never saw things like that in Fashion Street. He started to think then how it would be if when he got back to Fashion Street a whole lot of horrible monsters were trying to get into the greengrocer’s shop to eat Mavis, and her overalls were torn. When he looked round, the cannibal king was gone, which again went to show how cunning he was.

There was a little sunshine now, not much warmth in it, but it made things look brighter, especially the small pools of ice in the gutters. After looking round for the cannibal king for a while, Joe began to carefully break the ice with his heel.

Joe had just found a small pool which was solid ice safe for skating on with the toe of one foot, when there was a great clanging of bells. A fire engine rushed past, covered with ladders, hoses and firemen in helmets, the brass everywhere gleaming in the cold sunlight, the engine bright red and glossy as it flashed past. In case the fire was nearby, Joe ran off in the direction the fire engine had taken.

Joe ran a long way keeping a sharp look-out for fires everywhere, but it was no good. The fire engine had disappeared. It’s always the way with fires. You never see them, because they’re tucked away somewhere you never dream could catch fire, like the one just round the corner that time when some curtains caught alight. Joe heard the bells and ran all over the place, but when he finally went round the corner, there was the engine with all the firemen standing about, and a lot of people watching, but of course the fire was out.

Joe sighed. He could tell from the way his stomach felt that it was dinner time, and since the old cannibal was nowhere to be seen, he might just as well go home. He would have gone straight home, except that he noticed the big chocolate advert over the railway bridge, and being so near, thought he might as well have a look at Itchy Park to see if any flowers were coming up yet.

Itchy Park was an old graveyard which, though full up, had hedges and a few big old trees. Flowers grew up round the graves, which were so covered with grass that without the gravestones and monuments you would think it was a real park. There were two iron benches painted dark green for your convenience, should you happen to be tired, and in nice weather old men used to meet there to talk politics, while mothers pushed their babies in prams, and children played Release round the graves. With its white stone pillars with iron fences between them, the iron all black and green, the stone all white and black and grey patches from the rain and smoke, it was like ancient Greece. In nice weather, a pleasant place for a short outing.

At Itchy Park the sun made the white stone pillars and whitened headstones shine like alabaster, and Joe dawdled between the graves on his way to one which, last spring, was covered with crocuses. He spelt out some of the shorter words which could still be read on the stones, because even if he didn’t go to school yet, Mr Kandinsky told him, there was no need for him to be ignorant. He stopped at the memorial with the split angel on it to see if it had split any more lately. It had only one wing and the tip of that was missing, so that if it did split there wouldn’t be much of that angel left, and Itchy Park was already short of angels because they got knocked off so easily. Fortunately, the split angel was no worse, so Joe went over to the crocus grave.

Some of the crocuses were shooting and striped dark green leaves showed through the grass which was winter thin and short. One of the crocuses was quite large but it looked as if it would never flower and felt stone cold. In spite of the sun, blasts of wind cut through the graveyard like wet stone knives. It was no wonder if the flowers were frozen stiff, and the grass thin, and the angels splitting. Standing up to breathe on his fingers, Joe saw the cannibal king.

Why he didn’t see him straight away Joe couldn’t imagine, because he was sitting on one of the iron benches with his sack beside him, drinking from his bottle. If Itchy Park was his lair, it was certainly a cold one, although maybe one of the graves opened secretly and the king crept into it at night. Joe knelt down again behind the headstone on the crocus grave to watch.

Between taking long drags on the bottle, the king grunted and coughed, not a short dry cough like a dog, but a large wide wet rackety cough, as if his whole chest and stomach coughed with him. The choker round his throat opened and his neck showed loose skin red and raw. There was spit all round his mouth, and his eyes ran with water. As he drank and coughed he only looked like an old man in a graveyard with a bad cold in the cold time of the year.

Joe was creeping round the back to go home, when suddenly the cannibal king gave an enormous cough which shook his whole body so that his face turned purple. While he was getting his wind back, his face turned white, making his beard look dark and thick. He closed his eyes and sank back on the bench, and the open bottle, which was still in his hand, dipped over so that some of the spirit poured on to his coat.

When he got home, Joe’s mother and Mr Kandinsky were full of questions about where he had been and how cold he was. Joe didn’t tell them about the old cannibal king. It would have been too difficult to explain why he wasn’t a cannibal or a king any more, just because of the cold.