Faded Glory (17 page)

His eagerness to get going and train hard turned into a reverent awareness of gladiators past. Danny thought about their trials and hardships, their victories and defeats, their dreams and nightmares. He was following in their noble footsteps, and he felt he could not let them down. His commitment would pay homage to those that had gone before him. Heroes, like his father, warriors of the past, faded but still glorious.

With a deep breath, Danny began to work through the exercises he had been through so many times. There was a strength in him today that he’d rarely felt before. He was now a professional boxer, and this was where he truly belonged. This was where his future would be shaped.

AFTER weeks of hard training under the watchful eyes of Albert and Patsy, there wasn’t a single fight on the horizon. Danny was beginning to wonder if Costa and Cohen had changed their minds. Perhaps the inclusion of Albert and Patsy had dampened their enthusiasm.

“You should telephone them and see what’s going on,” Wendy suggested.

But Danny was apprehensive. If it was bad news, he didn’t want to hear it.

“They’re like bad pennies,” was Albert’s take on it. “They’ll turn up.”

And turn up they did.

After a phone call to the Live and Let Live from Cohen and Costa’s receptionist, the officious Mavis, Danny was asked to meet his new managers at the gym the following Friday, at eleven o’clock in the morning. The news came as a relief, but also with a tinge of worry. Danny was hopeful that the meeting would be positive, and not a “Thank you and goodbye”.

“At least something is happening,” Patsy said as they waited in Patsy’s office for Costa and Cohen to arrive.

At eleven-fifteen, the familiar smell of overpowering aftershave wafted into the gym.

“Danny,” said Costa warmly, wrapping Danny in a hug while Cohen gave a half nod to Albert and Patsy. “Look at ya, getting better-looking every day! We’ve got some good news.”

Cohen was more business-like. “We have arranged your first fight, Danny,” he said.

“Great! When?” said Danny eagerly.

“Six months’ time.”

“Who’s he fighting?” asked Patsy.

“Reece Davies,” said Costa.

“Reece Davies?” echoed Patsy. “The ex-British champion, the boy from Tiger Bay? Reece ‘the Dragon’ Davies?”

“That’s him.”

Danny turned at the sudden gasp of air from Albert.

“You look worried, Albert,” remarked Cohen.

“Davies is a formidable opponent,” Albert said evenly. “He may be in his thirties with his title-fight days behind him, but are you sure Danny’s ready for him?”

“You need to believe, fella,” said Costa.

“Yes indeed,” said Cohen. “The Dragon is on the way down, and our boy is on the way up.”

“A fight like this will generate a lot of interest, new boy against an ex-champ,” said Costa, with a knowing wink to Danny. “I reckon we will sell tickets by the shed-load.”

“There will be local and hopefully national press to do, and of course a press conference after the weigh-in,” Cohen said.

After weeks of nothing, now things were moving just a little too fast. This was serious and it was happening. Danny glanced at Albert, but Albert was staring at the floor.

“Right,” Danny said.

His first instinct was to get to the nearest punch bag and get punching. He was in prime condition, but would that be enough to put up a show against this experienced adversary? The conversation flowed around him, but Danny felt detached, his mind on the forthcoming make-or-break contest. This was being thrown in at the deep end all right. Danny wanted to make sure he wouldn’t drown.

“We’ll be in touch,” declared Cohen, shaking Danny’s hand.

“Speak soon,” said Costa as he pulled Danny into one of his prolonged hugs.

A stunned silence hung in the unusually fragrant air as the two promoters left the gym. Patsy broke the silence.

“Right, Danny,” he said. “The Dragon is a tough fighter and we got work to do, so let’s do it.”

“You can do this, Danny,” said Albert after a moment. “You have to do it.”

*

The big debut fight with the Dragon was fixed for the Saturday of the second week of April, not long after the baby was due. Posters were up in the streets of London, and Danny had been interviewed by the
Stratford Express
and
East London Advertiser
. Momentum was growing. There had even been an article or two in the national papers’ sports pages.

Danny and the team had watched recent footage of a Davies fight filmed on a dodgy cine camera and shot by one of Patsy’s friends. Watching the shaky black and white images, over and over again, looking for strengths and weaknesses. But as Albert said, there weren’t many chinks in his armour.

Albert was worried, but didn’t let on to Danny. He did not want to damage the boy’s confidence, but this looked to him like a mismatch, a very difficult fight for a young boxer making his professional debut.

Danny and Patsy on the other hand were upbeat, dedicated and focused on the job in hand. The odd visit from Lenny to watch Danny spar and lift the spirits meant the camp was feeling boosted, confident and happy.

Albert tried to be positive, but in his heart, he was troubled.

After a sleepless night, he finally made a decision to telephone Cohen and voice his worries. Using the phone in the hall of the pub in a quieter moment, he dialled the number.

Mavis answered, using her almost-posh telephone voice.

“Please hold, and I will see if Mr Cohen is free.”

Albert waited, not really sure what he was going to say.

Mavis was back. “Mr Cohen wants to know if it’s urgent?”

Assured that it was, she put Albert through.

“Albert,” said Cohen. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“This first fight for Danny, I’m worried about it,” Albert said. “I think the boy could get hurt. And with all the build-up, if he gets battered, his career could be over before it’s started.”

“Too late to change it now, old timer. But don’t you worry. We have invested
heavily
in Danny, know what I mean? The underdog bites back and all that? See you there.”

The call left Albert bemused. What did Cohen mean? Was it simply that they had spent money on the promotion, or that they intended to invest in Danny’s future? It had to be the latter. Perhaps he should take a longer-term view, and look past this upcoming tussle. Perhaps Costa and Cohen did care about Danny’s future after all, and were in it for the long haul. Maybe they were not the shady couple he thought they were.

“Oi, Albert!” shouted Maurice from the bar. “It’s getting busy out ’ere, you working or what?”

Still puzzling about motives, Albert reported for duty. Sure enough, the lunch-time drinkers were starting to form a crowd. The Live and Let Live was as popular at lunch time as it was at night, with the dockers there on their lunch break as usual and Lenny’s regular lunch-time visit already in progress.

Lenny always brought in his own lunch. At first Maurice had barred it, but after pressure from Albert he’d given in. Lenny’s packed lunch had now become part of the fabric of lunch time in the pub.

The pub menu included the usual pub fare like meat pie and mash, chicken and chips, and ham or cheese and pickle sandwiches, all prepared under duress by Maria, Maurice’s Italian wife. Maria had left Italy at nine years old when her father came to England, and had worked in her father’s cafe in Billingsgate. Now more Cockney than most of the dockers, she had taken on her father’s mantle in the firm belief that cuisine was in her blood.

She had asked her husband if she could introduce some more varied and upmarket dishes, but when her suggestion of prawn cocktail was shot down in flames, she let it slide. Anyway, the workers were happy and her sausages had quite a reputation.

“Hello Len,” said Albert as Lenny approached the bar. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks Albert. How is it going with Danny? Not too long now before the big fight.”

“He’s doing good. Training hard and looking pretty sharp.”

“Nice,” said Lenny. “Gonna put some money on him, invest in success.”

Albert’s mind shot back to the phone call with Cohen.
Invested heavily.

“What are the odds?” he asked.

“Three to one,” said Lenny as he rubbed his hands together. “Not great odds, eh?”

Albert would have expected the odds to be more like ten to one. After all, Danny was an unknown, while the Dragon with his big, mainly Welsh following was a star. Perhaps when Cohen said “invested”, they had put money on Danny winning.

The pub rush started to ease. Lenny said goodbye with his usual “Oh well, some of us have to work”, and Albert collected and washed glasses.

Everything was as it always was, but Albert had this black cloud hanging over him and he wasn’t really sure why. He put it down to anxiety over the upcoming fight. The weigh- in, maybe. It was nerves, pure and simple.

To take his mind off the conundrum, Albert went to help Maria clear up in the kitchen.

Maria was grumbling as usual about her never-ending workload and her lazy husband. Albert dried up pots and pans with the odd nod of understanding, which he hoped would soothe her sometimes savage breast.

He had seen Maria blow her Latin temper a number of times, and had learned that the best option was to sympathise and keep quiet.

Job done, he made his way to the dry cleaners to pick up his one suit. He wanted to look smart for the big weigh-in next week. Next stop, Harry the barber.

The fashion for the time was for longer hair, but that was strictly for the young, or “the beatniks” as Albert called them. For Albert, the customary short back and sides was the way to go.

With suit in hand and a tidy haircut, Albert made for home.

“Who’s a pretty boy?” Rocky squawked in greeting.

This was more or less the extent of Rocky’s vocabulary. Seeing how Rocky was a girl, she was obviously addressing her owner. So Albert took it as a compliment, thanked his bird, and filled her tray with some fresh bird seed before sitting down in his favourite armchair. Rocky settled on her favourite lampshade and Albert took a nap.

*

With the baby’s birth due any day, Wendy and Mrs Bristow were packing her hospital bag in readiness for the big event. Danny was as involved as he could be, but his mind was on the fight and the face-to-face meeting with Davies at the weigh-in the following week. His hands went cold and his stomach turned as he carried the thought of what was to come, and as much as he wanted to concentrate on Wendy’s apprehension, it wasn’t easy.

As Danny prowled the back yard, deep in thought, he heard a cry from Wendy that brought him rushing inside.

Mrs Bristow was semi-hysterical. “Danny! Her waters have broken! We’ve got to get her to the hospital. Call a taxi, quick!”

Danny found a number as quickly as he could and called with shaking fingers.

“Ten to fifteen minutes,” he told Mrs Bristow a little breathlessly, trying not to look at the way Wendy was writhing and moaning in pain. “Get her ready to go, all right?”

His mind now was in overload. The fight, the baby, Wendy’s welfare. There was still the prospect of a new and exciting life ahead, but all of a sudden it seemed a long way off.

As he prowled up and down the street waiting for the promised cab, Danny forced himself to prioritise Wendy and the baby. The weigh-in and fight would have to wait.

At that moment a fairly clean, but rather battered taxi turned into the street. He waved to the driver and went inside to fetch the girls.

On the way to Howards Road Hospital, Wendy gripped Danny’s hand tightly, her face grey with pain.

“It’ll be all right, won’t it?” she said in a scared voice.

Danny reassured her the best he could. Looking at her, he wished he could take the pain away. She looked so vulnerable and child-like.

At the maternity ward, Wendy was led away by a friendly Irish nurse, who told Danny and Mrs Bristow to wait in reception.

“I’ll come and fetch you when Wendy is settled,” she said kindly, her gentle accent going some way to calming Danny down.

After a short while, Danny and Mrs Bristow were ushered into the maternity ward. Wendy, now in a robe and in a hospital bed, smiled a weak hello.

“You all right?” said Danny anxiously.

Wendy burst into tears. “They said there’s a complication with the baby,” she sobbed.

Danny’s heart thumped hard in his chest. “What? What complication?”

“Mr Watson?” said a voice.

Danny whirled round to see a doctor and nurse standing behind him.

“Mr Watson,” the doctor repeated. “I explained to your wife that the baby seems fine, but is not engaging in the position it should for a successful natural birth. I’m afraid we need to carry out a Caesarean.”

Wendy looked like the scared little girl Danny had first met in school. He wanted so much to take away the fear and the worry in her face.

“Is there no other way?” Wendy’s mother pleaded.

The doctor shook his head. “We should operate as soon as possible.”

Danny couldn’t believe this was happening. Holding Wendy close, he could feel her sobbing, although she was making no sound.

“This operation, Doctor,” he said, feeling terrified. “It’s safe, ain’t it?”

“As safe as it can be. I’m sorry, Mr Watson, but we have no choice.”

Looking around the ward of ten or twelve expectant mothers, Danny could see that some of the inmates already had their newborns by their side, their ordeal of childbirth over. One of the babies began to cry. It sounded like a mewing kitten, helpless and in need of its mother’s attention. This world felt alien to Danny. His world was a man’s world. He was touched by the sacrifices women make for their children. It was something he had never quite realised.

He lifted Wendy’s face up with his finger and looked into her frightened eyes. “You need to be a brave little soldier, Wend,” he said quietly. “It’ll be all right. Your mum’s here, I’m here, your dad’s on his way, you hear me?”

Wendy slowly nodded her head, like a child reluctantly agreeing to go to bed. The nurse gently took her hand, helped her off the bed and led her away.