Fair Fight (22 page)

Tom said, ‘You’ve never had a dressing gown, all the time we’ve been married. I’ve always wished one for you. Lilac, the lady said the colour’s named. Ain’t that a pretty word?’

The unshed tears burned my throat like gin. Never mind that we’d not a stick of furniture besides our bed and our battered trunk. Never mind that I had only one dress to wear when I wasn’t fighting, and that one ragged at the hem. My husband had bought me a dressing gown soft as a whisper, just like a lady might wear. Somebody else’s work-roughened hands had taken the needle to this lovely cloth. Somebody else’s eyes had squinted by rushlight to work the neck so fine. And that it should be this, when a different dressing gown had brought me to Mr Dryer. But I never had told Tom about that.

That evening Dora and I sat at the kitchen table, she in a waspish temper, Mr Dryer having got another baby on her and she unable to shift it.

‘It’ll be a monster when it comes,’ she said, drumming her fingers on her belly. ‘I’ve tried every cure on it.’

‘It’s hardy, at least.’ I was gently rubbing lard into my hand, which had lately had the splints off it and was as twisted and ugly as a chicken’s foot. ‘It may as well know the kind of mothering it can expect.’

‘Oh, it’s strong. It’ll be in your image; ugly and impossible to keep down.’

I smiled a little at this, meant as insult but quite sweet to my puffed-up ear.

‘Don’t think that means I’ll look after it,’ I said.

‘You should indeed take it.’ Dora got up heavily and began to clank around in the larder. She had a bottle hidden in there and she always did make a great deal of noise fetching it out. I think she was hitting the jars with a spoon so that I’d not hear where it was kept.

‘I’m even less the little mother than you are,’ I said.

‘You keep your belly flat enough.’ Dora returned with her bottle and held it up to the lamp. She shook it and peered at its dark blue glass like Ma peering at a shilling. She must’ve determined it was enough, for she poured some into my cup as well as her own and sat again.

‘I take that many hits to the guts,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to do the same for you?’

‘You, out-at-heels as you are? You couldn’t thrash Jacky.’

‘I’d break my hand again for the pleasure of driving the breath and the babber out of you,’ I said.

Dora, seeing me grown gloomy, only laughed; it brought my sister up to see me brought down. I didn’t think she’d thought much upon how far I’d rise, if Tom did become Champion. Or perhaps she thought I’d bring her up with me. Perhaps I would.

Above us we could hear one of the girls giving it her all. Dora raised her eyebrows.

‘That one shrieks near as shrill as you,’ I said.

‘She’s working well, I’ll give her that credit. Go and see how the new lad does.’

‘Me? It takes me an age to go anywhere,’ I said. Though I was much better, I was still not able to move at much of a pace.

‘I’m fat and my feet hurt,’ Dora said, ‘and you’re bringing nothing into the house. That lad’s wages are due to your husband leaving his post. Now go and see how he does, before I find it in me to shake you by the hand.’

She meant my broken hand, of course. I stood, holding the table with my left and went to the kitchen door. Opening it, I could see the front door half open, the dark shape of the new boy against the evening sky.

‘Go out properly,’ Dora said, seeing I meant to just stand at the door and look.

‘What do you want me gone for? You needn’t hide to break wind. Or belch some of that gas out of you. You’re just blown up with air; there’s no infant on you.’

‘You’re blown up full of something, and it ain’t air.’ Dora tried to summon a belch but only made a face.

‘Handsome, ain’t you,’ I said.

There came the sound of voices on the step. Dora sat up straight and looked at me. I ignored her, though she only wanted a nod to tell her it was Mr Dryer and Tom come back, which I knew by then it was.

In they came, Tom helping Mr Dryer along. Mr Dryer’s pale face had some colour in it and his hair had come down. His hat was too low, as though it’d been jammed upon his head. Tom had caught himself a mark across one cheek and I could smell the fight on him, salt and something else that I can’t explain but any pug knows about. I could smell the rum on both of them.

They saw me at the same time. Tom made gleeful eyes at me; he wanted to run to me and tell me all he’d been doing, but he’d not say a word of it while Mr Dryer stood there. Mr Dryer didn’t greet me at all, only said, ‘Tell your sister I am arrived,’ and took himself off into the parlour. He walked carefully, as though he might at any moment tumble.

I turned and looked at Dora, who was already heaving herself up from the table. Then I turned back and straight into Tom’s arms. He’d come upon me that quietly that I didn’t hear him. My husband was beginning to learn how to carry his size. His neck was clammy where the night air had chilled the sweat on him.

‘You have to towel off, Tommy,’ I said. ‘You’ll catch cold, else.’

Dora pushed past us where we stood in the doorway. We moved aside for her but didn’t let go our hold on each other.

Tom said, ‘How d’you fare, Dore?’

She only huffed in reply. I didn’t even look at her, only up at my good man.

‘I’d have dried off, only Mr Dryer threw my coat to me and I didn’t like to say. So I just put it on and then he was having me shake hands with swells and it was too late for it.’

‘I expect they liked that alright, shaking your sweaty mauler.’

‘Don’t you want to know who won, Ruth?’

‘I know who won, my love. And I can say that without even you telling me who you were against.’

‘You want to hear about this one, mind.’ Tom smiled wide at me and I got a little shock.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I lost a tooth. But I wasn’t using it much,’ and he laughed.

‘Come on, then,’ I said, and took him into the warm kitchen. Dora had left her gin on the table. I poured the whole of it into two mugs. Then I wet a rag in cold water for his poor knuckles, which were already stiffening up. Then I let him tell me.

Those three gents had taken him to The Hole in the Wall, a tavern Tom and I didn’t much visit. They took him there and he found the whole place filled with the fancy in tall hats and tailcoats, all waiting for him.

‘I nearly piddled myself,’ he said. ‘There’s something fearful about a gang of them like that.’

I knew what he meant; just the thought made the back of my neck itch. They didn’t mean him harm, though. What they did was, they took Tommy into a back room, and there they set him against a boy from Bath, an apprentice chandler.

‘We were fighting so close I could barely swing. The room was packed with swells; I kept thinking I’d jab a gent with my elbows,’ Tom said. ‘When I knocked the lad down they all leapt out of his way and still he fell against one gent’s leg.’

The fight was what the fancy term a trial, to see what a man’s made of. They came out to see how Tom would fare and they’d not been satisfied till he’d basted the chandler’s boy so badly that they carried him off in a cart.

‘Mr Dryer’s that pleased,’ Tom said, then, ‘he says he wants to have us close by him. He says he’ll give us a house to live in, on his land.’

Tom shook his head and I found myself shaking mine. The idea was too strange to credit. We’d neither of us had a house of our own and for my part, I couldn’t have told you where in the world Mr Dryer lived, though he’d been coming to the convent so long.

‘He was pretty well in his cups,’ Tom said, taking his hand from the towel and flexing it gently. He winced to do it.

‘I’ve never seen him fuddled before,’ I said.

‘I had to help him along to his coach, he was that bad. He called me a soldier. He kept saying, “you’re a soldier, Tom”, I couldn’t hush him.’

‘Look at you,’ I said. ‘He’s never once called me anything. I couldn’t swear he knows my name. I’d swear home, he don’t.’

Tom laughed, and then cocked his head, listening.

‘He’s having trouble with the stairs,’ he said.

Dora’s voice came, impatient and scolding.

Tom got up and looked out of the kitchen door.

‘He’s on his knees. Your sister’s trying to lift him.’

‘Let me see.’ I went to the door.

Mr Dryer’s hat had fallen off and he was indeed sagging upon the stair, both hands upon the rail. He wasn’t quite on his knees, but more hovering himself just above. Dora had her hands upon his elbow and was trying to heave him up. I laughed aloud and she saw me, so I spoiled the game for myself. Tom got him into bed pretty quick after that, though his poor hands were so sore and stiff.

Mr Dryer left the next day, or perhaps that same night, before Tom and I laid eyes on him to see how his revels had left him. We’d a few days peace then; Tom and I thought him ashamed to show his mug and laughed over it. As the days went on and became a week and then two, we kept laughing, but I knew Tom was feared Mr Dryer never would come back. I knew the old goat would be back at the convent, for when had he ever stayed away? I expected him well enough. What I didn’t expect was what came.

Tom and I were coming up from the cellar, he with his hand – fairly well healed up – under my elbow, though I was near mended again myself. When we crossed the last step Tom gave a huff of surprise. Jacky stood pressed against the wall like a clammy grey serpent, as though he meant to leap out at us. His hair was as tangled as a beggar-boy’s.

‘Oh my days,’ I said, ‘look at this creeping thing.’

I always did say something like that when I came across Jacky. I liked him to know that I saw him and he only made himself a fool.

‘I came to find you,’ Jacky said.

It was always queer to hear him speak because he did it so rarely. His voice was quite usual, just like any other boy’s; you’d have expected him to hiss.

‘You found us,’ I said. ‘What prize do you get by it?’

‘There’s a man outside on a cart says to fetch Tom,’ Jacky said, as though he was telling a juicy piece of gossip.

‘Right then,’ Tom said. ‘Let’s go and see a man, shall we?’

There was a dogcart upon the street, just a one-horse rattler of the kind you might see anywhere. The sight that had brought Jacky out to gawp wasn’t the cart, but the man driving the thing, all done up in livery with shiny buttons and a silver wig. This was novelty indeed; we had plenty of nobby footmen call, but they came as cullies and would leave off their livery so as their employers wouldn’t discover where they took their leisure hours.

‘Look at the shine on that coat,’ the new lad said, seeing me come to the door. He moved aside so that I could stand next to him.

‘We’ll have you dressed up like that, if Tom makes enough wins,’ I said.

‘I’d not throw it back at you,’ he replied.

Tom went out there bold as anything, as though liveried footmen called for him every day. I stayed in the doorway, next to the new lad, feeling as much of a creeping sly-boots as Jacky. Jacky stood behind me and peeked out through the gap left between me and the bully.

The footman looked devilish queer up there in his shiny coat, on the dusty seat. I could see he fancied himself pious as a saint. Tom greeted the cull as friendly as he did everyone, and I saw well enough that this lay-preacher knew what kind of a house he’d come to and was all over sour about it. His mug was as pinched as a cat’s backside. He shook Tom’s hand as though he’d rather not and kept his hand curled when he pulled away. I could see him itching to wipe it off. I’d never much cared when folk were uppity at me, but I couldn’t abide Tom being treated low. My fists clenched by my sides without my meaning to and the pain that shot up my arm from my broken mauler made the sweat pop out on my neck.

When Tom came back inside he was frowning. He didn’t say a word about my black face, though I could feel the glower upon it like an iron hand about my brow. His worried mug smoothed out my own.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Jacky came sidling up and I turned and showed him my good fist. He started and moved back quick enough; he could see how much I’d have liked to fib him one.

Tom shook his head. ‘He’s Mr Dryer’s man,’ he said, ‘come to fetch us to our new house. He says he’ll be back for us in an hour.’

I didn’t know what reply to make. I stood staring at him like a noddy.

‘What’ll we do?’ I said, at last.

‘What can we do? We must gather our things and go, mustn’t we?’

And indeed, what else could we do, then? Back in the cellar I stood still and couldn’t think where to start. It was Tom who had to begin putting what few things we had into our trunk. It didn’t take long, for the trunk was almost all we had and we already kept our clothes in it. All he had to put in were the small things: my hairbrush, Tom’s razor, our mufflers. We didn’t know what to do with the jug, the ewer, the thunder pot.

At last Tom said, ‘Leave them. Leave them, you haven’t even a good hand to carry them.’

Tom was half laughing as he said it, but I left them where they were. I was as dazed as if I’d taken a fib to the chops. I was moving as though I was pushing through treacle.

I couldn’t help Tom much with the trunk; he insisted, in any case, that I shouldn’t, and began dragging it up the stairs by its handle. I went up to see who might be about to help him and it struck me; I had to bid farewell to the folk in the house, to Dora and to Ma. I told the new bully on the door to help Tom, if he could do it without leaving the door too long.

I climbed the stairs. My belly shook. My ribs ached.

Dora’s chamber door was shut. She answered my knock by calling out,

‘Hush up and go away.’

‘It’s me,’ I called.

‘Hush up, Ruth,’ she called back.

‘Are you alone?’

‘If I am it’s not your company I want.’

I paid no heed and opened the door. My sister was lying on her back in bed, her belly making a little hill beneath the blankets. Her face was as free from paint as it ever was; the skin only a little streaked with white, the carmine caught in the lines on her lips. Even unkempt as she was, she wore a dressing gown laced up the front with scarlet ribbons. Her head lay propped on a bolster to keep her hair nice, pushing her chin down toward her chest.