Angell, Pearl and Little God

  The first bout was half through before they relaxed; gradually there was a shifting and a settling, an easing of position. Angell took out his glasses, breathed on them, polished them; Pearl let out a breath and took one in; it was just possible; at the first interval she would get her coat off, it made for less bulk.

  The first fight ended in a cut eye and the referee stopping it in the third round. Programme. There it was, Godfrey Vosper (Little God) of Kensington versus Tokio Kio of Kobe in a feather-weight contest of ten three-minute rounds.

  There were few women here, and Pearl was glad of her head scarf which hid part of her blonde hair and made her she thought, less noticeable. But a number of men glanced at her, and when one of them cursed, a neighbour chuckled and nudged him: ‘Careful, Joe; we got ladies present.’ It was like an old world courtesy. The West End might be swinging, the East End still believed in these things.

  The next two fights went past in a dream, the sweat of the fighters spraying like iridescent fans, the squeak and stretch of their boots on the canvas, the thump of one when he fell, the isolated shouts of supporters, the growl or applause of the crowd. Seconds ducking in and out of the ring, sweatered, pug-featured, white trousered men, fanning, massaging, whispering, urging, patching, the clang of the bell, the only word the referee apparently ever uttered: ‘Break!’ The strange unbelievable way some of the fighters embraced at the end, affectionately, after all those blows exchanged, all that brutal striving. And then it was time for the principal bout.

  Godfrey had been waiting for this calmly enough, sitting in his little private cubicle which was like a Victorian bathing hut in design but in fact was much more modern and cheerful than the Albert Hall. The Whip had called out the order of bouts almost as soon as he arrived. It was the first time ever Godfrey had been anything but an unimportant fighter on the undercard. He liked it this way. He meant to keep it this way.

  He was tensed up but not really nervous. He didn’t have nerves because he had perfect confidence in being able to take care of himself. Even if he hadn’t been told it was all fixed to go the ten rounds he would have had just the same confidence. In fact he’d never been told to pull his punches. What would happen, he wondered, if he knocked Kio out? Better not try. Davis had given him this chance, and it would be dangerous not to play it his way.

  Pat Prince was bustling in and out a lot, seeing he’d got everything, offering last minute advice.

  ‘Where’s Jude?’ Godfrey asked.

  ‘I doubt ’e’ll be here. He’s got ’ flu; I told you this morning, and you can’t monkey with that. He said he was hoping to come but I doubt ’e’ll make it.’

  Godfrey grunted. ‘ It’s funny him not being here. I thought he’d be here tonight.’

  ‘You think what you’re doing,’ said Prince. ‘You watch this lad. You watch his right. He’s not a southpaw but he’s got a square stance and his right’s fast as a snake. You remember what I telled you, see. You box him. If you try to mix it he’ll leather you. Use the ring. Use your feet. He’s not so fast on his feet as you. If you see your way through ten rounds you’ll be on your way up real and proper.’

  All along it had been clear that Prince was not in on the secret.

  The British Board of Control inspector came in with the bandages and Prince stuck lengths of tape to the wall, began to tape Godfrey’s hands. After his hands were bandaged, the inspector signed across them, so that nothing could be added. The third fight had three more rounds to go, but one or the other of the fighters might be stopped, so they’d better be ready. Through the open door Godfrey saw Kio’s manager open the opposite changing booth and go in. Three or four other people were drifting about the narrow passage. Two coloured fighters were lying stretched out on a trestle with closed eyes as if they had already been knocked out. They were relaxing before their fight, which came on after.

  The scurry of feet and voices. You were too far away to hear the crowd but you could tell. Sure enough the other two came in. One was complaining to his manager: ‘ It’s ri-dic-ulous. Ri-dic-ulous. I was just waiting there on me knee, waiting for the count of nine!’

  ‘Ready?’ said the Whip at the door. ‘It’s time. Come on.’

  Out into the narrow corridor, along the passage towards the indoor baths, through the double doors and into the noise and light of the arena. He hardly noticed the squat little figure on ahead of him wearing the robe with the rising sun on its back. It didn’t worry him that this was a champion in his own country. He listened to the spatter of applause as he climbed into the ring; knew he would get a good round when he was introduced. He was popular already because of his last few fights – the real fight fans travelled from one hall to another – and he was the British lad against the foreigner.

  The ref was a bloke called Waterford. Godfrey hadn’t had him before but knew he’d had a lot of experience: a great big character in black tie and trousers and white shirt; they always seemed to choose the big refs for the small fighters and the little refs for the heavies. In his corner Pat Prince whispered some last dead-beat advice; now into the middle. Yes, he held his hands up and the crowd really gave him a welcome. This was living. There were only two sorts of living for Godfrey, sex and fighting This was the peak. Sex afterwards, maybe, but this was the peak.

  Introduced, ref talking, usual guff, clean fight and the rest; what did Kio understand anyway? Squat face nodding politely, cold walnut eyes, black hair cut very short, black silk pants, red gloves. Touch the gloves, now return to the corner. Just then with his back to the ring, holding the ropes, waiting ready for the bell: Holy Jesus, in the front row, Pearl. Pearl and her fat ox of a husband. Both of them. Holy Moses! Well, well, well, so he hadn’t lost his fans after all! A little grin turned at the corners of his mouth; he nodded at Pearl, who seemed too fascinated, too riveted with attention to nod back. And that old ox, that fat old mountain of lard, fairly wedged in his seat.

  The bell. He turned and there was no one in the ring, no one in the world, but the big white-shined ref and the small olive-skinned figure of the featherweight champion of Japan.

  First round much as you’d expect it, whether it was exhibition or dead serious. No fireworks; you circled round each other, dogs on a lead, sizing each other up, looking for openings, testing out the replies, mixing it now and then but not committing yourself too far. Godfrey saw soon enough what they’d meant about Kio. He had a hunched up way of fighting, shoulders pushed forward like a man sheltering from a cold wind; with gloves raised and held in front of the chin it didn’t offer much target; you hit his shoulders or his gloves or the top of his head. Of course this two-fisted defensive stance limited his own reach: it took a good three inches off the length of his punch; but when the punches came they were absolutely stiff and straight, like pistons thrust from the shoulders and almost always with feet solidly on the ground. He was probably a bit flat-footed; his footwork wasn’t good by western standards. He’d got an ugly mug, Godfrey thought, spiteful and nasty, and there wasn’t any brotherly love in his eyes. It’d be good to flatten that flat nose, give him a few lumps where there weren’t lumps already.

  So in the first round Kio mainly occupied the centre of the ring, circling in a small area, while Godfrey came in for forays and a flurry of punches, moving out and round again, landing a good deal more often than the Jap but with no effect except to score a few points. As the bell went there was a smattering of applause, no more; it looked like being a routine encounter, perhaps a bit dull, and as for points there was nothing in it so far, the ref might just have put Godfrey ahead; he certainly didn’t look outclassed.

  He didn’t feel outclassed. As he relaxed and rinsed his mouth round with water and spat it in the bucket he could hear Prince giving the usual corny advice. ‘ Fight your own fight. Take it easy. Watch for that right. Don’t go in to him. Let him come to you …’

  ‘Seconds out.’ Both boxers stood up off their little swing stools, advanced, the ref kept them apart with outstret
ched hands, then closed them as the bell rang.

  Godfrey had never been short of confidence and he was brim full of it now, dancing in, landing a flurry of blows – all falling uselessly on arms or gloves except one that got through and caught Kio above the eyebrow – dancing away, two counter punches in the ribs he came away with, hard but unimportant; in again, tempting Kio with a slightly dropped guard, back came the counter punches aimed at his heart, but Godfrey leaned away from them. Kio followed this time, taking Godfrey into a corner; three vicious punches and one got through, hurt his ribs, if the other two had landed he might have been in trouble. Good, Kio wasn’t pulling anything. Godfrey stepped away, leaning this way and that like a dancer so that three more ramrod blows missed altogether. He heard applause. Clapping not shouting. From the real fans, who knew. Applause for his boxing. It was music. Just music. It was something he couldn’t have done twelve months ago – box like this. Fight, yes, but not this classy stuff. Weaving, feinting, he came again, like a master, two on Kio’s nose, not weighty but beautifully balanced sending Kio’s head back an inch; Kio hadn’t ridden them; away again, untouched that time. Holy smoke, he’d show them.

  A sledge hammer hit him on the side of the jaw, brought him up sharp as if he had walked into a wall; blinking stars he covered up, staggered back, blocking the follow up. Knees groggy, head singing, both gloves to his head, and head down to weather this storm in the corner. Kio was hitting him almost at will, one, two, three, four, almost down. He leaned on Kio, working at Kio’s ribs, both men working. ‘Break!’ said the ref. Kio pushed him away. Godfrey tried to clear his head. His jaw felt as if all his back teeth were loose. He kept out of trouble by retreating, dodging, retreating. The bell …

  In his corner Pat Prince was sponging his face, someone was rubbing the muscles of his calves. ‘ Now, God, take it easy. I told you, watch out for that right. You was doing fine till you walked into it. He’s an old hand and he knows just when to throw it. Box him. You was doing fine. Try to keep your distance. Don’t mix it – above all, don’t mix it. You was doing fine – maybe with a bit of luck you can ride it out.’

  Godfrey, recovering, looked across at the squat, black haired man in the other corner. Jees, he thought, if this is supposed to last ten rounds, maybe he’ll ease up this next one. It was just bad luck I walked into that one. I never seen it coming at all. I’ll watch the yellow bastard this time.

  Seconds out … The third round. Godfrey had not even heard whether there had been any applause at the end of the second.

  If this was a fight arranged to last the distance Kio seemed to have got rather absent-minded about the arrangement. He came out ready for the kill. He came on like a small warship, still covering himself but aiming lefts and rights like gun fire at Godfrey’s face and body. Godfrey covered well, slipping away each time Kio tried to pin him against the ropes, and then, when he was eventually cornered, leaning on Kio until they were told to break. No more thunderbolts landed. They came near, but each time Godfrey just saw them. A half dozen times he landed himself, and one of these blows again hit Kio above the eyebrow where a red swelling was growing. Thwarted of an immediate K. O., Kio began to work on Godfrey’s body, trying hard to reach him for the big punch. It was a long three minutes. Godfrey wondered if the flaming timekeeper had gone to have his supper. In spite of everything he could do, the little yellow bastard kept edging in, pistons going, feet moving but moving almost flat-footed, rock-solid, never off balance. Another flurry and he got out of trouble only by taking two vicious punches on the ribs.

  Bell. Godfrey went to his corner. There was a lot of applause this time, and all for him. Maybe they were just clapping because he was still standing up.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Pat Prince, rubbing his legs. ‘That’s better. You really kept your distance. He’s a hard man. Just keep out of trouble.’ (The flaming fool, the ring wasn’t a mile wide.) ‘ Watch his right and use your feet. You’re doing fine, boy.’

  Actually his knees were feeling better and his head clearer. But his jaw was aching like it was cracked. Several of his teeth felt loose. He took water in and spat it out and saw that it was still red. As his head was turned towards the bucket he glanced behind his second and saw Angell and Pearl. Pearl wasn’t looking at him; she was staring down at her hands as if they were the only things in the world. But Angell was looking at him. Angell was looking at him hungrily, evilly. It was like a time once in the orphanage. There was this lousy master who would never beat kids or give them a cuff behind the ear-hole like the others; he’d never touch them, but he’d try to make the older kids beat the younger, and sometimes when they did he’d stand there watching and you’d see a look on his face. This look. Sweet Moses … this look. That fat old ox. He was enjoying it. He was enjoying seeing him take a knocking.

  ‘If you get a chance work on that there eyebrow,’ said Prince. ‘It’s the one that let him down against Saldivar. If you could open it up … But watch it. Play safe as much as you can.’

  Godfrey stood up for the fourth round. That fat old crud-face. He’d heard he was outmatched and come to watch him beaten. But how had he heard? … And she was here, pretending she wasn’t interested, pretending not to look, hiding behind that great bladder of lard. Give him one left hook in his guts and he’d burst, spilling his liver and lights like a gutted chicken.

  Circle round Kio. What about the arrangement? What about the ten goddam practice rounds? Let this yellow perisher bring one of his rights up and the fight would be rolled up in four. Curtains for Little God. For crying out loud. He thought maybe Prince was talking sense for once, and he kept shooting out his left as Kio came on, aiming for that eyebrow. The yellow bastard had got no footwork so he should be easy to hit, and he was easy to hit, but he was all shoulders and elbows and gloves and hard black head, and if you once got within reach of his fists …

  A lot of the round had gone and no harm done except this ache in the jaw and your gloves were getting heavy, when Kio feinted to get Godfrey into a corner and side-stepped to meet Godfrey’s side step and aimed a vicious upper cut that Godfrey saw just in time. It missed his bruised jaw and landed on his cheek. When they separated Godfrey felt the blood running down his cheek. It was the first time he’d been really cut in the ring since that eyebrow four years ago. It annoyed him. It riled him to think someone was spilling his blood. If this is what you get with science, let’s try a little scrapping. He went for Kio like a madman.

  If nothing else the sudden attack put Kio right off his stride. In the main Godfrey’s blows hit the protective barrier, but Kio was hustled out of his rhythm, harried by the pressure and forced to retreat, which he always did badly because he was not used to it. His flat-footed footwork could not get him out of trouble quickly enough. He found himself against the ropes, and his piston punches not landing as hard as they should on a wild man who was throwing everything at him.

  They fought it out then against the ropes, and the noise in Godfrey’s ears made him think he was in a mad house. The bell … And the screaming didn’t change at all: it went on all the way back to his seat and after. There wasn’t enough air to get his breath and he needed a pump to shove it in. Flop on his stool, legs straight out, arms dangling; the crowd had gone really wild, was still simmering, murmuring like a pot only just off the boil.

  ‘Great, boy! Great, boy! You’re coming up roses!’ Dabbing his cheek, stopping the blood. The ref had come to peer but passed on. ‘Only a graze you’ve got, nicked the skin, I can fix that. You know me, one of the best cuts men in the business. Take a breather this next round. You really got him rattled, no faking.’ Breather – as if he could get his goddam breath back even lying on his stool. The little yellow bastard had been denting his ribs all through that last blow up, taken its toll. Face dabbed, Vaseline smeared, bottle upended, spit out, massage; oh, to hell, he was ready, the yellow peril couldn’t be feeling in the first flush after what he’d soaked up. Spit the bit of tooth that was on his tong
ue. Fat Angell still staring. Fat Bloody Angel. Big Pearl. Settle with her after this. In with the rubber gum shield. Bell … Wow, his legs were groggy, someone had put lead in his gloves. Take a breather. What about the little Japanese warship? He was coming on just the same.

  They circled, both wary, Kio in command but not wanting to walk into a madman again. He had another much more important fight in three weeks; the bruise on his eyebrow had been treated in the corner but one wanted to avoid any real damage there. It was this round or the next that he would put the upstart out, but this was only number five, there was plenty of time. It all helped him to practise pace and staying power and the way to destroy. Methodically he moved in, shouldering away the punches, nudging them off his body, weaving with his head till he got within range. Godfrey ducked away from the ropes but caught a right hook in the throat that made him choke and splutter. Following up, Kio caught him again, then his head clicked back as one of Godfrey’s lefts got through. It didn’t matter; you took it, you exchanged it; inside at last and quick as light left, right, left to ribs; right, left, right, and again. Upstart was hitting back now; screaming, the crowd was screaming but not for him; British crowd screamed for British boxer. In a minute now they would have nothing more to scream about; Upstart would be out cold. Just missed with that killer right, but two lefts home nicely; Upstart was sagging, backpedalling across ring; no need to hurry, there were only four corners. Catch him this time, feint with your left and feint again, then in with the right, the way he’d finished off Kim See Ko and Matabishi and Joe Oscar and Fernandez Loos. It didn’t work this time. Upstart had stepped inside it, was leaning, not hitting, but leaning. ‘Break.’ Kio pushed him away with both gloves, brushed the thumb glove across his nose, weaved in, boring, shoulders hunched, chin tucked away; a flailing left caught him dead on the nose and stopped him; crowd screamed; in again. Upstart leaning, weight on weight; both trying for ribs. ‘Break.’ Push away, bore in again. One, two, three. A nice right, almost spent, but telling all the same, knocked out Upstart’s gum shield. Lean again, a vicious uppercut just missing; that would have finished the fight. Leaning. ‘Break.’ Upstart, side-stepping, got in two quick lefts; made the crowd happy, but mere taps, there was no strength in them. Lean again. Bell …