Tandia (30 page)
Wisps of early morning mist sat on the surface of the Cherwell as Peekay and Hymie walked across Magdalen bridge. Hymie's car was parked in a small garage he'd rented just behind the grammar school. Despite the pale sunshine, Peekay's blood, still thin from the tropics, made it feel like the dead of winter to him. He was grateful for the fur-lined leather gloves Hymie had tossed him as they'd left their stairs. Peekay had been at Oxford a month and his life had settled into the usual student routine: lectures, tutorials and rather a lot of time spent both in the Radcliffe Camera and the Bodleian Library.
To this had been added a fairly heavy training schedule. Hymie had found a gym on the outskirts of Oxford near the Nuffield car works, where Peekay could work out with two apprentices from the Morris plant, known simply as Bobby and Eddy. Both boxed professionally. One was a middleweight, the other, like Peekay, a welter. They were countrybred, likely lads, fast enough, handy in the ring and very strong. Peekay had sharpened up, getting his timing right by boxing them both together, each taking alternate rounds. Wearing protective headgear, he'd go flat-out for six rounds four times a week.
The two Oxfordshire lads were contracted to spar for five bob a round. To keep them from becoming discouraged, Hymie secretly added a pound bonus if they could put Peekay on the canvas.
After only two weeks of intensive training, despite the heavy protective headgear they wore, Bobby and Eddy quite often found themselves on the seat of their pants in the middle of the ring. Peekay was getting back his form and by the day the appointment with Dutch Holland came around his speed was back; his punches had their old crispness and were probably landing harder. The year he had worked in the mines to build up his strength was beginning to payoff. Neither Hymie nor Peekay was silly enough to think that a good showing against two straight-up-and-down Saturday night club fighters meant they'd get the nod from Dutch Holland, Britain's foremost fight trainer. The great man only worked with amateurs destined for the professional ring and he didn't seem over-anxious to accept the task of turning Peekay into a professional.
For his first appointment with Dutch Holland almost a year ago, Hymie had carefully prepared a portfolio of Peekay's amateur career. Holland had thumbed through this absently and stopped at the last page, which showed a ten-by-eight black-and-white photograph of Peekay in the traditional boxing pose.
'Not a bleedin' mark on him. How many fights did you say he's had, then?'
'One hundred and sixteen. He's hard to hit,' Hymie replied.
A small smile, more a smirk, appeared on Dutch Holland's face. 'Either that or he's been fightin' schoolgirls. I know a coupla lads will be happy to put a dent in that pretty-boy hooter,' he'd said, jabbing a small, pudgy finger at the photograph.
'They won't be the first to try, Mr Holland.'
'We'll see soon enough, lad,' Holland replied, but he'd reluctantly agreed to put Peekay through his paces when he eventually arrived in England.
The Thomas it Becket gym, situated above a pub from which it took its name, was on the south bank of the Thames near Bermondsey docks. Neither the pub nor the gym was open when they arrived half an hour early. A guy wearing a worn cloth cap and a woollen scarf wrapped around his neck and chin was sitting on the third from bottom step leading up to the gym. He was hunched against the cold with his hands under his armpits and looked up as Hymie and Peekay approached.
'You the two toffs the guv's been expectin' then?' It wasn't hard to see he was a pug. He possessed the best pair of cauliflower ears Peekay had ever seen and his nose had been flattened so many times it spread across his face in an arc almost as wide as his mouth. 'Which one of you gents is Mr Levy then?'
Hymie nodded. 'You the caretaker?'
The pug nodded and stood up. 'I hang about for the guv'nor. Don't expect you'll see him till half nine, though. Them two others neither.'
'Two others? The two boxers?' Peekay asked.
'Yeah, them two. I'll open the gym, but I'm warnin' you, freeze the knackers off of a brass monkey up there. By the way, me name's Fred.'
Peekay smiled. 'Nice to meet you, Fred.'
They climbed the outside stairs where Fred fumbled with a set of keys, his hands shaking badly. 'It was the war see, if it hadn't been for the flamin' war I'd a been British champ an' all.' He stopped fumbling with the keys and looked at them. 'Adolf put the kibosh on all that.' He found the key he'd been looking for and, holding it in both hands to steady it, inserted it into the lock. 'Done much fightin' then?' he asked, holding the door for them.
'A fair bit,' Hymie answered. Fred led them past two glass-partitioned offices and into the main area of the gym. 'Shit! This place smells like a wrestler's jockstrap! Can we open the windows please, Fred?'
Fred tapped what remained of his nose with his forefinger. 'That's the one good thing about me hooter, can't smell nothin'! Sorry, guv, them windows is screwed down for the winter.'
'Jesus, Fred, I'm expecting a lady! Can't you get
any
fresh air into this place?'
Fred looked surprised. 'This ain't much of a place for a lady, guv. Not too many ladies come by. Togger's sister sometimes and some of her friends. I'll fetch a chair for her from the guv'nor's office.'
Peekay looked at Hymie. 'What lady?'
'Harriet, she wants to meet you. Remember? I told you she's a sculptorâ¦well, training to be one anyway. She's interested in boxing,' Hymie grinned. 'You know, the human body in its purest form.'
'Jesus, Hymie!'
'You'll like her, Peekay, I promise.'
Peekay sighed. 'I'm shitting myself with the prospect of two of Britain's best welterweights who've been instructed to knock my bloody head off and you decide it's time to show off your girl!'
'Them two welters, one ain't.' Fred interjected suddenly. Both of them turned, having forgotten he was still standing beside them. 'What was that?'
'Them two welters, guv, one's a middle. Turned pro this season.'
Peekay looked at Hymie. 'I thought I was being matched against a couple of welters.'
'Ja, me too.' Hymie said, a mystified look on his face.
'Better wait and see.' He turned to the ex pug. 'Fred, did a parcel come for me? It should have been addressed to the pub downstairs.'
'Yes, Mr Levy, it come yesterday, I put it in the guv'nor's office. Will I fetch it then?'
'Hello! Anyone home?' a female voice called from the door.
'Shit!' Peekay exclaimed, suddenly anxious.
Hymie patted him on the shoulder. 'Cool it,' he whispered,.then he raised his voice cheerily. 'Come in Harriet!' Hymie moved towards the door and Fred followed him, presumably to fetch the parcel or the chairs, but at the same time he removed his cloth cap. The three words spoken by Harriet told him the person at the door was a lady.
In fact, Harriet Clive wouldn't have noticed either way. Her clipped accent, the unconscious product of a good English boarding school, belied a personality in which there was no place for even the slightest pretension. As she walked towards him Peekay saw an attractive girl who wore a brilliant green polo-neck sweater under the ubiquitous blue duffel of the time. Her faded jeans disappeared into a pair of scuffed brown riding boots. She was about three inches shorter than Peekay and by the way she moved towards him Peekay could imagine a nice shape under all that heavy stuff.
Peekay smiled as Harriet approached. She threw her head back slightly and, bringing her right hand up, she brushed her fingers through a mane of chestnut hair. Then she took his hand. 'Hello, I'm Harriet Clive, I've been dying to meet you!'
Peekay's heart pounded against his will. She wasn't beautiful, not even pretty in the conventional sense, but she was unusual looking. Her perfectly ordinary brown eyes were set high above angular cheekbones. Her skin was a very light olive with both her nose and mouth seeming a little too big for an otherwise dainty, heart-shaped face.
'Hello, Harriet. Hymie tells me you're interested in boxing?'
Harriet laughed. 'The human form, rather more. I'm hoping to be a sculptor. I don't know anything about boxing.'
Peekay grinned. 'Why don't you quit while you're ahead?'
He pointed to Fred who had returned carrying two bentwood chairs, one stacked on top of the other. 'As Fred says, not too many ladies come here.'
Harriet looked suddenly concerned. 'Oh? I hope you don't mind my coming?'
It wasn't what Peekay had meant and he blushed. 'No, that's not what I meant, it's nice of you to come.'
'I'll be terribly quiet.'
Harriet hadn't quite known what to expect in Peekay. Hymie had spoken of him so often she had conjured up someone she wasn't quite sure she'd like. Rather too handsome and too good at everything, particularly games. She was beastly at games. In her experience, the strong, goodlooking types usually turned out to be about as interesting as boiled cabbage.
Taking Hymie's deSCriptions of Peekay alone, she'd decided she wasn't looking for that much perfection in a man. In fact she simply wasn't looking. Hymie came down to London reasonably infrequently, so she wasn't obliged to turn it into a grimly serious affair. He was nice to occasionally think about when he wasn't there and nice to be with when he was. Actually, she thought of Hymie as a sort of male protection device. If another man badgered her or became too persistent she could put them off with chat about her brilliant Oxford boyfriend. Brilliant Oxford boyfriends seemed always to do the trick.
Meeting Peekay at last, her preconceptions were confirmed. The lightly tanned skin, the shock of hair just beginning to grow across the forehead, the deep blue eyes, the perfectly straight nose: he looked like he'd been created from a police identification kit. It was a superior face, she decided; not quite pretty, but still the sort of idealised looks which belonged in a Rupert Brooke poem. Peekay looked like the sort who went to Harrow, flew a Spitfire, and secretly harboured a desire to be beaten by someone dressed as his childhood nanny. Finally, she decided, he was much too dull-looking to sculpt.
Harriet had been hoping for a somewhat battered face, interesting because it was still young, yet showed the premature wear and tear of a hundred hard fights. If she were to sculpt him she'd have to concentrate on his body and rearrange his face. While her mind was working on these modifications she looked up, directly into his eyes.
Peekay actually felt as though he had been pushed backwards. Her look was so open, so cool and appraising, it was like the slap of a wet towel. Suddenly his defences, so carefully developed and so easily brought into play, seemed useless. He felt vulnerable and hoped like hell it wasn't showing.
Harriet, having decided her assumptions were correct, now saw something in Peekay's eyes which told her they were not. It was as though she'd walked into a soundless place, for about him was a stillness as if she was standing in the eye of a storm. She felt the need to resist him. She must avoid being alone with him.
Fred placed the two chairs beside the ring. 'Thanks, Fred.' Hymie reached into the change pocket of his trousers. 'Do us a favour, nick down to the caff and get us a couple of bacon-and-egg sandwiches?' He handed the old man a florin and then added another shilling, 'For your trouble.'
Thanks, Mr Levy. Wait on, I'll get your parcel.' He returned a few moments later and handed Hymie a large soft-looking parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. 'I'll be off. Be all right on your own then, Mr Levy?' he asked.
'Yes, thanks, Fred.' Hymie turned to Peekay. 'It's cold in here. Wear a tracksuit when you warm up.'
'What for? I didn't bring one, just a sweatshirt and my old bottoms, like always.'
'Here, catch!' Hymie tossed the parcel to Peekay, who caught it in one hand, bringing it into his chest. 'What's this?'
'Open it. No don't! Open it in the change room. As my mom would say, health to wear!'
PeekaY,excused himself and, picking up his bag, walked towards a door at the far end of the gym. On the left-hand side of the door was written the word 'Change'; on the right, the word 'Room' hadn't been added. It was as though the signwriter had taken himself off for a drink in the pub downstairs and never returned to complete the job.
The room contained a single shower, a toilet with the door removed, sundry benches along the walls and one which ran down the centre. Peekay was assailed by the damp smell of soap, stale sweat and dirty wet towels. He sat on the centre bench and tore open Hymie's parcel. The label on the outside read 'Lillywhites'. Inside was a bright blue tracksuit.
He unfolded the tracksuit top and what he saw took a moment to sink in. Embroidered in yellow silk thread on the back of the tracksuit were the words, 'The Tadpole Angel'.
Levy, you bastard!, he thought. You can't be serious! All that stuff was over, left behind in South Africa. They'd not even discussed it since his arrival in England. Hymie couldn't possibly want him to fight as the Tadpole Angel again.
Suddenly angry, Peekay hurled the tracksuit top against the wall and made for the door. Then he realised he'd be making a scene in front of Harriet. He retrieved the top and started to undress. He'd sort it out with Hymie later; now it was time that he started to concentrate on the business they'd come for. The tracksuit and the girl had left him distracted; he must get his mind on the bout.