Faded Glory Page 6

  They sometimes talked of getting engaged.

  “You could be my fiancé,” Wendy would sigh, and Danny would choke and laugh and warn her off ever calling him something so poofy.

  Mr and Mrs Bristow, together with Rosie, were both of the opinion that Danny and Wendy were too young. But it didn’t stop the young couple from dreaming. They talked about weddings, and a family in the future maybe, and where they would like to live. Chigwell seemed top of Wendy’s list.

  The riches, fame and glory that his new career could bring him shone like a light at the end of a long dark tunnel. Danny wanted it all and more. But at the same time, he had a true passion for the sport, and an even stronger wish to be remembered as a good fighter, just as Albert was.

  On the evening before any contest, Danny had now developed a sensible regime. He would spend a quiet night in, collect his thoughts and try to relax. Tonight he had a fight in Peckham. Thankfully Rosie had gone away for the weekend, for a short break in Southend. Danny wasn’t really sure who she was with. Ricky or Ted, most likely. He felt the usual nervous anxiety, but there was a different feeling tonight. A feeling of wanting to prove his commitment, take the next step up the career ladder. After a good night’s sleep, he set off on his daily run along the road to the park. These days he had proper running shoes, kindly donated by Lenny. As he pounded the streets, he went through the instructions and tactics for the fight, making meticulous preparations over and over in his head.

  Albert was on his way out of the park after his morning duck feed.

  The two friends met by the park’s red and green bandstand.

  “All right, son?” said Albert.

  Things were indeed all right, thanks in many ways to his unlikely friend and mentor. Danny felt the need to thank Albert for all he had done, and reassure him that he was serious about his boxing career. But Danny wasn’t sure how to put his gratitude into words. He didn’t want to sound like a softy. Knowing Albert and his dislike of sentimentality, he settled for a less potentially embarrassing, more general conversation.

  “So, how do you think I’m doing?” he asked as they sat side by side on the park bench.

  “You’re doing good.”

  There followed the kind of comfortable silence that is perfectly fine between friends. After a few minutes, Albert broke it.

  “You’re a special fighter, Danny. All right, you let yourself down on your second fight, but I’ve seen hundreds of would-be champions, boys who never had the skill and the attitude needed to make it. You have the skill and the attitude. You just gotta believe, that’s all.”

  Danny felt indescribably moved by Albert’s words. They meant a lot to him. “Right,” said Albert, standing up. “I’d better get going.”

  Danny called as Albert walked off. “See you later.”

  Albert bent down to pick up a piece of stray litter and put it in a nearby bin. Danny smiled at Albert’s love and care of his park. He’d wanted to say so much more to thank Albert for guiding him to this new horizon, but when they’d been sat side by side, the words hadn’t come out.

  “Thank you, Albert,” Danny whispered now as his mentor moved on across the park, dead-heading dying roses as he went. “Thank you.”

  *

  As the sun went down behind the ships and dormant cranes in the early evening, Danny made his way to the battleground, alone as usual. It was the best way to do it. With just himself for company, he could focus more on the job in hand. The distraction of small talk, or indeed any talk, would be a nuisance.

  On top of the bus to Peckham, he visualised the fight, the tactics. Patsy had been on at him to keep his guard up as lately, in training, he had started to let his hands drop. The burly Irishman had also reminded him to concentrate on moving; to box, not brawl.

  “Show your natural gift as a boxer,” he’d said. “And make sure you avoid getting drawn into a toe-to-toe slogging match.”

  Reaching the hall, Danny found his way to the changing rooms. Most of the West Ham boys were already there.

  “All right, Danny?”

  “How’s it going?”

  Danny felt strengthened by their presence, like he always did. They were a strong and close unit. Being part of a winning team and training side by side brought them all closer. It was almost a brotherhood.

  Patsy was nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s not too happy with the way the temporary ring has been erected,” Elijah told Danny when he asked. “He reckons it’s loose or something.”

  “A bit like your arse Elijah!” said someone else, to a burst of laughter.

  The door burst open and an irate Patsy came storming in.

  “Bloody amateurs,” he snarled. “What a piss hole. Everyone here? Danny? Good lads, listen up. Peckham has some dangerous fighters, but there’s none more dangerous than our Danny’s opponent tonight, the toast of South London, Billy Anderson.”

  The West Ham boys hissed. Anderson had an enthusiastic following and a really impressive record of twenty-six wins, including eight knock-outs and just one loss. And this was only the beginning of his career.

  “The boy is a scrapper, not a boxer,” Patsy continued, fixing Danny with his gaze. “If he catches you, you will know it.”

  Danny knew all about Billy Anderson. He listened carefully as Patsy outlined the tactics for the fight once again.

  Wendy wasn’t coming tonight, as over the last few days she’d been feeling sick. Danny had told her to stay at home and not to worry, he would be fine. But it was still good to see Albert and Lenny arrive to support him. They felt like family these days.

  “Looking good tonight, Danny!” Lenny said cheerfully. “That Peckham lad ain’t got a hope!”

  Danny’s bout was second on the bill. With Lenny’s words of encouragement ringing in his ears, he made his way to the ring with Patsy and Albert at his side.

  “Jab and move, Danny,” was Albert’s advice as the crowd cheered and crowded around. “Out-box him, don’t get involved in a street fight.”

  “Yeah, out-box him, son,” Patsy agreed. “You’re the better boxer, keep your distance.”

  Danny could still hear Albert’s stinging rebuke from all those years ago, when he’d lost to the Dagenham first-timer through stupidity and over-confidence. Don’t you ever take for granted that you’re gonna win a fight. You must always, always respect your opponent. It had been a humiliating defeat that had hurt Danny badly, and one he was determined never to repeat.

  When Anderson arrived in the ring, it was clear that he was the local crowd’s Big White Hope. There had been a lot of talk in recent weeks about him turning professional. He was the hot shot, and Danny, for all his growing reputation, was the underdog.

  Anderson seemed to have muscles on his muscles, and Danny could sense his aggression. Tonight, Danny was far from over-confident, and his nerves were raw.

  “Seconds out! Round one!”

  Just as Patsy had warned, Anderson came out with a vengeance. Danny tried to box, to keep his distance, but the fury of his opponent was intense. He managed to avoid some of the more telegraphed, windmill-type punches, but was caught by a body shot that winded him badly and brought home the vicious power of Anderson’s punch.

  Round one went to Anderson, the Peckham boy.

  “Keep out of trouble, lad,” Patsy barked, back in Danny’s corner.

  “You’re doing OK,” Albert encouraged. “Keep moving, jab and move!”

  The bell went for round two. Anderson, buoyed by the winning first round, came out like a Tasmanian devil, aiming for the kill, spurred on by a partisan crowd baying for blood.

  Danny tried hard to follow his corner’s advice, but when three vicious blows landed on his head guard and chin, his knees started to buckle.

  Dimly he heard Patsy yelling.

  “Get your guard up, Danny!” Patsy yelled as a right to the ribs winded Danny again. The referee was looking anxious and on the verge of stopping the fight. If the fight stopped, the contes
t would be awarded to his opponent. Danny felt a slow, burning anger as he lifted his gloves. He’d had enough of being a punch bag. It was now or never.

  With a power he had not shown before, he summoned all his energy and began to fight back.

  “Box him, Danny!” Patsy shouted. “Box him!”

  But Danny wasn’t listening. If Anderson wanted a street fight, he was going to get one.

  From back-pedalling, he now moved forward on the offensive. Toe to toe with his opponent, sweat and blood covering his face, his fast hands started to push Anderson back. The crowd sensed the battle was on. In a way, the gloves were off.

  The two men fought as if their lives depended on it. Blow after blow, both boxers giving as good as they got. Danny fought on grimly. His punches were landing more accurately than Anderson’s manic onslaught.

  The mood in the hall began to change. Before Danny started bringing the fight to Anderson, the local crowd had thought that their boy was going to be the easy winner. But Danny had other ideas, and they could sense it.

  “Box!” Patsy screamed. “Don’t brawl!”

  “Keep going, Danny!” shouted Lenny. “Keep landing them punches!”

  Danny was matching Anderson’s aggression punch for punch. Patsy threw his hands in the air. This was a powerhouse of a fight rarely seen in the amateur boxing world, and the crowd loved it.

  Anderson was in retreat, backing off for safety, when a right hook from Danny caught him like a hammer blow, smack on the chin, visibly shaking him. Sensing his moment, with a left and a powerful right Danny sent Anderson crashing through the ropes and into the crowd.

  Anderson wasn’t the only thing giving up the fight. The ring was collapsing too. Danny grabbed for the ropes as the structure fell apart beneath his feet. Anderson was out cold, sprawled across the laps of two front-row punters, as chaos descended. The referee gave up trying to call for order and went to consult with the judges. After a brief and confused conversation, the referee waved his arms.

  “Draw!” he yelled. “In the circumstances, we call a draw!”

  Albert, Patsy and Lenny went ballistic. Even the local crowd were booing the decision. Danny had clearly won, well before the ring had collapsed. After giving his all, fighting the kind of fight Anderson had wanted and beating him, Danny had been cheated.

  The travesty of justice left a bad taste in his mouth.

  *

  “We should demand a return match,” Albert said, angrily pacing in the changing rooms as the officials did their best to reassemble the ring for the rest of the bill.

  “Cheating bastards,” said Lenny.

  “Told you this was a piss hole,” Patsy said.

  “Next time you’ll beat him,” Albert swore, lifting Danny’s chin up to look the dejected boy in the eye. “Don’t worry, son, you’ll get your revenge.”

  As a semblance of calm began to settle, the door was suddenly pushed open and the smell of aftershave lotion wafted in. Albert narrowed his eyes at the two well-groomed newcomers in mohair suits who had waltzed in unannounced.

  “Who the bloody ’ell are you?” he said.

  The men looked around the changing room like they owned the place.

  “The name’s Costa,” said the taller of the two, producing a business card. No one moved to take it. “Tommy Costa. And this here is my business partner Jack Cohen.”

  “No one asked you in here,” said Albert.

  “Steady, old fella,” Costa replied. “You don’t want to have a heart attack. Who are you anyway?”

  “This man is the ex-army middleweight champion, Albert Kemp,” Lenny bit out, “and you need to show some bloody respect.”

  “What do you two want?” Albert said bluntly.

  Cohen looked at Albert with a slightly patronising smile. “Nice fighter you have there Albie boy,” he said.

  “Good-looking boy too,” said Costa, his eyes lingering on Danny. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

  Cohen smiled, showing sharp little teeth. “Now, I’m sure you want the best for the boy,” he said.

  “The best for the boy,” echoed Costa.

  “He needs proper management,” Cohen continued.

  “Someone to nurture, to care,” added Costa.

  Albert was reminded of a comedy double act, but not a very funny one.

  “Someone to open doors,” Cohen went on.

  “Get him the right fights,” Costa put in.

  Costa’s eyes glinted. “Perhaps get him a shot at a professional title.”

  “And is that you, Albert?” said Cohen, a little too close to Albert’s face for comfort.

  Cohen was wearing a grey well-tailored suit, pink tie, striped shirt and what seemed to be a gold ring on every finger. The straight man, serious, perpetually glum, with very black hair, greased and swept severely back.

  He spoke quickly and sharply with an almost middle-class accent. Tommy Costa looked like a Greek Cypriot, with a five o’clock shadow, long curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows and big brown eyes. His black mohair suit would have fitted fine, if Tommy had not put on a few pounds living the good life. More casual than Cohen, he wore an open-neck white shirt and a pair of very shiny Cuban-heel boots.

  “Why don’t you call him over,” suggested Costa now, his eyes flicking towards Danny. “So we can have a little chat?”

  “Go get changed, Danny,” said Albert, not taking his eyes off Costa and Cohen. “Len? Patsy? Look after the boy.”

  “It’s all about you, ain’t it Albie?” said Costa.

  “Standing in the way of a young man’s dream,” said Cohen.

  The men pushed past Albert and headed for Danny. Lenny and Patsy hovered uncertainly.

  “Danny boy,” said Cohen. “Allow me to present my card.”

  Albert gritted his teeth as a bewildered Danny took the business card from Cohen’s fingers.

  “He did well Tony, didn’t he?” said Cohen. “Came back strong.”

  “Yes Jack, a brave boy,” confirmed Costa.

  “We have been watching you, Danny,” said Cohen.

  “Like a hawk,” Costa put in. “We think, if you have the right people around you, you could have a future.”

  Danny glanced at Albert. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’ve already got the right people around me.”

  Patsy stepped up to Cohen, nose to nose.

  “I think you should leave now,” he said. “The boy’s tired. Leave it to another day.”

  “We can open doors for you, Danny,” said Cohen, ignoring Patsy.

  Albert didn’t like what he was seeing and hearing.

  “There’s a door over there you can open,” he said. “Just close it after you piss off.”

  Cohen smiled. “Steady there, Albie,” he said.

  “Just saying hello, that’s all,” said Costa, with a smile that revealed a prominent gold tooth.

  Cohen hadn’t taken his eyes off Danny. “I’m sure you think you’re in good hands, Danny,” he said, “but if you need a little help, give us a call.”

  As the door closed, everyone breathed again.

  “You wanna stay away from people like that, Danny,” said Patsy, shaking his head.

  “Like I said, I’ve got a good team,” Danny said, and he smiled at Albert as he spoke. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  The tension in Albert’s shoulders eased a little. “I’ve heard their names, Pat, but I’ve never seen ’em,” he said, turning to the stocky Irishman. “They’ve got a bit of a reputation, ain’t they?”

  “Dangerous, the pair of ’em,” Patsy confirmed. “And I’ve heard that Costa fella is one of those sausage jockeys.”

  “Blimey,” was all that Albert could think of as a reply.

  He sat down on the slatted bench in the changing room. Jack Cohen had come across as a shifty chancer. Costa seemed more gregarious, more outgoing than his partner, but his overpowering personality and buckets full of smarm, in some ways, made him that bit more worrying.

>   Not that Albert was worried. He’d seen their type before. They took kindness for weakness, used lies for truth and bullying for strength. Danny wouldn’t go near them. He was too bright for that.

  *

  Danny had planned to stick around and watch the rest of the fights. However, his own traumatic fight and decision, plus the downbeat mood in the changing room, saw him heading off to Wendy’s instead to try and lift his mood.

  At the bus stop, Danny thought about the meeting with Cohen and Costa. He had kept their card, and for the first time, he now took it out of his pocket and read it.

  Cohen & Costa Boxing Promotions and Management. Promoters that Pack a Punch!

  “Promoters that Pack a Punch,” Danny repeated to himself. It had a certain ring.

  His first thought was to deposit the card in a nearby rubbish bin. After all, he already had his team, his boxing family. Why would he need this pair? But, something stopped him. Not really knowing why, he put the card back in his pocket.

  There was now a growing queue at the bus stop. Several men clustered round him.

  “Well done, son,” said one.

  “You was robbed,” said another. “You won that fight.”

  The memory of the injustice still hurt. “Yeah,” said Danny, shaking the hands that were offered. “Nothing I can do about it though, is there?”

  The trolley bus arrived, its two long pole-like arms sparking and clinging to the electric cables overhead. Too often, the arms of the buses became unattached, and a man would have to come to the rescue with a very long pole to re-attach them. The first time it happened, Danny had been a boy travelling on the bus with his mum.

  “Is he called a pole vaulter?” he’d wanted to know.

  Rosie hadn’t bothered to answer.

  This bus seemed to be behaving itself. Danny went upstairs and found a seat by the window. Watching the streets, shops and houses pass slowly by, he reflected on the night’s events. It was seven years since he’d first taken up boxing. Seven long years. It was crazy still to be fighting at an amateur level. Maybe these Costa and Cohen characters could help him get paid, become a professional. It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  His body was still aching from the brutal fight, but all of a sudden Danny felt elated and couldn’t wait to tell Wendy about the evening. He had won that fight after all, albeit with one eye bruised and practically closed. He might not look like the victor, but he was. And maybe in more ways than one.