Читать книгу Blood Line: Sometimes Tragedy Is in Your Blood - Julie Shaw, Julie Shaw - Страница 12

1932

Charlie was a handsome boy. Everybody said so, especially the women. And he knew it, too. He’d heard it said often enough.

‘Ooh, your Charlie’s gonna be a heartbreaker!’ he’d hear them say to his mam. ‘Ooh, look at those eyes of his!’ they’d coo. ‘Look at that lovely head of hair!’ Then they’d ruffle it and mess it up, which annoyed him.

His hair was black, like his dad’s. His eyes were greeny-blue, like his mam’s. He’d look at himself in the chipped bit of mirror propped above the basin in the scullery, and he’d wonder what it was about his face that was so special. Because it clearly was. The girls in school were always trying to hug and kiss him, and if he rewarded them with a smile they’d squeal in delight.

It was different with the men, and especially with his father, who didn’t seem to trust him. Charlie never understood what it was that his dad disliked about him – was it because he wasn’t Frank? The baby that had come before and died? He didn’t know, but he felt it and it stung. Reggie either completely ignored him – sometimes it was like he didn’t even exist – or he’d pay him rather more attention than made Charlie strictly comfortable, always trying to catch him out doing something wrong, so he could give him a thump or a whack with his leather belt.

‘A sneaky bugger.’ Charlie had heard his dad call him that once. Which had hurt him, because he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. But it had been all right, because he’d said it to his mam, and she’d given him hell for it. She always did. She was like an animal – his protector, was how he always thought of it. Oh, if she copped his dad giving him the belt for no reason she’d lay into him good and proper, would his mam.

As well as waiting on at the Punch Bowl, which he’d done ever since Charlie could remember, his dad earned a few bob from boxing. He’d do it at the Spicer Street Club, where, unbeknown to the police, they would throw open their back doors and happily host a fight – and between anyone who thought they could throw a punch. It was a nice earner for the landlord, because he’d take bets from the crowd, providing a pot to be shared between him and the winner.

Much as he disliked his father, Charlie loved being taken to watch a fight with him. Boxing was in his blood, and it enthralled him. For as long as he could remember he had watched his dad training in the back yard, punching away at a huge home-made punch bag that was hung from an enormous hook fixed into the house wall. Charlie had even watched his mam make it; it was actually a coal sack that she’d filled with pieces of old lino that had been scraped up, bit by bit, from his grandmother’s kitchen floor.

Charlie trained too. He’d begun when he was three. The linoleum in the sack hurt his knuckles like mad, but he’d soon worked out that it was the one time when his dad would give him his time, so if he’d had his way he’d have punched away all day.

And boxing was the one thing that made his dad proud of him. Never prouder than when he heard Reggie telling his mam, ‘That kid’s gonna be the next Jack Dempsey’.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Annie said now, pulling pins from her hair. ‘You should have been in half an hour back. We’re in a hurry. We’re off to Spicer Street. Your dad’s taking on Billy Brennan today and it’s worth a lot of money.’

It was a Friday afternoon and Charlie was just home from school. He was tired – no matter how long his legs got, the three-mile walk was never less than punishing come a Friday – but this was the best news he’d had all day.

‘I met some mates and we had a kick around,’ he said by way of explanation, lingering for a moment to watch his mam doing her hair. It was black like his and his dad’s but soft where theirs was wiry, and he loved watching her doing it, seeing how she magically made it change, sliding the pins out that she’d put in the night before, in tight little crosses, to reveal curls that would spring out and fall onto her shoulders in big lazy S shapes. He thought she was beautiful and he was glad when people said they could see her in him. She was like a movie star, especially when she put petroleum jelly on her eyebrows. It made her look like that actress Greta Garbo.

‘D’ya think me dad will win, Mam?’ he asked her now.

She grinned. ‘He better do, son,’ she said, pulling her pink cardigan over her shoulders. ‘I’ve got all my mates betting on him. Now go on, go upstairs and get changed, then come back down and wash your face. We have to go.’

Charlie ran upstairs. He’d been the last one home, he knew, but, bar his mam, the house was empty. His big sister Margaret would have taken the rest off to the park, and she’d be giving them their bread and jam after as well. He had lots of brothers and sisters now – they seemed to keep arriving all the time. As well as Margaret, there was young Reggie, who was eight now, and Eunice, who was five, then two-year old Ronnie and little Annie who was still a baby. There was another one coming too, but not till next year, his mam had told him. And he was glad it wasn’t yet, because he didn’t know where they’d fit. His gran always said there was no room to swing a cat in their house, and he agreed. They were all packed in just like sardines.

But this afternoon was his, and as he ran into the bedroom he felt a familiar sense of excited anticipation. When Reggie was nine he’d be allowed to come too, but for the moment, at least, going to the boxing was Charlie’s treat alone.

And as he pulled off his jumper, he also had a brain wave. The week before, he had earned a small fortune – a whole thruppence – for running betting slips around the estate for Mr Cappovanni. Mr Cappovanni was a bookie and his family came from Italy, and Charlie had done work for him for a while now.

Not that he let on quite how much he’d been getting. No, he usually hid it, where it was out of harm’s reach, on this occasion inside a rip in the mattress upstairs. His dad only earned a pound and 12 shillings at the Punch Bowl, so Charlie knew if he knew about it he’d be after getting his hands on it, so he could blow it on beer for him and Annie. So Charlie constantly came up with new places to hide his earnings so he could be sure they’d still be there when he went to find them.

Today, Charlie had a plan for those hard-earned three pennies. He’d use them to place a secret bet with Mr Cappovanni on Billy Brennan. He’d heard about him – heard things that hardly anyone else knew. That, for all his front, Billy Brennan was barely managing to keep his family from starving – so Charlie knew he had an awful lot to fight for. Reggie, on the other hand, was just in it for the booze. His dad was good, yes, but this fight was really no contest, not as far as Charlie was concerned.

He finished changing and turned his attention to retrieving the money. The kids’ bedroom was one of only two in the house, and in this one you probably couldn’t even swing a rat. Not that there was a bed in it; just an old mattress which almost filled the room, set directly on the floor and on which all of the children had to sleep. It stank – of sweat and piss, and other even more revolting things, and was covered in coats, pullovers and scraps of material.

Charlie was lucky, though. He and young Reg, being the oldest boys, at least had an outside edge apiece. Margaret would squeeze up next to Reggie – though she’d often get out and sleep on the floor instead – and all the younger ones ended up in the middle. Here they could piss away all night if they wanted to, because they only got it all over each other.

Charlie held his breath as he glanced at the sunken middle bit of the bed now. Sodden and stinking, it was also crawling with maggots; something he tried hard not to think about at night, but couldn’t escape being reminded of now. He carefully retrieved his savings from the hole in the side and then ran out of the room and back downstairs to scrub his face clean at the kitchen sink.

Annie was waiting in the hallway for him once he was done, and she smiled. ‘Ahh,’ she said, kissing the top of his head, ‘you are a bonnie lad when you’re nice and clean, Charlie Hudson. You, er, wouldn’t happen to have a spare bob or two for your mam, would you, son?’

Charlie smiled back at her, feigning innocence with ease. ‘No, Mam,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Mr Cappovanni lost money this week. I might get summat next week, though, if I work hard.’

He didn’t feel guilty deceiving her. Not on this occasion anyway. His mam would only have used it to bet on his dad, and as far as he was concerned old Reggie boy was going to take a tumble.

Knowing the pennies were in his pocket put a spring in Charlie’s step as he walked with his mam down the street, past the big mill and then across the fields to the club. Cappovanni would definitely be going to the fight, he knew, and that was good because he’d be sure to keep the bet a secret. Billy Brennan was the underdog and when he took his dad down – which he would – Charlie would be in for a tidy profit. Which felt fair, too. He worked very hard for Cappovanni and he knew his employer was proud of him. Proud that he always kept his mouth shut, and also proud that he knew everything about everyone on the large estate where they lived.

The back room of the club was already full of people when he and his mam arrived, thick with smoke, and with a rumble of excitement in the air. It was 5 p.m. now and the fight was due to start soon – it had to be, so it could be all over and done with by the time the club officially opened at seven. He couldn’t see his dad, but knew he was probably limbering up in the toilets – that’s where the fighters went to change into their shorts. He could, however, see Mr Cappovanni. He was moving among the people, looking like any other person, but Charlie, who knew what to look out for in such matters, knew he was discreetly taking bets.

He’d followed his mam to the bar, and now tugged at her sleeve. ‘Mam, is it okay if I go talk to Mr Cappovanni?’ he asked Annie.

She ordered herself a gill of beer before turning to him. ‘Yes, go on then,’ she said, ‘but, Charlie, you be careful, son. That fellow breaks legs to them that owe him. If anything starts, I want you right back with me, you hear?’

Charlie promised he would, then ran off towards his mentor. His dad might have taught him all he knew about boxing, but Mr Cappovanni knew about all sorts of other, more interesting things, like running books, protection rackets, extortion. And as far as Charlie was concerned these were the things you really needed to know about, and Mr Cappovanni was the man from whom he’d learn them.

‘Can you put this on Billy for me, Mr Cappovanni?’ Charlie whispered as he got near enough. ‘Only don’t tell me mam or dad, will you?’

He slipped the pennies into the bookie’s dark, wrinkled hand and watched as his fingers closed over them.

Cappovanni was in his mid-fifties, and though nobody knew for sure, it was generally assumed he had a connection with the Mafia. This alone seemed to be enough to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, and whether it was true or not, there was no doubt he was a force to be reckoned with; where the Depression kept the rest of the country in poverty and rags, Albert Cappovanni had risen to the top – like a great beast rising from a sea of grime.

He stared hard at Charlie for a moment, skewering him under his gaze. Then laughed out loud. ‘My, my, kiddo,’ he said, ‘I’ll make a man out of you yet! And don’t worry,’ he added under his breath, ‘I’ll keep it quiet, son, but one thing.’ His eyes narrowed and he leaned down towards Charlie. ‘Don’t you go telling anyone else you’ve gone against your old man, will you? Or I’ll have to alter my odds. My old lady’ll have me guts for garters if I don’t go home on top.’

Which was something Charlie couldn’t imagine Mr Cappovanni’s wife ever doing, but he promised he wouldn’t and scampered happily back to his mam.

The fight was due to start very soon after. The club was heaving now, the air tinged with blue from all the pipe smoke and from those lighting up Players Navy cigarettes. The men had formed a ring now around Reggie and Billy, while the few women that were there hung back and chatted by the bar. This obviously included his mam, so Charlie was free to enjoy the fight, even more so when Mr Cappovanni scooped him up and gave him the perfect vantage point sitting on his shoulders. From here he’d cheer for his dad, obviously, shouting along with all his mates, but all the while hoping his long shot would pay off. Which to his mind wasn’t even that much of a long shot. His dad might be the favourite, but Charlie was sharp. He had eyes and ears and the reason he knew about Billy Brennan was because he never wasted an opportunity to use them.

It was exciting but at the same time sometimes difficult to watch. It was his dad, after all, and this was a bare-knuckle fight. They always were. Gloves and padding were generally considered to be for sissies, so blood, snot and spit splatters were the norm, and he winced as he watched the blows raining down, as the two men pummelled the life out of each other.

He took careful note though and, as each round ended – with the ringing of a bell – he made a mental note of the way things were going. And it soon became clear that his dad wasn’t going to win. Billy Brennan, as Charlie’d anticipated, was like a raging animal in the impromptu ring, screaming and running at Reggie as if protecting his young, which, in a way, was what he was there to do. And though Reggie tried to mirror every punch, and often succeeded, he was never going to be a match for a desperate starving man. The fight was all over in 20 minutes.

As Charlie’s dad threw the towel in Charlie himself glanced around, and it was clear most of the bets had been on Reggie. Most of the onlookers looked as defeated as the fighter they’d backed, throwing down their chitties and grumbling to each other. Not that anyone would say a word to Charlie’s dad. They wouldn’t dare. His adrenalin still pumping, Reggie always had a punch in reserve for after a fight, and it would still be in his blood when they got home as well. A good time to do a disappearing act, Charlie thought.

After watching his parents sink a few more morose gills, Charlie was glad when it was time to go home. He’d done well – he’d won a shilling – turned his three pennies into 12, all thanks to his bet with Mr Cappovanni, though it was money he’d not have to worry about hiding; he’d have it off him at a more sensible time. But there would be a price to pay for his dad’s loss, even though it wasn’t him that was responsible, and as they walked up the path he could tell even without looking that his mam would be watching his dad, trying to gauge his mood.

He glanced up to see Margaret peering hopefully out of the window, knowing she’d work it out for herself even before he shook his head. It was the same every time his dad had a fight, always had been. If he won, they’d be linking arms, giggling and stupid – blind drunk, the pair of them, but in a good way. Those times the kids would all get a treat, too. If he lost, though, they would still be blind drunk, but scowling at each other and usually arguing all the way home. The kids knew there’d be no treat on those occasions.

This was one of those occasions. ‘Why are you all still up?’ Reggie roared as he staggered into the front room. He lunged at Margaret and tried to grab her but she ducked. ‘Come here, you little get!’ he yelled. ‘I hope you’ve made us some tea, girl – and get these bleeding nippers up to bed!’

Margaret kept her composure. She always did. Charlie imagined she always would. ‘There’s some dripping in the back room, dad,’ she said, ‘and some tea on the range. Shall I get you some?’ she ventured, trying to pacify him.

Annie, being drunk, was less civilised. ‘Oh, so you’re a big man now, are you, Reggie Hudson? Not so bloody big in the club, were you? Don’t you dare take it out on these children!’

Reggie spun round and landed a slap on the side of Annie’s head. ‘Keep it shut, Annie, I’m warning you,’ he growled. ‘You’re a wicked woman. Always was, always will be.’

Annie drew herself up, just as she always did, and Charlie knew what was coming. ‘I promise you on my life, Reggie, I’ll leave you, I will! I’ll pack my things and take the kids and go back to my mother’s. I’m not standing for this every bloody week.’

Charlie’s heart sank. He knew what was coming next as well. As did the others. You could see it on their faces. Little Eunice quickly scooped up baby Annie and backed away towards the fireplace. ‘It’s all right, Dada,’ she said. ‘We’ll be good an’ we’ll all go to bed now. Look, Dada – our little Annie is smiling at you.’

‘No!’ Reggie yelled, glaring at Annie. ‘It’s bloody not all right! Come on, the lot of you, line up. Your mother is leaving, is she? Well, let’s just see, eh? Come on – you too, Charlie. You get over here right now. Right. One at a time, then. Come on,’ he roared. ‘Who are you going to live with?’

It was the same almost every weekend. Were they going to pick him or were they going to pick her? Too much beer and not enough to eat – that was what Agnes next door always used to say. All this nonsense for a bit of bread. And she should know, Charlie thought miserably, as he took his place in line. She heard every word, every time.

The outcome never differed, either. The young ones would cry and refuse to answer, which would only make their father worse; he’d take his belt off and would wave it around, sometimes clipping one or two of them, threatening them with it till they’d all made their choice. And between them, the kids tried their best to make it fair. One by one, they’d alternate, half choosing Annie, the other Reggie, but whatever they did, and whoever they chose, it still earned all of them a crack. Still saw them sent off to bed without any supper. And in Charlie’s case, without any tea either.

‘Stop that snivelling,’ Charlie ordered as his brothers and sisters clambered across the freezing cold mattress. ‘It’ll do you no good and it won’t get you any supper either. Listen,’ he added, lowering his voice, just in case the rowing downstairs stopped, ‘I’ve earned some wages tonight, so if you shut up and be good, I’ll get you all some sugar and cocoa tomorrow.’

The grins on his siblings’ faces felt like riches to Charlie. Even Margaret smiled – something she didn’t do often, especially when her mam and dad started up the way they had. Charlie felt happier now. Tomorrow, like he’d promised, he’d treat them – make them all cones out of some folded-up bits of newspaper, share the spoils and watch them lick their fingers in and dip to their hearts’ content.

Then tonight, just like always, would be forgotten.