Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  “Not necessarily. You might be fined, I suppose. Do you mean you suffer from agoraphobia?”

  “Ah. Gimme a boxin’ ring wiv ropes all rahnd, and I’m all right. Gimme a room full of people—all right again. But, do you know what? I couldn’t even play football, mate, not if vere was trees, like in the park. Drive me rahnd the bleedin’ bend it would. But I signed the pipers, see? I reckon vey got me tied up proper. Not as I’d mind goin’ to quod s’long as vey shoved me in a cell and let me stay vere. But if vey was to put me choppin’ dahn trees—well, I see a picture of it once and, do you know what, mate? All me bleedin’ dinner come up.”

  “Is Gorinsky the chap with the Koh-i-Noor diamond on his tie and the signet ring like a headlamp?”

  “Ah. ’E’s me manager.”

  “Doesn’t he understand how you feel about open spaces? I mean, agoraphobia is a very real thing. More people have claustrophobia, though, I believe. I suffer a bit from that myself. Some claustrophobics would go mad if you put them inside a boxing ring, I expect, but they’re quite at home on the wide open spaces. Your trouble is just the opposite, but it can be a very horrifying thing.”

  “Say, what are vese fobies, mate?”

  “Well, it’s like these people who can’t stand a cat in the room. It’s not that they’re afraid of cats, but they have a sort of mental allergy to them, just as some people have a physical allergy to certain substances and have asthma or come out in spots if they get into contact with them.”

  “You got a fair gift of the gab, mate. Wonderful.”

  “Thanks. Look here, I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of road-work myself. How would it be if I ran with you sometimes?”

  “Mate, you got sympafy. Now the on’y one of vem over vere what got sympafy is ’Arry. ’E’s the one in the ‘ard ’at. But vey don’t take no notice of ’im. ’E’s me sparrin’ partner and ’e’s got sympafy wiv me foby ’cos I don’t never ’it ’im too ’ard, see? ’Cos ’e can’t take it no more, see? ’E’s pushin’ fifty, ’Arry is, and ’e’s punch-drunk, see, and ’e can’t take it, so I goes light, see, ’cos I got sympafy, too. We bofe got sympafy wiv each uvver. It’s a very beautiful fing, sympafy is.”

  “Lunch is served upstairs, gentlemen,” said the landlord, returning to the bar after a short absence which had gone unnoticed by the two young men at the table.

  “Come on, Rocky. Grub up,” said the flashy individual. “Send up a couple of quarts in jugs, landlord, and a double Scotch for me and barley water for the Moonrocket Kid.” He led the way out and, with a final bellow of “Come on, Kid,” from the ape, the older men left the bar.

  “See you later, then,” said Toby.

  “Barley water!” said the Moonrocket Kid in sepulchral tones. “I say, mate, do me a favour. You don’t mind, do you? I’m dyin’ of first.” He seized Toby’s tankard and drained it. “Fanks a lot, mate. Saved me bleedin’ life!”

  “You’re welcome,” said Toby. He took the empty vessel over to the bar as the youth walked out in the wake of his companions. “What’s all this in aid of, Mr. Smetton?” he asked, as the landlord, setting aside the tankard, filled a fresh one and pushed it across.

  “Training camp,” replied the landlord. “Don’t know the parties, and I’m blowed if I know whether I want them here or not, but you don’t turn good money away this time of year, if you can help it. Mother says she seen you had visitors too, Mr. Sparowe.”

  “Yes. Never saw them in my life before, though. Odd couple of bods. Wanted me to write a play for them about William Heathcote.”

  “A play, eh? I’ve heard there’s nice money in plays.”

  “Well, there won’t be—in this one. They wanted a complete botch-up of the life-story, with about as much solid fact in it as in one of the historical dramas in the days of the silent films. But do you mean that that mob are actually staying here? I didn’t know you ever took in guests who were going to want bedrooms and full board.”

  “Neither we do, not as a rule, but they reckon to be gone by the twentieth of next month. I told them I couldn’t keep them once March was out. They wanted a big room where they could put up a portable ring, and somewhere to hang a punching bag, and so on. Well, there’s that first-floor room where we’re licensed for dances, and that’s a white elephant, anyway. I’ve been landlord here nearly five years, and all that time I’ve had just two bookings for it. We’re off the map, you see, so, what with that and the breathalyser, I told them they could have the ballroom and bed down in the attics where I sleep the summer staff, and they could hang up their punching-bag in the garage, and that was the best I could do.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  “Londoners. That flash sort of slim fellow, the boss, the chap they call Gorinsky, paid a month in advance with a cheque on the Cricklewood branch of Plendell’s Bank, with Gorinsky’s name in print underneath where he put his signature. I rang up the branch in Morchester, and they rang up Cricklewood, and the cheque’s all right, so there we are. Mother isn’t too pleased at all the extra cooking and cleaning, but I promised her that, if they don’t behave, out they go, and it’s only for six weeks or so, anyway.”

  “The young chap, the boxer, is a pro, I take it.”

  “Only eighteen years old, and a welter-weight. Boxes at around ten three, so he tells me, but his training is aimed to fine him down. He’s trying to make nine seven. Personally, I wouldn’t bet on it, without they starve him. There’s no spare ounces on him, so far as I can see.”

  “Nine seven? That would bring him just within the lightweight class. What’s their idea? Do they think he stands to get classier bouts than he does as a welter-weight?—better opponents, maybe?”

  “Goodness knows. I don’t. He seems a nice enough young chap, although mother thinks he ought to be warned about using language. I tell her it’s just his vocabulary, and doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “I’ve promised to run with him. He seems to be scheduled for a lot of road-work, and he isn’t very keen.”

  “Padding along roads may put muscle on him, but I doubt whether it will get his weight down much, unless they load extra clothes on him to make him sweat a lot. He hasn’t got fat to lose, and perspiration got that way is weakening, in my opinion. After all, a boxer isn’t like a jockey. So long as he’s perfectly fit, and can make the natural weight for his own class, he ought to be allowed to keep to it, I’d say. Not that I know a lot about it. I’m a pigeon-fancier myself. All the same, seems to me there wouldn’t be all these different weights, eight altogether, from fly up to heavy, unless they were based on nature’s rulings, Mr. Sparowe. And in the amateur classes there are variations and also two classes more, light-welter up to ten stone and light-middle up to eleven stone. They don’t want amateurs giving away too much poundage and getting hurt, I suppose.”

  “You seem to me to know a lot about it for a pigeon-fancier,” said Toby. “Well, be that as it may, you might let the young man know I’m at his disposal for a run before breakfast or after tea any day, but the rest of my time must be counted out. I have to devote some of my life to earning my bread and beer.”

  “He’ll be glad enough of your company, I don’t doubt, Mr. Sparowe. He seems a likeable young chap. I’ll tell him what you say.”

  It was the middle of February, and by eight o’clock the sun had barely risen, but it was light enough at seven-thirty for a run. Toby was up and had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a couple of slices of thin bread and butter by the time the Moonrocket Kid knocked on the door. The lad was wearing a dark blue track suit, a crimson silk muffler, and white sneakers, and looked, if possible, even more beautiful than when Toby had first seen him. Toby offered him tea, but he explained that he had already had some so, without more ado, they set out on their training spin.

  “About five miles suit you?” asked Toby, closing his front door and leading the way along the platform.

  “All right.”

  “This way, then. We’ll follow the road to the heath an
d then cut away westward towards the river. There’s another road drops south from there and crosses the railway further up. Then we turn again at a farm and follow the major road home. Quite pretty country all the way, a bit of a switch-back, but not really hilly.”

  “Good-o.”

  “You set the pace, then, will you? You know how fast you want to go.”

  “Nuffink but flippin’ joggin’ don’t suit me. I don’t reckon to be no perishin’ sprinter.”

  “OK. Just suit yourself.” They broke into a trot. “By the way, I can’t keep calling you the Moonrocket Kid. What’s your name?”

  “Dave.”

  “Toby here.”

  Just under a quarter of a mile brought them on to the heath. Toby wondered what Dave’s reaction would be, but the boy made no sign of distress. A quarter of a mile further on there were cross-roads. They entered the left-hand branch of these, the road became as narrow as a lane and the slope was downhill. There was no conversation between the runners. Toby’s thoughts dwelt on his visitors of the previous day. What Dave was thinking, or whether he was thinking at all, Toby had no idea. The boy’s trouble did not manifest itself until they had skirted the farm and were headed towards a small wood. Up to this point they had been jogging along side by side, but here Dave dropped back and into a walk. Then he stood still.

  “What’s up? Got a stitch?” asked Toby, pulling up and going back to him.

  “No. I ain’t goin’ in by vem flippin’ trees.”

  “No choice, unless we go all the way back. Come on. We’re only about a mile and a half from home. The railway is just the other side of the wood. There’s a level crossing. Once over that, we can almost smell the bacon and eggs.”

  “I ain’t goin’ into no woods.”

  Toby was puzzled and slightly vexed. They had crossed part of an open heath and followed lonely by-roads, some of which were not even bordered by hedges, and there had been no reaction from the boy, so why he should suddenly capitulate in this way at the sight of a small and by no means a dense wood, Toby could not understand.

  “Oh, come on!” he said, laughing. “I’m not going all the way back. I want my breakfast.”

  “O.K., ven,” said the lad unwillingly. “You run next vem trees, vough.”

  “Tell you what! Let’s take a couple of minutes for a breather and then rush it. You could sprint a few hundred yards, couldn’t you? And then we’ll take another breather on the other side of the level crossing.”

  This plan worked. Dave, in fact, ran so fast that Toby was hard put to it to keep up with him. Once on the far side of the wood they slowed to their former jog-trot, crossed the railway line and then dropped into a walk. Toby was breathing heavily. Dave gave no sign of distress. He said, as they strolled towards the sun before turning north on the last stage of their outing,

  “I reckon you fink I’m a bleedin’ fool.”

  “No, I don’t. I knew a stout chap at college—played rugger and all that—and he had your kind of trouble, only, with him, it was the opposite way round. He couldn’t stand confined spaces. Wouldn’t shut the door of the loo or the bathroom door, and if his shirt-stud rolled underneath the bed he dared not get it back. There was a reason for it, of course. When he was a small kid he’d gone exploring by himself and got stuck in a culvert, and it was several hours before he was found. He nearly went cuckoo and for years he couldn’t get over it. He’s all right now, though.”

  “He’s lucky. What straightened ’im aht, ven?”

  “Oh, a fellow on our staircase was nephew or grand-nephew to one of these psychologist people—an old lady. She put him right. Took some time, but she did it. The trouble was, you see, that the chap had had such a shock that his memory of the incident had gone blah on him. All he knew was that he couldn’t bear to be shut up. She uncovered the cause and sorted it all out. The last I heard was that he’d become an inspector of coalmines, so that just shows you, doesn’t it?”

  “He’d forgot what turned ’im tizzy?”

  “Except for these vague terrors, yes, he had.”

  “I ain’t forgot, you see.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  The boy shook his head impatiently and said,

  “Let’s get on the trot again. I’m ’ungry.” They took up the running once more. Toby accepted Dave’s hint and made no further reference to his phobia.

  The next time Toby saw the Moonrocket Kid was later that same morning when he went across to the Swan Revived for a drink. A thudding sound above the ceiling of the bar indicated men at work. Toby cocked an eye.

  “Sparring practice?” he asked the landlord.

  “Ah. They’ve rigged up a portable ring like you can have in a gym, if you don’t want it there permanent,” said Smetton. “A kind of low platform it is, with poles sunk in the corners to hold the ropes. But it’s my opinion the lad had ought to have more sparring partners. There’s only that one old chap and, anyway, I’d say he’s past it.”

  “Think I might go up and see the Kid in action?”

  “Nothing to stop you. Got two visitors already. I mean, doesn’t look as if they’re trying to keep his form dark, or anything of that nature. These two gents come in and was invited up to take a look at him.”

  Toby picked up his tankard and, admitted to the back of the bar by a flap in the counter, passed into the landlord’s parlour, and mounted a broad staircase. The shuffling and thudding ceased as he reached the ballroom door. It was wide open, but, from the top of the stairs, he could see nothing but a stretch of empty floor-space. He went in. The portable ring was at the far side of the room. The Kid was seated on a stool being flapped around with a small towel wielded by his trainer, while in the opposite corner his sparring partner was taking off his protective head-gear and panting heavily. There was no sign of the man who had been referred to as the boxer’s manager, and the visitors, to his surprise (since he understood they had gone to London), were his consultants of the previous day.

  “Mind if I come in?” he asked, advancing.

  “Oh, ’ullo, Tobe,” said the boxer, brushing aside the flickings of the towel. “Make yourself at ’ome. I just finished. ’Arry can’t take no more.”

  “You ain’t finished,” dispassionately stated the towel-flapper, suspending operations. “Got to do a bit of bag-punchin’ when you done your skippin’. You knows vat as well as I do. Got to sweat you down, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Or else no trip to New York, I’m afraid, friend,” said Gracechurchstreet. “Ah, good morning, Mr. Sparowe.”

  “Oh, hullo,” said Toby. “I thought you’d gone to London.”

  “Ah, that doesn’t take long. We were going to call on you again, but we looked in here for a highball.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get me to change my mind.”

  “Too bad. We could put the money up a little, if that would be any inducement.”

  “Sorry.”

  "Oh, well, that’s how it does,” said Maverick. “Come downstairs and, to show there’s no hard feelings, let me buy you a drink.”

  “No more, thanks. I’ve had my mid-morning quota.” Toby waved his empty tankard. “Can’t afford to overdo the beer. Got to get into training.”

  “Oh? How come, then?” Maverick and Gracechurchstreet exchanged glances.

  “Nothing, really. I’m contracted to do a spot of road-work with the Kid here.”

  “Well, that’s nice for you both,” said Maverick.

  “By the way, what’s your interest in getting his weight down? It’s not my business, but if he sweats much more off himself it’s going to weaken him, isn’t it?” Toby enquired.

  “Oh, you mean you heard my crack about New York,” said Gracechurchstreet, leading the way towards the stairs. He closed the door of the room after Toby and Maverick had passed through. “I guess there was nothing in that. Just jollying the little guy along. All young boxers have America in their sights, and this one wouldn’t be any different from the rest.”
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  “Oh, it was just a crack, was it?”

  “That’s all. Well, if it’s no use trying to persuade you to change your mind about the play, I guess we’ll be hitting the trail. Got to get along to Bampton in Oxfordshyer this afternoon. Prospecting for talent, you know.”

  “Morris dancers?”

  “Yay, but we’ll be right back. You know, Mr. Sparowe, we’d be kind of willing to meet you halfway, if you did change your mind.”

  “What does that mean?” They were back in the bar. The landlord raised the flap in the counter to let them through to the customers’ side of the room.

  “Mean? Well, look, suppose we agreed to scrub Charles and Nelly, like I said, would you agree to the fist-fight?”

  “And what else?”

  “Well, look, we couldn’t have the preacher. You’d have to substitoot for him. I mean to say . . .”

  “I do understand your point of view, but, honestly, I think you’d better find another story. I’m sorry and all that, but—no, I’m afraid there’s nothing doing.”

  “Too bad,” said Gracechurchstreet. “Oh, well, I guess you’ll be wanting to get along.” His death’s-head smile was disconcerting considering the circumstances. “One thing,” he added, with seeming irrelevance, “road-work won’t spoil the young guy’s looks, and neither will that poor old mutt that spars with him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Retort Discourteous

  “If you would walk off I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may.”

  William Shakespeare—King Henry V

  “Say,” said the Kid several mornings later, “can’t we run where vere ain’t no bleedin’ trees?”

  “Won’t you tell me why you don’t like trees, Dave?”