get?
Billy sat in Taffy Jones’s house in Poplar High Road, staring at a big shaggy dog that had just cocked its leg on the fender and ambled lazily off. The puddle it left was
quickly splashed by the foot of one of a dozen children filling Taffy’s front room.
Over the mantel, under which lay the neglected ashes of a fire, hung a large, crumpled poster. The illustration was of a young fighter, mildly representative of Taffy, with one front tooth
missing as he posed, smiling, at the photographer. The muscular arms and proud naked chest were definitely no longer evident on Taffy’s present-day physique. Billy cast his eyes to Taffy,
sprawled in an armchair, lost under a corpulent belly and sagging breasts. Round circles of sweat formed in his armpits and discoloured his shirt. The face, though, was definitely that of Taffy
– at least two decades ago.
‘See, son, I was the pride of the valleys,’ Taffy hastened to explain as he looked reverently up at the display. ‘Put all the bastards down in under four, never an exception.
Got meself a real reputation, boyo.’
Taffy, who normally spoke as cockney as the next East Ender, now lapsed into a strange concoction of accents. Billy tried to decipher it as endless streams of children ran wildly in and out of
the room. They were filthy, shoeless and noisy, tripping over the assortment of winged fowl that strutted across the bare lino. A large black fluffy cat appeared, swiped a paw at the birds, and
seated itself on Taffy’s knees.
‘I was just sixteen then, with the world at me feet,’ Taffy continued. ‘And if it hadn’t been for the leg, I’d have gone on to great things.’
‘What happened to your leg?’ Billy looked down at his employer’s stained brown trousers. Other than never having seen Taffy in any others, they seemed unremarkable.
‘I’ve an inch off the right one, so I have.’
‘You’d never notice.’
‘Birth defect,’ Taffy said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Gives you a disadvantage as you grow. And I was still growing then. Lovely lad I was too. Potential was there. But
swinging an inch off target, you begins to make mistakes. By the time I was twenty it was all over. See that there, the Cardiff Cup? The big one to the left? That was my best trophy. A beauty,
ain’t she?’
Billy nodded vigorously, although he couldn’t quite distinguish the model Taffy was referring to. There were at least a dozen battered and misshapen cups, surrounded by a plethora of
beribboned badges, war medals and a large three-legged horse tipped on its side, all arranged on the shelves of a glass case the panes of which were broken or splintered. Billy didn’t know if
its contents were silver or gold, or even precious, but like the children there were many.
‘Now, listen to me, son,’ said Taffy, dispatching the cat. ‘You’re young and you’ve got ambition and I reckon we can make something of you. But the thing is, you
can’t win all your fights by biting off your opponent’s ear.’
‘I never won the fight,’ Billy reminded him as he tried not to inhale the smell of cat pee on his chair. ‘I got thrashed.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I had to do something.’
‘If you play your cards right next time, you’ll keep out of the way, wear your opponent out, as most of them round here are all show. Three rounds in and they couldn’t walk up
a hill without a crutch.’
‘So there’s gonna be a next time?’ Billy asked eagerly.
Taffy wrinkled his brow. ‘You got to learn, lad. You got to use your noddle,
think.
Keep that trap of yours shut, not waste your breath on insults.’
‘I was angry.’
‘Make your anger work for you. Be crafty, sly like. Look out for your opportunity. Come under their punches and catch them off guard. Now come with me.’
Taffy led him through a dark corridor and out into daylight. The rear yard contained a shed. Taffy slid the bolt, beckoning Billy after him. ‘Now, this, laddo, is me sanctum
Billy sat in Taffy Jones’s house in Poplar High Road, staring at a big shaggy dog that had just cocked its leg on the fender and ambled lazily off. The puddle it left was
quickly splashed by the foot of one of a dozen children filling Taffy’s front room.
Over the mantel, under which lay the neglected ashes of a fire, hung a large, crumpled poster. The illustration was of a young fighter, mildly representative of Taffy, with one front tooth
missing as he posed, smiling, at the photographer. The muscular arms and proud naked chest were definitely no longer evident on Taffy’s present-day physique. Billy cast his eyes to Taffy,
sprawled in an armchair, lost under a corpulent belly and sagging breasts. Round circles of sweat formed in his armpits and discoloured his shirt. The face, though, was definitely that of Taffy
– at least two decades ago.
‘See, son, I was the pride of the valleys,’ Taffy hastened to explain as he looked reverently up at the display. ‘Put all the bastards down in under four, never an exception.
Got meself a real reputation, boyo.’
Taffy, who normally spoke as cockney as the next East Ender, now lapsed into a strange concoction of accents. Billy tried to decipher it as endless streams of children ran wildly in and out of
the room. They were filthy, shoeless and noisy, tripping over the assortment of winged fowl that strutted across the bare lino. A large black fluffy cat appeared, swiped a paw at the birds, and
seated itself on Taffy’s knees.
‘I was just sixteen then, with the world at me feet,’ Taffy continued. ‘And if it hadn’t been for the leg, I’d have gone on to great things.’
‘What happened to your leg?’ Billy looked down at his employer’s stained brown trousers. Other than never having seen Taffy in any others, they seemed unremarkable.
‘I’ve an inch off the right one, so I have.’
‘You’d never notice.’
‘Birth defect,’ Taffy said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Gives you a disadvantage as you grow. And I was still growing then. Lovely lad I was too. Potential was there. But
swinging an inch off target, you begins to make mistakes. By the time I was twenty it was all over. See that there, the Cardiff Cup? The big one to the left? That was my best trophy. A beauty,
ain’t she?’
Billy nodded vigorously, although he couldn’t quite distinguish the model Taffy was referring to. There were at least a dozen battered and misshapen cups, surrounded by a plethora of
beribboned badges, war medals and a large three-legged horse tipped on its side, all arranged on the shelves of a glass case the panes of which were broken or splintered. Billy didn’t know if
its contents were silver or gold, or even precious, but like the children there were many.
‘Now, listen to me, son,’ said Taffy, dispatching the cat. ‘You’re young and you’ve got ambition and I reckon we can make something of you. But the thing is, you
can’t win all your fights by biting off your opponent’s ear.’
‘I never won the fight,’ Billy reminded him as he tried not to inhale the smell of cat pee on his chair. ‘I got thrashed.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I had to do something.’
‘If you play your cards right next time, you’ll keep out of the way, wear your opponent out, as most of them round here are all show. Three rounds in and they couldn’t walk up
a hill without a crutch.’
‘So there’s gonna be a next time?’ Billy asked eagerly.
Taffy wrinkled his brow. ‘You got to learn, lad. You got to use your noddle,
think.
Keep that trap of yours shut, not waste your breath on insults.’
‘I was angry.’
‘Make your anger work for you. Be crafty, sly like. Look out for your opportunity. Come under their punches and catch them off guard. Now come with me.’
Taffy led him through a dark corridor and out into daylight. The rear yard contained a shed. Taffy slid the bolt, beckoning Billy after him. ‘Now, this, laddo, is me sanctum
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