George is after all!’
‘He’ll be along at The Ploughman – in the back room, most likely,’ one of the younger men tells her, speaking for the first time. ‘Do you know where that is? Go on a bit further, and at the next bridge turn right, up to the London road. You’ll find it soon enough.’
‘Thank you.’ Cat walks away to a variety of good-natured catcalls and hisses.
Only at the entrance to The Ploughman does she hesitate, because the doorway is low and the room inside dark and crowded, even though it’s after hours. For a moment, she feels that clawing inside when she is shut in, when there is a chance she could be trapped. But she steels herself, slipping through the crowd in a way a larger person couldn’t. There are a few other women in the pub, but only a few; their blouses tight, the top buttons undone, beer in their hands and red on their cheeks and kisses all over their mouths. In the back room , the young man had said. There is a rough wooden door, shut and latched at the far end of the room. Cat makes for it. When her fingers touch the latch, she jumps. A huge roar goes up from the other side, of a hundred deep male voices booming as one. Unease slows Cat’s progress, makes her pause. It sounds like a large and violent crowd is waiting behind the door, and she knows enough of such things to fear them. A hand clasps her wrist and pulls it firmly from the latch.
‘Now, where might you be going, young lady?’ asks a whiskery old man. His skin on her wrist is like a leathery bark, and she twists herself free.
‘Take your hands off me!’ she snaps, her heart lurching.
‘All right, all right, nobody’s trying to interfere with you! Iasked a question, that’s all.’ He slurs his words slightly but his eyes are bright and if he wanted to stop her, Cat sees, he could.
‘I’m here to see George. George Hobson,’ she says, tipping her chin defiantly. ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’
‘What are you? His woman? Daughter? I thought he had none,’ the man asks curiously.
‘What I am to him is my business. Are you going to let me through or not?’ The man studies her for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the bedraggled remnants of a cigarette.
‘You know what this is, do you?’ He eyes her dubiously and hooks his thumb at the door. Another roar goes up from beyond it. Cat’s heart beats faster. She clamps her mouth shut, nods briskly though she can’t think what she will find in this restricted room. ‘Go on then, but you’ll not make a scene or I’ll have you out on your ear, got that?’ He leans over, lifts the latch and presses the door open, just wide enough for Cat to squeeze through. Biting her lip, her hands in fists, she does so.
The room is blue with smoke, airlessly hot, and the ceiling even lower and all of wood, like the walls. Cat’s view is barred by ranks of men, their backs turned to her, all jostling and cheering and stamping and wincing, waving their arms, their fists, their pocket-books. Cat skirts the edge of this crowd until she spots an opening, worming her way, unnoticed, to the front. She does not recognise him at first, the smiling man who blushed when she discovered that he couldn’t read. Now he is stripped to the waist, his thick torso slick with sweat and blood. Light shines from the curves and contours of his body. His hair is plastered to his head, and blood comes freely from a cut above his left eye, drawing a bright line down to his chin. But his opponent looks in worse shape. This other man is taller than George, but does not have his solid build. His long arms are thinner, though the muscles stand out along them like knots in rope. Both of them have made their knuckles bloody red and ragged.
When his opponent lands a punch, George absorbs it with anoutward rush of breath, and does not falter. He moves smoothly, weaving like a cat, ducking his head like a bird, more graceful than a man of his size should be. Cat watches him, quite mesmerised.
‘He’ll be along at The Ploughman – in the back room, most likely,’ one of the younger men tells her, speaking for the first time. ‘Do you know where that is? Go on a bit further, and at the next bridge turn right, up to the London road. You’ll find it soon enough.’
‘Thank you.’ Cat walks away to a variety of good-natured catcalls and hisses.
Only at the entrance to The Ploughman does she hesitate, because the doorway is low and the room inside dark and crowded, even though it’s after hours. For a moment, she feels that clawing inside when she is shut in, when there is a chance she could be trapped. But she steels herself, slipping through the crowd in a way a larger person couldn’t. There are a few other women in the pub, but only a few; their blouses tight, the top buttons undone, beer in their hands and red on their cheeks and kisses all over their mouths. In the back room , the young man had said. There is a rough wooden door, shut and latched at the far end of the room. Cat makes for it. When her fingers touch the latch, she jumps. A huge roar goes up from the other side, of a hundred deep male voices booming as one. Unease slows Cat’s progress, makes her pause. It sounds like a large and violent crowd is waiting behind the door, and she knows enough of such things to fear them. A hand clasps her wrist and pulls it firmly from the latch.
‘Now, where might you be going, young lady?’ asks a whiskery old man. His skin on her wrist is like a leathery bark, and she twists herself free.
‘Take your hands off me!’ she snaps, her heart lurching.
‘All right, all right, nobody’s trying to interfere with you! Iasked a question, that’s all.’ He slurs his words slightly but his eyes are bright and if he wanted to stop her, Cat sees, he could.
‘I’m here to see George. George Hobson,’ she says, tipping her chin defiantly. ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’
‘What are you? His woman? Daughter? I thought he had none,’ the man asks curiously.
‘What I am to him is my business. Are you going to let me through or not?’ The man studies her for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the bedraggled remnants of a cigarette.
‘You know what this is, do you?’ He eyes her dubiously and hooks his thumb at the door. Another roar goes up from beyond it. Cat’s heart beats faster. She clamps her mouth shut, nods briskly though she can’t think what she will find in this restricted room. ‘Go on then, but you’ll not make a scene or I’ll have you out on your ear, got that?’ He leans over, lifts the latch and presses the door open, just wide enough for Cat to squeeze through. Biting her lip, her hands in fists, she does so.
The room is blue with smoke, airlessly hot, and the ceiling even lower and all of wood, like the walls. Cat’s view is barred by ranks of men, their backs turned to her, all jostling and cheering and stamping and wincing, waving their arms, their fists, their pocket-books. Cat skirts the edge of this crowd until she spots an opening, worming her way, unnoticed, to the front. She does not recognise him at first, the smiling man who blushed when she discovered that he couldn’t read. Now he is stripped to the waist, his thick torso slick with sweat and blood. Light shines from the curves and contours of his body. His hair is plastered to his head, and blood comes freely from a cut above his left eye, drawing a bright line down to his chin. But his opponent looks in worse shape. This other man is taller than George, but does not have his solid build. His long arms are thinner, though the muscles stand out along them like knots in rope. Both of them have made their knuckles bloody red and ragged.
When his opponent lands a punch, George absorbs it with anoutward rush of breath, and does not falter. He moves smoothly, weaving like a cat, ducking his head like a bird, more graceful than a man of his size should be. Cat watches him, quite mesmerised.
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