There Should Be More Dancing by Rosalie Ham Page B

He’s going to be a chef. And Morris, my second boy, runs a big hotel in Thailand. He lives there. Morris was a boxer as well but Walter was the one with talent, so Lancestopped Morris doing the boxing. ‘Better to find something you can do,’ he said, so Morris decided to be a businessman and that decision has taken him to where he is today.’
    Like Walter, Morris had some lost years. I’ve only just found that out, but I’ll get to that.
    I didn’t tell Anita that selling cigarettes at school was Morris’s first business venture, nor did I say that I hadn’t actually set eyes on my second-born son since his father’s funeral twenty years ago, but at the time I wasn’t about to share the family secrets with the likes of someone of her calibre. Nor did I tell her that, if the truth be known, Judith’s never really had friends since little Sylvia. There were no bridesmaids at her wedding. Nor mine, now that I think about it . . .
    You know, Cecily, I was so excited when I saw I’d given birth to a little girl that I gave her your name, Cecily Judith. Then it became apparent that Judith wasn’t going to be anything like you, so I swapped her name to Judith Cecily. When she left school and got a job as the driveway attendant at the local garage, she said, ‘I’m the face of the petrol station,’ and Morris called from the sleep-out, ‘That’s because you look like a petrol pump.’
    Morris was always a bit cheeky, always had a gang of kids following him. He was the first to move out of home, my most independent child. Now that I think about it, I hardly noticed him. Even so, twenty-four years is a long time to hold a grudge over one little fight. I’m talking about the fight he had with Walter at Lance’s funeral service. It took me years to pay off the funeral director. They broke the leadlight picture window of Mary with dead Jesus on her lap, Pietà , and a few chairs, which may seem remarkable since the entire skirmish was over in less than two minutes, but Morris had been drinking and Walter still held the Middleweight Championtitle, though he was not long out of rehab. Poor Walter. He took up the drink around the time of the funeral. I didn’t see him for almost ten years and I haven’t seen Morris since, and it pains me. At first I thought, ‘It’s normal, they grow up and move away,’ but twenty-four years is a long time to be away.
    I know why now. Everything’s fallen into place.
    I nearly lost Walter completely because of the Incident in the Ring, and as I understand it I may never see Morris again, but somehow I’ve managed to hold on to you.
    Nothing was the way I thought it would be, like we planned.

Walter’s final championship opponent happened to be a southpaw, which suited Walter’s explosive right. But this southpaw, Rocky Wrecker, was five pounds heavier. Even worse, he had a longer reach.
    The trainer held Walter’s face in his hands, looked him in the eyes. ‘He’ll torment you, Walter.’
    â€˜I’m the bull,’ Walter said.
    â€˜His right glove is a red rag, he’s tryin’ to make you fight dirty, lose points. Stay clean, stay calm.’
    â€˜I’m a bull, I’m strong .’
    Walter stayed strong. He won the first three rounds on points, though his opponent held him with his beady, unwavering gaze, dancing around him, reaching out to the Brunswick Bull, gently touching Walter’s brilliant black coiffure.
    â€˜Steady as she goes,’ Lance called, hoping his warning words would reach his son through the din.
    The corner man pleaded, ‘Ignore the left . . . He’s teasing.’
    â€˜Bull, Bull, Brunswick Bull,’ the crowd chanted. It was early inround four when Walter was distracted by the right glove hovering at his carefully curled forelock. Rage erased the fight plan in his brain and his explosive right shot out, his