CHAPTER EIGHT - The mobile ring.

"Wots this fer idea?" Fisty asked Jon as they were collecting the equipment together after a training session. "Wot abou yer cum wiv me to fair. Cum this Sunday. Got Boxing Booth at fair. Take on all comers they do. Yer might ave a try."

"Sounds great," Jon replied with enthusiasm. "Ill get Stew to give me the day off. Say you said to ask him."

Together they set off on Sunday morning, the large battered instructor and the lithe eager lad hugging his boxing gear under his arm. The fair was on the outskirts of Leeds and was staying for two weeks. Fisty led the way between the half erected stalls until he came to a large marquee. There was busyness everywhere, men heaving ropes, hammering large iron stakes, and carrying heavy wooden boards.

"Hi, there," called Fisty.

A heavily built man, wearing a scarlet necktie and black sweater turned round.

"Hi, there, champ. Good ter see yer. Wot be ye got therr?" Mr White, awesome in size and uglier than Fisty in appearance, seemed both genuinely pleased to see Fisty and intrigued with the new arrival.

"Lad ere comin on nicely, e is. Bin with me in gym sum time naow. Works at Kings Arms. Lived in Orphanage till before. Give im a go ternight, Whitey. I was yer champ once, e Won't be champ, but maybe e might box fine. Bit small, but looks good in ring."

Mr White looked at Jon. He grunted. Jon stared him back in the eyes.

"I can do it,sir, Mr White. Let me have a chance. Would like to have a go."

"Bit sure of yerself, aint yer?" Mr White frowned. "O.K, I'll teach yer a lesson. Then praps yer Won't be so cocky. Jest ang around. Show starts at six."

"Thank you, sir. I'll watch and wait. I'll help if you need me." "Jest yer watch an wait. Me teams all trained te do wivout elp. Me team works well, it does. See yer six oclock. Cum inside and ave a beer, Fists." The two large men turned into a wooden wheeled caravan with rounded sides, painted in green and gold with the letters Whites Wonders boldly written in red. A skewbald stocky pony was tethered to one side, munching placidly. Left on his own Jon peered into the large marquee. It was held up by two strong central poles and in the centre ready waiting for the evening was the ring, clean and orderly with the ropes taut and two small chairs at opposite corners. Four men were working on the seats for the spectators, an intricate matter of fitting wooden slots correctly. Jon spent the afternoon poking round the stalls and eating a large juicy meat pie. At five thirty he waited at the marquee entrance.

Soon the fun started. Jon, recognising two of the men who had been fixing the seating and now dressed in immaculate boxing regalia, squeezed himself to the front of an interested crowd. The men had produced two punch-bags and were demonstrating the skills of boxing for all to see. Then Mr White appeared dressed as Master of Ceremonies, in a red tail coat, tall black hat, black trousers, and white bow tie.

He saw Jon, and muttered, "Get back in there, and change. Yer on at 7 p.m. Ask my Missus." His voice was not unfriendly, just serious and factual. Jon opened the flaps of the marquee and saw a cheerful big busted woman dressed to kill in gold with large feathers bobbing around her shoulders.

"Mrs White?" Jon asked. She nodded, a beaming smile across her face. "I'm the new man. Mr White said I was to ask for you. I'm on at 7 oclock."

"Lor luv a duck," she burst out laughing. "You the noo man. Noo boy, Id say. Good luck to yer, laddie. First public fight ? Eh? Back pedal, I say, if yer start bleeding. Now, cum with me. can't be long. I'll show you the clothes. Got to be correct, clean and smart. Maybe bit big. Never mind. There now. In you hop. Its all on the bed." Amidst all the chattering, Mrs White had led Jon to her caravan to show him the clothes. "Cant wait now. When yer ready, jest wait inside by ring. Do yer good to watch first rounds. Give yer idea of things. Good-bye son, for now. ave to take the money." She waddled off in all her finery, never giving a thought that she had left a strange young lad alone in her home.

Outside Mr Whites voice still boomed as Jon, neatly clad in his borrowed clothes waited by the ring inside the marquee. Mr White was collecting customers to challenge his booth boys. Every booth boy had to accept any challenger, be it a beginner, or an ex-champion. Jon started to feel nervous and wondered what was in store for him. Soon the flaps were tied open, and Mrs White, like a ship in full sail, sat regally taking money from the visitors. The marquee filled to capacity. Mr White climbed into the ring, and with one of the older booth boys standing beside him he shouted, "First of evening. ose goin to challenge Mighty Mac. Queensbury rules. Three rounds.?" There was a hush as the contender strode round the ring flexing his muscles.

"Mighty Mac. Ugh." A florid man, well into his forties, dressed in baggy trousers and wearing pumps, sauntered up to Mr White. "Ill take im on wiv me eyes shut." He started to take his jacket and tie off, making a play of his brawny arms. Another booth boy came up to Jon.

"You just watch this, sonny. Heard you were coming, we other booth boys did. Like a big family, we are. All help each other. This is what we call a fix. He," the booth boy pointed to the florid man, "is one of us. Jock, the one in the ring, will pretend es urt, then come in to win at the end. We usually ave a duck or decoy to start with just to get things going. Got the idea? Decoys are Gees. Jock is what we say "on top". That means e takes on anyone."

"Thanks for telling me. I'm Jon. I'm on at 7 oclock. Dont know what to expect."

"Dont expect nuffink. Duncan, thats me. Praps I shouldnt be tellin you about what we do, but seein you dressed like that.."

"Ill hold my tongue. But will the man I'm up against not fight proper?"

"Dont know. You jest cover up. Thats best. You've nothin to prove. Not like Whiteys reglars." Duncan withdrew into himself worried that he had been too forthcoming. Jon watched anxiously as the formalities at the start of the bout were completed. Mr White, inspite of his size and flamboyant clothes acted as referee. The visitor, or decoy, charged about the ring, flinging punches wildly. Jock, tidy in his approach to the game, kept well out of the way. The first round went to the visitor because a lucky random punch had landed on the target. In the second round, Jock took the initiative, and manoeuvred several clinches. His nose began to bleed and there were murmurs from the crowd. The visitor began to show off and was careless. Towards the end of the third round, Jock hammered into the decoy, who cleverly opened himself up for the attack, and with a flourish, yet with little damage to the decoy, Jock was declared the winner. Although there was a small admittance fee, one of the booth boys left an old cap in the ring, and the crowd threw coins into it to show their appreciation. The money was for the booth boy who had just performed, Mr White did not accept any of it. Two more bouts happened in quick succession, both times the contestants were genuine, and the fights became more aggressive.

It was soon seven oclock. Jon wished he had never come, his arms were leaden and his stomach rumbled. "And now," Mr White boomed. "OIm goin te introduce the Flamer. New to Whites Wonders. Thinks e can take on the world. oose cumin for the Flamer. Wot you, Puggy?" To Jons dismay he saw a hairy man, as square as he was tall, stand up to receive the gloves which Mr White handed over the ropes. "Not got nothing beer to do? You've bin with champs? Why dyou wan te try this bugger?"

"Teach youngsters lesson. Pull em down a peg," growled the ugly man. The two cauliflour ears he sported, and his spreadeagled nose indicated he was a seasoned fighter. His thick black hair curled all over his body and arms. Jon felt like running away. He wondered if this bout was rigged to test his courage.

With the watching crowd eager to see the downfall of a newcomer, the preliminaries were quickly over and the fight started. Jon soon found out the viciousness of his opponent. Before the first round was finished he had a bloody nose, so Jon decided to back pedal and not be so foolhardy to get in close. His opponent seemed like an unrelenting savage whose sole intent was to put Jon on the canvas. The bell for the end of the first round went just after Jon had felt his ribs had been hammered to bits. In his corner Duncan was waiting with the sponge.

"Keep the fight at a distance," hissed Duncan. "Back pedal. Get im angry. Play on the cauliflour ears. Its yer only chance."

"Thanks, mate," Jon puffed. "Ill try. Pretty desperate though."

Armed with this advice Jon had a little success. When he could he thumped his still ferocious opponent right on the blue cauliflour ears. This made man even more furious. Soon both boxers were smeared with blood. When the bell at the end of the third round came Jons opponent was given the verdict. But the cap on the floor filled with coins showing the ø-(:  - appreciation of the watching crowd.

"Well done, young un," said Mr White smiling. "Go and ave a clean up and my Missus ll give you grub. Cum again Saturday. Maybe find summat fer yer."

Sore and bruised, but very pleased with himself Jon went to the Whites caravan, washed in a basin of cold water and waited for Mrs White. She came in shortly, carrying a plate of steaming hot food, steak, onions and potatoes.

"Give all my boys a good feed," she said, still beaming away. "You be not a reglar. Not yet, maybe maybe," she added cryptically.

Next morning at the breakfast round, Stew noticed Jon moving about with difficulty.

"Wots up, laddie? as old Fisty urt yer? Snap out of it, laddie. can't ave customers see yer lookin loike an old man."

"Sorry, Stew, sir. Its my ribs. Good fight though. Lost it, but didnt hit canvas. Itll work off, dont you bother." Jon ached so much that he felt he didnt mind if he never had to bend over a table again. By mid-day he felt a little easier, and realised that he could manage both the boxing and his job.

"May I have week-end off? The fairs away on Monday, and Mr White asked me to come again." Jon noticed the scowl on Stews face. "After all, you did arrange it with Fisty, Stew, sir."

Ungraciously Stew replied, "O.K., O.K., but dont go gettin too big for yer boots. Fairs got summat OI've not got. Glamour, lights, competition. Waitin at tables jest too dull for younuns. OIm jest stook ere. On and on, on and on."

Surprised to see Stew expose his feelings, Jon replied, "I'm still here, Stew. You do wunnerful job. Were all happy here. You ask others. But thank you anyway. I'll be careful."

Jon counted first the days, then the hours till Saturday. He presented himself to Whites Wonders early in the morning. As the equipment was already in situ the booth boys, most of whom were grown men from varying stations in life, were busy either painting, sewing canvas or grooming the three horses that made up the team.

"Ullo, son," called Jock. "Cum agin ave yer? Enjoyed yerself last week? Seems yer dont mind bit o blood?" Jon moved across to Jock who was giving an old horse a rub down. "old is ead. Bit tickly e is." Jock went between the horses ears.

"Looked after horses on the farm. Mighty big they were. Prince, his name was. Best horse in the world." Jons mind went back to his old friend.

"Cant live in past, laddie. I'd be dead and buried if I lived in past. Same as my chilluns. Jest got te get through today, laddie. Thats what its all about." Jock, as an older man, unknowingly let words of wisdom drip into Jons thinking.

"Anything else I can do?" Jon asked Jock, warming to the older man. "Its nice here, not bullied and chivvied. Been ordered about all my life."

"Plenty o shouting when were movin. ave to look slippy then. But yer no be one of us? Youll miss shoutin." Jock, his warm brown eyes, set deep under shaggy brows twinkled at him. "Yer be same age as me bairn." Jock turned away quickly. Gruffly he added, "Go arn now. Go to Mrs White."

Thankful for a pair of extra hands and legs Mrs White set him many errands. Jon had time to meet the other booth boys. They all accepted him without questions, and Jon really felt in tune with them. There was Berti, Art, and Jumbo, as well as Jock and Duncan whom he had already met. They were burly, simple, good hearted men all over thirty, some more cultured than the others, but all gentle men at heart.

At five oclock Mr White approached Jon. "Hi, sonny, ad a good day. Feelin strong. Ternight were bendin rules. Yer fightin in Senior League. All of six rounds. Think yer can manage? owse ribs? Gotta bruising last week?"

"Ribs are O.K, but Stew didnt like to see me stiff in the mornings. Dont think he likes me doing this. But, sir, I like it. Like it better than being a waiter. Like the feeling, the excitement all round. Like the fresh air. Always liked fresh air."

"My! talkative arent yer! Well, laddie, if its good this weekend, well see ..."

Mr White turned away, preventing Jon from asking what he was going to say.

Quaking in his shoes with white socks pulled up and trunks neatly belted Jon waited his turn. He was again the third contestant. The first two bouts seemed endless, and on both occasions the booth boys looked defeated, until the last few minutes when with a professional flurry and intense forward movement they took the advantage with several blows on target. The crowd were agitated in their excitement and booed and cheered with gusto. The caps filled with coins at the end of each bout. Everyone seemed well pleased.

"An naow, The Flamer. School boy champion of England. Startin on the ladder of success with Whites Wonders. ose brave nuff for im. Fleet of foot, e be with a ton in his punch." Mr Whites imagination was carrying him away, building up expectations in the crowd for a new booth boy. "ose for The Flamer."

"Ill see him off. School boy champion indeed. He looks like a weed from the meadow. Give me something to do. Got half an hour to spare." The crowd went silent as a smartly dressed man, very tall and thin, took off his well cut coat. "Made to box at college," he went on arrogantly. "Your Flamer looks a kid. He Won't trouble me."

"ere the gloves, sir." Mr White handed him some gloves, and offered a pair of pumps which were in a box by the ring. "Dont right off me boys, sir. They fight good and proper."

In a low tone he muttered to Jon, "mind is long arms. Dont loike im. Much to cocksure. Do yer best, sonny. Praps e aint too fit. Make im move around, sonny. Fight fair, me boy, but Oim on yer side."

With this encouragement in his ears, Jon took stock of his opponent, who was at least six inches taller with long dangly legs in grey flannels.

"Come on, titch, you say you say you're school champion. Well, believe it or not, I was college champion. I'll take the stuffing out of you."

The bout was even for the first three rounds, Jon looking like a mosquito ducking and dodging, and making his mark occasionally. The taller man landed some good punches. In the fourth round Jon got a blow on the nose which started to bleed. The crowd got more and more excited. Jon rubbed the blood over his face with his glove when trying to wipe it away. This made for more howls and shouts of encouragement. Jon felt the crowd was on his side. His opponent got more and more wild and frustrated as Jons tactics to tire him out were proving successful. Three more direct blows from the long arms in the fifth round when Jon was trying to get close made him reel and stagger, but he didnt fall. The tall man laughed cruelly anticipating victory. This angered Jon, and in the final round, he threw caution aside, and with his head down he cornered his opponent and thumped away. The long arms were tird and heavy and were barely able to cover up. The final bell went and a loud cheer came from the crowd. Mr White declared Jon the winner on points. The tall man left the ring acknowledging defeat ungraciously. Jons nose had stopped bleeding, but an eye was slowly closing and he was breathing fast.

"Well done, sonny. I'm proud of yer." Mr White talked to Jon quietly. "Take the cap with yer. Plenty of coppers there for yer. Crowd seemed to loike yer. Could do with yer in team."

"Oooh, thank you, sir." Jon puffed, picking up the old cap which was heavy with pennies. "All for me, sir.?" Mr White nodded. "Thank you sir, and I'll remember what you said."

Aching all over Jon went into the booth boys caravan and had a wash down in the basin of cold water. It stung his eyes and lips. He felt a hundred years old.

"Jolly good show,!" said Duncan as he poked his head round the half open door. "Pity you've gotto go. Mighty fine its on the road. Start tomorra at five oclock dismantlin. Move on all day, pushing this bloody caravan up the ills, and ready for boxing next evenin."

"Sounds a long day." Jon spoke with difficulty. "But its just up my street, specially if Mrs White cooks like last time. Had a gorgeous platefull. All fresh. Hotel foods O.K, but its all warmed up. Gosh, I'm sore."

"Maybe see yer agin? Mighty fine in ring, yer are. Nippy as a tart bitten on er bottom. Gotta be orf naow. Bye?" Duncan picked up a mallet that was leaning against the caravan and strode off towards the marquee.

Jon crept up to bed that night. Will I ever make a boxer, if I get as sore as this. What happens if my nose gets broken? Will I get fat ears like the others? Exhausted but full of contentment sprinkled only slightly with anxiety Jon fell into a deep sleep.

The time for breakfast came too soon. Hurrying as fast as he could Jon dressed, but had no time to look in the mirror. He flattened his hair with spit as he rushed down the stairs, bracing himself against his complaining ribs.

Laying a table in the corner Jon didnt notice Stew come into the large nearly empty dining room.

"ad a good evenin' ? Glad te see yer oop an abou'." Stew came across the room and Jon turned round.

"Morning, sir. Fine it was, but ..." Jon got no further.

Stew, reddening in the face, got right up close to Jon. As there were the few customers already about, he could not raise his voice.

"Yer bloody fool. Jest look at yer. ave a look at yer face. Black eyes and swollen nose. can't ave yer serving customers lookin' like tha'. Think yer be ruffian."

"Sorry, sir. I didnt look in the mirror. I'm fine, sir, really I am."

"Yer fired. Go oop stairs, straight way. Fired yer are. Tried to 'elp yer I did. Yer make boxing cum before waitin at table. Orf yer go. Gel in desk ll give yer wages. Dont make noise with customers ere. Noaw, orf yer go. No nonsense."

Jon walked sadly out of the room, out of a steady job and a safe roof. He longed to explain to Stew, but knew the older man, stuck in his job for so many years yet longing for a change, wouldnt understand. Slowly he walked upstairs and changed his clothes, packed his bag and wondered about his next move. Saddened that he had to leave so suddenly and in these circumstances without any explanation to his workmates, he collected his wages from the receptionists assistant, and left quietly by the staff entrance. His suitcase was heavier this time with the acquisitions that earning had allowed him to buy. He walked slowly, painfully and sadly into the centre of Leeds, bought a cup of tea and the local paper and squinted out of his swollen eyes to read the advertisements. Then the words Whites Wonders caught his eye. There was a large notice giving the details of the movements of the Fair, and the time of arrival at each destination: Bramhope, Otley, Ilkley and on to Skipton. Wow, they're all near by. Prhaps I can catch them up. they're only half a day ahead of me. Prhaps I can be a regular booth boy. Make a fortune that way. Much better fun than waiting and pouring out drinks. Must watch it though that I dont get too many clobbers on the head. Some of the 'boothboys' already look a bit punch drunk - and I've only met them twice. Wouldnt like to get looking ugly with a squashed face. But I can't have it all ways. If I'm going to earn money by boxing I must take rough with smooth. Just gotta look after myself. No one else will. Prhaps I'll meet some girls. Not like that Elspeth. Made a fool of myself then. I'll pick up from the booth boys all about sex. Damn the orphanage, single sexes and all that. Put me at a great disadvantage, it did. I'm right ready for a good fuck. Now, get your mind how to get on the trail. Trail of Whites Wonders. What an excitement.

He went into the Enquiries Office and asked for Buses to Bramhope. There was an hour to wait for the next one. With great aplomb, even though it was the first time he had ever done such a thing, he asked for a single ticket. He sat on a bench with his case between his feet, watching, watching the people, the clouds skudding across the sky, the cheeky sparrows darting nervously for bits of food that the waiting passengers were dropping. It all seems to be going on for ever. There's time and place for everything, people doing their own thing, birds busy and the sky an on going drama of movement. Nobody knows or cares why I'm here, and nobody would take any notice if I stayed here all day. Bit scary at times, that I'm so unimportant. Bit sad too that I've no one who would miss me. Feel Id like to write a poem about all this. Life in the bus station! Whod want to read the work of an unknown. At Orphanage my essays were at least read, sometimes out loud. Think I'm feeling a little nervous, think ... At that moment a doubledecker green bus came lumbering into view with Skipton written in bold letters across the front.

"op in, laddie. Bramhope for you? Plenty passengers for Bramhope. All goin' to fair. Right waste o muney. Best spend muney on chilluns." The conductor went on talking to himself, while Jon climbed to the top deck to get a good view of the countryside.

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