The Boy Who Was Afraid of Butterflies - Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Triumph and Disaster

The weeks pass with the rhythm of the telegraph lines seen from the train window, the upward swoop each weekend creating a respite from the tension. My birthday comes and goes; I buy my first camera with the small legacy that grandma has left me. I try to stop thunderous trains at 1/25th of a second at f8; learn to press the shutter when they are still far off or stand coldly at rest. In later years I regret I took so few photos of my family and friends.

In June the school holds its boxing tournament. House rivalry pushes to the ring many lads who would rather have been reticent about their meagre talents. I am now too scared to resist the taunts of my peers. At twelve years of age I stand four foot ten inches tall and weigh four stone ten as well. There is only one other entrant in the lightest weight band. We both have byes, therefore, to the final.

On the fateful Thursday afternoon, the school is assembled on banks of wooden forms around the ring in the main hall. My classmates have been riling me all morning; you’ll get thrashed. A bloody nose, a broken tooth just as likely. I’ve had no breakfast; I was sick at lunchtime and am deathly white. My navy shorts are pristine, my vest snow-white revealing goose-pimples in the sultry hall. My house captain urges encouragement in my corner, demanding an example for the boxers of ‘Egmont House’ to emulate. You see, the finals commence with the lightest weights, so I’m first into the ring. And I’ve never boxed in my life before.

“Keep jabbing with your left; keep it moving like a piston!”

“Remember to hold your right up, protect your chin.”

“Move about, don’t leave him a standing target.”

The waves of advice flow over me meaninglessly. I hear the hubbub in the hall, the jeers and cheers, and catcalls when my scrawny legs climb through the ropes. I hold up my heavy hands and let someone retie my laces while my teeth chatter in the hothouse. And for some mystifying reason, I haven’t even noticed my opponent.

When the bell tolls and the booming microphone muffles and crackles my identity and someone gives me a push so that I find myself standing in the middle of the ring, I look at my adversary.

The skinny red-haired boy is enveloped in baggy shorts, his vest adorned with his house sash. He is, I see to my astonishment, a good couple of inches shorter than me. We begin to circle round each other, stabbing tremulously into thin air. We leave so much space between us that our probing lunges cannot help but fall short. Even so, whenever I stick out my left fist, as I have been instructed, I notice that my opponent ducks and scurries backwards, nearly tripping over in his haste to retreat. I begin to move forwards, cautiously, and keep my tentative left jabs pulsing like a robot. A couple even brush my adversary’s chin and prompt no retaliation. I have lost my sense of time and space and am surprised when the bell sounds for the end of the first round. I feel pleased and relieved to have emerged so far unscathed.

“Get stuck into him; you’re playing with him. You can win easily.”

“I can?”

“Yes, easily. Just connect with a few of your left jabs; you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Am I winning now?”

“Yes, but you’ve got to land some more punches. You can do it, the other fellow’s no good at all.”

Seconds out, second round. I move more boldly into the centre of the ring and aim at my opponent. To my immense surprise, I connect with the boy’s cheek and glance off catching his shoulder with a ricocheting clip. The boy - I don’t even recollect his name - stumbles backwards until the ropes support him. I follow and very deliberately lower my fist and punch him just below his ribs. A look of sheer terror overtakes the pale freckled face and the lad turns and scampers away in a most undignified fashion. I am so taken aback that I hesitate, let him escape. I hear my corner roaring:

“Get him, you’ve got him! Knock him down, get stuck in!”

A moment’s indecision, then I begin the chase. For a few seconds, to the merriment of the bloodthirsty onlookers, an unseemly game of ‘tag’ ensues, with me the pursuer. Then I have him cornered. The boy has given up any pretence of trying to hit me, he just tries to cover his face with his gloves and duck out of the line of my fists. A blow gets through his guard, not that hard, but enough to rock the boy back onto the ropes again; I hit him once more. He slithers to the ground, and someone begins to count. The boy staggers to his feet, hauling himself up by the ropes - he had overbalanced more than been really hurt. The referee restarts the bout. I advance and hit him again in the face, twice in quick succession; the lad again slithers against the ropes, his eyes saucers of pleading. Urged on by my roaring supporters, I step forward and for the first time in the fight, draw back my right arm and punch him as hard as I can at his solar plexus, bullseye. He just jack-knifes and slips backwards between the top and middle ropes of the ring, falling onto the dais in a tangled ungainly mixture of arms and ropes. The audience scream and whistle their approval. The match is over. My arm is held aloft by the master acting as referee and I go back to my corner dazed at what I have done.

I bask in the unaccustomed banter and ribaldry heaped on me by the other boys in my hour of triumph. Even Packman claps me on the shoulder, though I hear Lomax’s disparaging whine belittling my achievement. I gaze at the home-made scoreboard; I can’t take my eyes off what it says: Egmont 3 points; Raleigh 0, Drake 0, Grenville 0.

At home that night I cannot wait to tell my mother. I hadn’t said anything about the coming fight for I didn’t want to reveal my fear, nor talk about my expected defeat. Now I am released from that fear, I cannot cease from talking about it in most uncharacteristic aggressive enthusiasm. As I demonstrate my knock-out blow, I sense my mother is very quiet. I look at her suddenly losing my new found confidence.

“Yes, dear. I’m sure you did very well.”

Was that all she was going to say? She looks a bit troubled. She tries to change the subject. I dry up in mid-flow and go to look for my sister. She is kneeling on the sofa, pretending not to be interested in my exploits. I grab her round the waist and begin to tickle her unmercifully; she screeches and struggles, bringing mother scurrying back from the kitchen.

“Stop it, David, leave her alone this minute!”

As I pause, trying to think of some defence, Jill squirms out from under me, grabs my wrist in her tiny vice-like grip and twists my arm behind my back. I want to throw her off, but mother is watching. I start to complain about the unfairness of it all - she’s hurting me, why don’t you tell her to stop?

“Our boxing champion can’t take it from his sister,” mother opines in a slightly sarcastic vein, before she can stop herself. I snap. I let fly with all my anger and frustration.

“Why do you always pick on me? Why is it always my fault? She is your favourite. You don’t love me!”

I have struck home. When I’ve calmed a little, I see I’ve gone too far. I’m embarrassed. My mother’s eyes are filled with tears.

“That’s not true, son. Don’t ever say that kind of thing, I assure you it’s not true.”

I mumble something incoherently, but have no idea how to correct what I’ve done. When Jill relaxes her grip, I yank my arm away in sullen ire and stomp upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind me, throw myself on the bed and pull the eiderdown over my head.