THE GLOVES

New Zealand Listener, Volume 35, Issue 894, 21 September 1956, Page 8

THE GLOVES

By

Maurice

Shadbolt

UT at the gate the postman’s whistle sounded shrill and clear. -Here, said Mrs. Wilson, What's this? Without even excusing themselves the boys had rushed from the breakfast table with a loud clatter of plates and spoons. They broke out of the house, their bare feet whispering quickly over the concrete path to the front gate. Already they could see the big brownpaper parcel perched up on the white letterbox, and the postie smiling and waving cheerfully as he turned his bike away. Eric reached the box first. The parcel tumbled down into his arms. They, both tugged at it, breaking the twine and peeling off the thick layers of wrapping so that the tissue-covered gloves were soon revealed. The paper fell away, fluttering over the front lawn in the breeze, leaving the four gloves to be held and admired in their shiny and exciting brand-newness. -Hey, shouted Mr. Wilson, striding down the path. What’s going on? Eric looked up guiltily, holding the gloves forward. -Who sent you those? demanded Mr. Wilson. -They’re ours, Mike announced Proudly in a high, squeaky voice. -Yours? What the devil? -Yes, Eric explained. We sent away for them. -And what did you use for money? Seashells? -It was those seeds we went selling, ._ Eric continued. If you sell enough they give you jal prizes. We asked for boxing gloves could’ve had a ukulele or a tennis racket. -Spo that’s what all my garden Money’s gone into this year, eh? Mr. Wilson looked at the gloves, Eric looked down at his feet. Mike smiled @ toothless smile up at his father. -I'm landed with four quids’ worth of seeds I didn’t want just so you could get yourselves these, eh? Mr. Wilson asked. Eric was silent. * Mr. Wilson relented. He patted Mike on the head. ‘ -Well, come back in the house. And pick up all that paper mess, He looked down at the gloves in Eric’s hands again. -They all right? he asked. While Mike scampered round gathering up the litter of paper, Eric smiled shyly up to his father, -They’re beauties, he said. Can we try them on now? -You’ve got the breakfast dishes first, said Mr. Wilson firmly, Or have you forgotten your Saturday morning jobs already? And the Lord only knows what your mother’s going to say. ]™ going to be the best, best boxer in the whole world, Mike declared as they hurried through washing and drying the dishes. And I’m going to clean up everyone in the world and I’m going to clean up--You’d better clean up those dishes Properly first, eh? said Mr. Wilson, who had just come to oversee their work. That’s before you tackle Joe Louis, of course. -And I’m going to get as rich as rich, Mike" said. And we'll get a motor car. We'll get lots of motor cars. -One car each? asked Mr. Wilson. -One car each, Mike repeated seriously. 44405. : -That’s pretty generous, Mr. Wilson.

Soon everything was washed and cleared away without anything broken. \-All right, said Mr. Wilson, with a trace of apprehension. I suppose you can start punching each other’s noses now. Mrs. Wilson came bustling into the kitchen with a worried face. -Do you really think it’s wise, John? she asked. Couldn’t we put the things away till they’re older? Mike’s too little altogether. Eric hung his head. Even Mike looked crestfallen. Mr. Wilson seemed to take a very long time making up his mind. -It won’t do them any harm, he said at last. After all, they’ve got to look after themselves sometime, don’t they? The noble art of self-defence and all that sort of thing, you know. -All I can say is you’ve got a poor attitude towards your children, she replied quickly and sharply. At their age -heavens above, John. -Ill watch they don’t hurt each other, he promised. -That’s a lot of consolation, Mrs. Wilson said, leaving the kitchen in a bad temper. -A lot of consolation, they heard her mutter again as she began to work the polishing mop angrily and loudly over the living-room floor. -Can we go now? Eric asked. Mr. Wilson sighed and frowned. -All right, he said in a flat tone. All right® -TlI’ll get the scrapbook, Eric, Mike piped. Without waiting for reply he dashed from the room and returned presently hugging their big scrapbook: on the cover big schoolboyish lettering said "Boxing Pictures." And’ underneath, carefully clipped and pasted, was a faded newspaper photograph of a boxer. -We don’t want that, Eric said disparagingly. You better take it back. Disappointment spreading over his face, Mike edged away. -Aw, all right, Eric compromised. We'll look at it when we're tired. Outside, under the warm morning sun, where the bright flower beds held the lawn into a green square, Mr. Wilson laced the gloves tightly so they fitted smugly over the small hands. -Now, he said. Let’s see you in action, eh? Mike poked out a timid left arm towards Eric. -You'’ve got to close up your glove, Mr. Wilson said. Like this. Mike closed the glove. -Look, said Mr. Wilson. I'll tell you what. Just pretend you're fighting me, not Eric. That’s right, now come at me. That’s the boy. Mike made an unsure advance’ towarcs his father. -Don’t be scared, boy. That’s it. No-keep your right hand up. That’s your guard, That’s the way. Mike raised his guard slowly, looking up at his tall father. His eyes were appealing and frightened. He seemed to freeze. ’t be scared, boy. I won’t hurt you. Look-I, haven’t even got any gloves on. I can’t hit you, now can I? Not without gloves,

-Yon never ever have gloves on when you hit me, Mike said with a pained expression. You always hit. me hard and you don’t ever have gloves. -So that’s it. I won’t hit you, don’t worry. Mr. Wilson gave a half-embar-rassed laugh. -You got to promise,- Mike said. -All right, said Mr. Wilson. -God’s honour, You got to say that. -God’s honour, Mr. Wilson repeated. Cross my heart. -All right, Mike said, satisfied. Now can I hit you? Mr. Wilson began to dance up#and down in a queer, jerky fashion. -Now you come and try and hit me, he said. You just try. His arms flailed wildly into the empty air above Mike’s head. In a matter-of-fact way Mike moved up to his father’s big, wide stomach, tapped a tentatively light left against it, then drew back his right fist slowly and deliberately and swung it in hard: there was a hollow thump, a choked shout of surprise, and Mr. Wilson doubled up, pitching forward on to the lawn. He lay there gasping for air. Mike’s eyes grew wide with terror. He turned and fled down the garden path. FTER lunch Mr. Wilson delivered his verdict. Avoiding his wife’s eyes, and while the boys listened in silence, he announced: -lIf they want to learn they can learn from someone expert. Now Pete Kelly’s the man. He’d only be too glad to have someone to teach. -That dreadful little man with the pug nose and cauliflower ear? Mrs. Wilson demanded. Really, John, I think it’s the limit, sending them off to him. It’s beyond me how all this started. I told you in the first place you shouldn't have helped them by buying all those seeds, That’s the trouble with you, you’ll nytt teach them to be independent. Letting them get things they don’t know what to do with-I don’t know what came over you, I’m sure. Now look at the trouble we’ve got. Boys hitting their father and you wanting to ‘send them to that man. We should burn the things. -We’ve got to be fair, said Mr. Wilson. Boys are all the same, you know. They all want to learn how to stick up for themselves. Anyhow, a bit of a punch and they might want to give the whole thing up--Like you? she asked. Still refusing to meet her eyes, he ignored the question: -I’ll send them down to old Kelly with a note this afternoon, It’s better they learn off someone who knows something about it. I'd go with them myself except that there’s some race results I’m wanting to listen to. Ill offer him a few bob to teach themthe poor old devil could do with it. AR. KELLY used to be a champion boxer, Eric said with authority as he walked with Mike down into the town. He carried the gloves and the letter, Mike had insisted on bringing

the scrapbook too: he hurried along to keep up with Eric’s brisk steps. -I know that, Mike replied indigfantly. You don’t know everything. Eric walked silently for a while. -Anyhow, Mike taunted, I know something you don’t know. Eric preserved an aloof silence. -I saw Mr. Kelly one day in the park, Mike continued triumphantly. He was laughing away all by himself. And there wasn’t nobody round. And he was just sitting there laughing all by himself. I saw him. He didn’t see me. Eric still wouldn’t say anything. They were walking along the main street now. There were other kids round, too: but they weren’t going to learn boxing from a champion. They were only going to the afternoon pictures. -Eric, Mike said at last in a soft, curious voice. -What? Eric asked sharply. -What was he laughing like that for? All by himself? Eric thought for a few seconds. -Because, he said presently. Because he must’we remembered something funny, that’s what. He must’ve thought of a hang of a funny joke. -Oh, Mike said, nodding profoundly and looking up to Eric with admiration. I never thought of that. That’s funny. Mr. Kelly’s place was funny, too. It was a little room, right on ithe main street, up above the bootmaker’s shop, where he lived all by himself. You had to go through a side door and climb a rickety creaky staircase that got darker up towards the top. -You go first, Mike said as they began to climb, -You’re scared, Eric accused. -lI’m not. I’m not scared a bit. -Well, if you’re not scared, you go first. Here’s. the letter. Mike reached the top of the stairs and knocked timidly on the door, Inside the room they heard a sudden clinking noise, like the sound of bottles being knocked together and pushed away. Presently there were footsteps, the door opened a little way, and Mr. Kelly looked through: he was dressed in a dirty singlet with patched working trousegs and sandshoes. -Hullo, he said. Who’s that? He blinked hard, trying to see them properly. Without speaking, Mike pushed the letter into his hand, -Come in, boys, Mr. Kelly said, holdirg the door wide: they went through into the tiny room. There was a bed on one side, with the blankets all rumpled. And there was a little table and on it a milk bottle and some bread and a frying pan and a burnt sausage and some egg-shells. And there was a glass with something coloured in it. On the wall there was a picture of Mr. Kelly when he wasn’t so old; he was stripped down to his boxing shorts and he held up his bare fists to the camera, Underneath there were some silver cups, but they mostly seemed to be filled with old papers or cigarette butts and ash. And on a small (continued on page 30)

The Gloves (continued from page 8) chest of drawers, beside a cracked bit of mirror and a soapy shaving brush, there was another photo, but in that one he was dressed in old-fashioned clothes and he had his arm round a smiling pretty girl: you could see her white teeth and the dimples at the sides of her mouth. Mike looked at it wonderingly. He hadn’t ever seen Mr. Kelly with a lady before. -Sit down, boys, Mr. Kelly said. Sit down, They sat on the edge of the bed and watched him read. The thin paper shook in his hands, His eyes were red and kept blinking. There was a smell in the room and it was stronger close to Mr. Kelly. When he'd finished reading the letter, he screwed up his eyes tight for a few seconds. -Hah, he said. A little frightened, Mike moved closer to Eric on the bed. -You want to learn to fight, eh? Mr. Kelly said, looking down at. them with a kind of grin: his face was all wrinkled, his nose was flat, and skin hung down over his eyes. His chin had bristly whiskers and there was a wet lumpy cigarette that had gone out in his mouth. Mike shifted uncomfortably under his stare, then suddenly held forward the scrapbook. -We save boxers’ pictures, Eric and I do, he said, Mr. Kelly brought his face down closer to them; he couldn’t seem to hold it still because it swayed. round. The smell was much stronger. ~-Hah, he said. His eyes blinked and he screwed them up again. Mike looked uncertainly to Eric: he looked scared, too.

-Well, said Mr. Kelly, straightening up so quickly he nearly fell over: he gave a little giggle, like a girl’s. Well, I'll show you two the old straight left, hey? FOR a long time Mr. Kelly showed them things. He showed them the straight left and the right cross and the left hook and the right uppercut and how to hold their guard and how to move their feet. All the time he showed them he was jumping and bouncing round the room punching at nothing: he did the things so quickly and talked so fast that Mike looked puzzled; it was as though Mr. Kelly had forgotten all about them sitting on the bed watching, as though he was just talking to himself. And the more he punched and talked, the harder he’d breathe: and his mouth would hang open while his breath made little whistles. And his eyes would blink and screw up, and every now and then after he’d thrown a big punch, he’d stop and say: | -Hah, Or he'd give another little giggle before he’d start dancing round again. And his sandshoes slapped up and down on the bare wooden floor: patter-pat, patter-pat, patter-pat. -Hah. After a very long while Mr. Kelly seemed to remember them. And while his breath made little whistles, he laced up their gloves with shaky hand. -Now let’s see you in action, hey? And he went over to the table and had a quick sip at the glass. Mike stood still while Eric danced tound like Mr. Kelly had: now and then Eric’d poke out his left, but he didn’t try to hit Mike. -Hah. (continued on next page)

{continued trom previous page) Mr. Kelly was sitting at the table row. He had the glass in his hand. His red eyes blinked and screwed up. -Come on now, hey? Eric’s glove touched lightly against the side of Mike’s head. Mike put his glove against Eric’s face, trying to push him away. Mr. Kelly didn’t say anything. Mike looked over to him: his face was all twisted up in a funny way. Just then Eric’s glove hit Mike’s face. It stung his nose and made his eyes water. He tried to push Eric away again, but this time his glove caught under Eric’s jaw and made the teeth come together with a loud click, Eric hit him back on the side of the head, and he hit Eric in the eye. Then they were punching each other all the time. Mike noticed for a second that Mr. Kelly was rocking round in his chair, all excited with his face still twisted up. It was just about then that Mike slipped and fell to the floor. Eric knelt beside him. -I didn’t want to hurt you, he said. I’m sorry. -yYou didn’t hurt me, Mike said. You don’t ever hurt me. Then they got up on their feet and started to punch each other again. Mr. Kelly’s chair was making a lot of noise as he rocked around. -Hah. Eric hit Mike, Mike hit Eric. -Hah. They hit each other hard. -Hah. And Eric was still dancing round like Mr. Kelly had. Mike tried to dance round, too. They were hitting each other faster now. Mr. Kelly gave a kind of shout, only it was so choked up you couldn't hear what he said. Eric punched Mike on the nose again, and his eyes got so watery it was hard to see. He hit Eric’s face and got tangled up with Eric’s gloves. Mr. Kelly was on his feet, jumping round shouting. You could hear what he said now. -Kill him, kill him. And they were hitting each other hard and Mr. Kelly was jumping round shouting and Mike looked scared and Eric hit him on the’ nose again, and he fell over on the floor and started to ae Eric came down beside him and gently helped him up. -We won't fight any more, Eric said. I don’t want to hurt you. And then they heard the other sound. They looked round and saw that Mr. Kelly wasn’t jumping round shouting any more: he had fallen across the rumpled blankets of the bed, his legs out wide, his back heaving up and down as he choked and sobbed. T was late afternoon: along the riverbank, where the boys sat, the trees played their long cool shadows out over the dark swirl of deep water. Mike had almost stopped crying now that Eric had at last removed the gloves: now they lay limp and unwanted at their feet, beside the scrapbook. -I don’t care, Mike said. I don’t ever care what you say. I don’t want to any more. -You’re just a silly crybaby, Eric said. Just because--I don’t care, Mike said. I heard what he said. He was jumping round shouting it out. -He was just pretending, Eric said. People just pretend:like that. And Mr. Kelly’s sick and sad. ; -How do you know? Mike demanded.

I just know, Eric said firmly. ~-Anyhow, Mike said, I don’t care. I'm not going to any more. -yYou’re scared, that’s what. -I’m not scared. I could clean up everyone in the whole world if I wanted to. But I don’t want to. I don’t have to if I don’t want to. -Silly, Eric murmured. Mike rose defiantly to his feet, tears still running down his cheeks. -lI don’t care what you say, he said. I don’t ever care what you say. He went to retrieve the gloves and the scrapbook. Then, quickly, before Eric could stop him, he flung them away. They fell in the river with short, quick splashes: the gloves first, then the scrapbook, its pages fluttering open as it dropped. Eric leapt to his feet with a cry, striking out; but Mike dodged away, running, beginning to sob. -1I don’t ever care, he shouted. ' Eric scrambled down to the edge of the river, wading in to try and get the

gloves as they floated past. He ignored the scrapbook spread wide on the water, already soggy and ruined. He managed to reach one of the gloves. But the current had caught the others, and they were swept quickly away, too far out. As Mike’s small running figure merged with the riverbank’s fading afternoon shadows and finally disappeared, the thin shrillness of his shout came drifting back: -I don’t ever care. Standing waist-deep in the cold-flow-ing water, his wet clothing clinging heavily to his chilled skin, Eric looked down at the useless single glove in his hand. Then he looked to the others, bobbing and dancing their way downstream. Quickly, jerkily, he threw the glove after them-and then, turning and wading slowly back to the bank, dried a hand on his shirt, felt up to his face and discovered with surprise a lonely tear falling warmly down his cheek.