A thin drizzle was wetting the pavements as Kelly’s taxi headed for the station. He was feeling on top of the world, certain by this time that he couldn’t ever be killed and with a bit of luck not even wounded.
Despite his tiredness, he felt ready for anything, even a bit of a rakehell. This time, he decided, he might try to get Charley in a corner at the back of the house. Then he drew a deep breath, almost a steadying breath. Charley still wasn’t that old and he’d have to watch his step or he’d be making a fool of himself and trouble for them both.
He sat up straighter in his seat. Through the rain that was smearing the windscreen, he saw a sailor trudging towards the station. He recognised him by his bulk as Rumbelo and stopped the taxi.
‘Fancy a lift, Rumbelo?’
Rumbelo grinned and spat the rain from his lips. His blue serge was saturated.
‘No overcoat?’
‘Haven’t got one, sir. It’s in Norseman.’
‘Did you get leave? I suggested under the circumstances that you ought to.’
‘Yes, sir. They gave me leaf.’ Rumbelo settled himself in the taxi, smelling of wet wool, and they spoke as old friends and shipmates separated only by rank.
‘Where are you going?’ Kelly asked.
‘London.’
‘Family?’
‘Lor’ bless you, no, sir. I ain’t got any family. I’m an orphanage entrant.’
‘Oh! What will you do then?’
‘Hang about the pubs, sir.’
It seemed a desperately sad way for Rumbelo to spend his leave.
‘Haven’t you any brothers or sisters?’
Rumbelo smiled. ‘Had a brother, sir. But my old man was a sailor, too, so there might be one or two others about as well.’
He seemed remarkably cheerful and his very cheerfulness depressed Kelly.
‘You’ll be seeing friends, I suppose.’
‘Ain’t got none, sir. Least, not ashore. My friends are in the ship I’m in. The ship’s me home, see.’
‘No girlfriend?’
‘One in every port. Nothing regular, though.’
‘Pity.’ An idea struck Kelly. ‘You any good with horses, Rumbelo?’
Rumbelo smiled, unperturbed, the typical seaman. ‘Used to be a stable boy, sir. After I left the orphanage. Two years at it, and six months as a hotel porter before I joined the Navy.’
‘We’ve got horses, Rumbelo. At least, my mother has. I always fall off ’em myself.’
Rumbelo turned, his eyes shrewd. ‘You don’t have to be sympathetic, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll manage. I’ve managed before.’
‘It’s not that. It seems so rotten a chap like you having nowhere to go. After all, you did save my life there in Antwerp.’
‘Just wiping off a debt, sir. You saved mine at Spithead a few years back, I seem to remember.’
‘My mother might be glad of someone who’s good with horses. She’s potty about them. How about coming home with me? There are stables and I know there’s a room for the groom.’
Rumbelo eyed him with a gentle expression. ‘That’s kind of you, sir,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know.’
‘I’m not offering charity, Rumbelo. It just seems rotten that a seaman under my command should have nowhere to go for his leave. Or perhaps you don’t like being in the country?’
‘I like the country, sir. But where can a sailor doss down in the country? London’s different. Plenty of soldiers’ and sailors’ clubs. The Salvation Army looks after you, sir.’
‘I think you’d better come home with me, Rumbelo,’ Kelly said quietly. ‘My mother will probably fall on your neck, especially if you can handle a pony and trap.’
Rumbelo seemed to be having difficulty speaking. ‘Look, sir–’
‘Forget it, Rumbelo. It’s decided. After all, if we’re going to serve in submarines together–’
‘Are we, sir?’
‘I thought you’d decided we were.’
Rumbelo grinned. ‘I didn’t know you ’ad, sir.’
There was a strange silence about the house when they arrived. Bridget, the little maid from Ireland, opened the door but instead of the wide, pink-faced grin with which she usually greeted Kelly, there was only a sniffle and a flash of red-rimmed eyes.
‘Bridget, what’s wrong?’
‘You better see your mother, Master Kelly. She’ll tell you.’
Alarmed, Kelly looked at Rumbelo, who was waiting quietly behind him. ‘Just hang on, Rumbelo,’ he said. ‘Something’s up. Bridget, this is Able Seaman Rumbelo. Take him to the kitchen and see he gets something to eat. I’ll collect him later.’
His mother was sitting silently in the drawing room with the curtains drawn. She looked up as he entered but said nothing.
‘Mother, what’s happened? Is it Father?’ With his own recent experience in Cressy, the first thing that occurred to Kelly was that his father had been sent to sea at last and torpedoed.
She said nothing but handed him a telegram. ‘The War Office regrets to inform you–’
‘Gerald!’
His mother nodded.
‘Oh, Lord, no!’ The news came as a shock. Kelly had already seen many men die, but he had never from the first day of the war been able to imagine himself dying; and it had somehow always been an even stronger conviction that it could never happen to Gerald. Gerald was like his father, stolid, unhurried, correct, never providing surprises but certainly never in trouble.
Kelly frowned, guiltily aware that, despite the initial shock, he felt remarkably little pain. Somehow, he felt, he ought to have a greater sense of loss than he did, a greater consciousness of hurt. But there was surprisingly little because, since his first day at Dartmouth, Gerald’s leaves from the army had never seemed to coincide with his own and they’d grown up almost as strangers.
Troubled that his emotions weren’t deeper than they were, he tried to find out more without causing his mother extra anguish.
‘Where, Mother?’
‘Somewhere called the Aisne. Where’s that, Kelly? Your Uncle Paddy’s there as well. At his age, too!’
‘It’s a river in France, Mother.’
His mother sighed. ‘Somehow,’ she said slowly, ‘I always thought it would be you.’ She drew a deep breath and Kelly watched her, living every moment of misery with her but bitterly recognising that he was unable to feel the same.
‘The Upfolds sent a message,’ she went on. ‘The general’s dead, too.’
‘Brigadier Upfold?’
‘They made him a major-general. To take the place of someone who became ill. They thought it was a nice safe job but it seems a shell hit his headquarters and there were quite a lot of them killed.’
Up to that moment Kelly’s war had been almost too swiftly-moving for him to be able properly to absorb the tragedy of it. There had been no time to dwell on anything as he had been snatched from Clarendon to Cressy, from Cressy to Malice, and Malice to Norseman, and then on to Antwerp. He’d barely had time to assimilate the fact that he’d been in danger, and, so far, there’d even been a strong farcical element about it all.
He looked at his mother, his heart filled with compassion for her. Since he’d grown to manhood, he’d realised just what she’d had to endure in the manner of lies and disinterest from his father. Yet she’d never made any comment on her situation, trying to show loyalty and interest in her husband’s career, sympathy in his retirement and encouragement in his re-employment. It was only now that Kelly realised just how much of it was based on pretence and how much of it was done for her children.
His mother spoke. ‘Mabel’s friend, that young man in the dragoons, was killed, too. Somewhere near this place, Mons, everybody’s talking about.’
Her hand waved vaguely at the newspaper and Kelly could see the casualty lists, solid columns of type running the whole length of the sheet. They seemed almost too long to be believable.
‘The Upfolds have rented a place about two miles away,’ she went on. ‘They thought it would be nice for your father and the general to be close. Now – well–’ her voice died away.
‘How is Father?’
She looked at him wearily. Her life had not been a satisfying one. Indeed, she had never really been able to understand how she had come to be married to Admiral Maguire, and had put all her future in the hands of her sons. Now, with one of them dead and the other a stranger after several years at sea so that he’d grown up differently from the rest of the family, tough-minded, self-reliant and touched with that element of variety all born sailors – in which category she did not include her husband – possessed, she knew that their positions had changed and that she was no longer the dominant one of the two.
‘There’s a letter on my desk,’ she said. ‘I gather he might go to the Middle East in some shore job for the Mediterranean Fleet. He’s due home on leave. It’s such a funny war, isn’t it?’
Walking in the fields at the back of the house, Kelly pondered the strangeness of life.
With Gerald dead, he was now heir to his father’s title. From now on he’d have to try hard not to get killed, because otherwise there’d be no one to take it over. Sir Kelly Maguire. He tried it round his tongue for size and was ashamed to realise he liked it. It would make Verschoyle green with envy if nothing else, but it was a poor way to come to it, having to have Gerald lying buried somewhere beneath the soil of France.
Rumbelo was sitting on the fence at the edge of the paddock, smoking a pipe bound with twine. Kelly could smell the navy twist fifty yards away.
‘Hello, Rumbelo,’ he said. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, sir. Bridget – that is, the girl – showed me where I could sleep.’
‘Is it all right?’
‘It’s fine, sir.’
‘Bit spartan, I expect.’
‘Better than a dosshouse or the Salvation Army.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ve just heard that my brother’s been killed, Rumbelo.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Bridget told me. My brother was killed with the West Kents.’ Rumbelo spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Orphanage entrant, like me, but he decided for the army. They sent me a telegram to Gib. I hadn’t seen him for years.’
‘I’m sorry, Rumbelo.’
Kelly tried to change the subject. He had a suspicion that the war was going to go on a long time – at least, Kitchener seemed to think so and from the way it was shaping it looked as though he was going to be right – and they would have to get used to tragedy and personal loss. It seemed to be something it would be unwise to brood on.
Rumbelo seemed to sense his unease. ‘If there’s anything I can do, sir? Help about the place, for instance. I mean – I shouldn’t think your Mum’ll be doing much riding while you’re home.’
‘No, but she’ll be using the dog cart. Can you handle one?’
‘Done it often, sir.’
Kelly managed a twisted smile. ‘Where have you been all this time, Rumbelo? I think we’re going to enjoy having you around.’
‘I think I’m going to enjoy being around, sir.’
‘Yes – well – look, Rumbelo, I ought to go and see our next-door neighbours. Name of Upfold. How about giving it a try? This evening, say? I expect Bridget will be able to tell you where they live.’
‘I’ll make enquiries, sir.’
‘Christ, Rumbelo, you sound like the family butler.’
Rumbelo smiled. ‘Don’t think that’d suit me much, sir.’
As dusk was falling, the dog cart with Rumbelo at the reins, clad in a pair of Admiral Maguire’s flannel trousers and a jacket and an old shirt belonging to Kelly, clattered down the gravel drive and on to the main road.
‘Know the way, Rumbelo?’
‘I walked it to have a look.’
‘My God, Rumbelo, you’re efficient.’
‘Thought I might just as well be on the safe side, sir. Sorry to hear about your young lady losing her father, sir,’
Kelly’s head turned. ‘How did you know about my young lady?’
Rumbelo’s eyes were on the road. ‘Bridget likes to talk, sir.’
‘Yes, I suppose she does. I never thought he’d be killed, though. He seemed too old for that sort of thing. Her sister also lost her young man.’
‘So I heard, sir.’
‘It’s a bloody funny war, Rumbelo.’
‘I think it’s going to get funnier, sir.’
‘I think it is. I think we’re going to need all the courage we’ve got before we’ve finished.’
‘A sense of humour helps, I’ve found, sir. A bit of a laugh goes a long way.’
Charley saw them coming down the drive and was out on the front steps to meet them. She’d had her hair cut short and instead of the woollen stockings Kelly had always seen her in she was wearing silk ones. She smiled, suddenly shy with him, but fresh and clean and calm.
‘Hello, Charley. This is Able Seaman Rumbelo. We’ve just come from Antwerp. He saved my life. I’m going to try to get him into the same ship as me. He hadn’t anywhere to go to spend his leave so I brought him home. Everybody has to have somewhere to go.’
Charley smiled at Rumbelo. ‘I think if you’d like to tie the pony up,’ she said, ‘they might be able to find you some beer in the kitchen.’
She was brisk, informative and no-nonsense, but she looked desperately pale, too, and there was a look of shock and a youthful lack of comprehension in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry about your father, Charley,’ Kelly blurted out.
‘Yes. Mother’s gone up to town about his estate.’ Her eyes moistened and he kicked himself, wondering if he’d been unnecessarily cruel. Then she made a sad little gesture with her shoulders like a shrug, as though trying to ignore it. ‘We’ve got over it a bit now,’ she went on with a hard matter-of-factness that he knew was all put on to help her steel herself against what had suddenly become a very brutal and relentless stream of events.
‘I’m sorry about Gerald,’ she said.
‘Yes. Poor Mabel, too!’
Charley sighed, then she seemed to take hold of her emotions, forcing herself to face the fact that their world – that place of warmth, security and stability they’d known as children – had started to fall apart the day the first shot of the war was fired and was vanishing now in a welter of adult unreason and misery. Young as she was, she’d reached the conclusion that all the tears that could ever be shed would never make it the same again.
‘Mabel’s going to be all right,’ she said sharply. ‘She’s too good-looking and too stupid to be alone for long. He wasn’t important to her, anyway. It’s sad, isn’t it, because he probably went away thinking he was, and probably even died thinking he was helping to prevent the Germans coming here to bully her.’
She sounded remarkably grown-up. ‘In any case,’ she ended, ‘there’s another one here already.’
‘There is?’
‘Yes. He came in a Morris runabout. He’s naval. One of your lot this time. In fact, he told me a horrible story about you. He knows you. He said you were last seen in Antwerp rushing to the Dutch frontier to get yourself interned.’
‘Verschoyle!’
‘That’s right! James Verschoyle. Do you know him?’
‘I’ve always known him. What’s he doing here?’
‘He lives here. He always did.’
Kelly’s face flushed with rage. ‘Charley, I didn’t go rushing to get myself interned in Holland! The pinnace I took ashore was blown up. Rumbelo and I and a few more brought back a hundred and fifty men.’
She didn’t seem surprised. ‘I know.’
‘You knew?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t run away.’
‘You did? How?’
‘I don’t know. I just did.’
‘Go on. I’m no hero.’
‘Well, you’re different from James Verschoyle, that’s true. He’s the sort who does things in style. You’re the sort who’ll just keep on keeping on and I think before it’s finished that’s probably what we’ll need. We’ll all be in it eventually. I’m going to get a job working a typewriting machine.’
‘But you’re only a kid!’
‘I shan’t be much longer.’
Kelly looked round. Rumbelo had disappeared with the dog cart round the back of the house and he leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. She drew back from him, startled but obviously pleased, her cheeks growing pink.
‘Now let’s go and see this bastard who’s with Mabel,’ he said.
Verschoyle was startled to see Kelly, to say the least. Mabel Upfold was sitting at the piano and he was standing alongside her, languid and elegant as ever, turning the sheets of music over.
‘Hello, young Maguire,’ he said, recovering his poise quickly and moving forward. ‘I thought you’d got yourself captured in Antwerp.’
Conscious of Mabel watching them from across the room, Kelly managed a death’s head grin to her as he pretended friendship. ‘I expect you did,’ he said loudly. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And thanks for suggesting I bolted for Holland to get myself interned,’ he added. ‘I think you’re a shit, Verschoyle.’
Charley had joined Mabel by the piano and they were waiting for the muttering by the door to come to an end. Verschoyle glanced at them, duplicating Kelly’s fixed smile. Then he turned back to Kelly. The suspicions he’d had in Norseman that he’d grown harder and more dangerous had been amply confirmed, but his attitude to Kelly had been fixed over the years and he was unable to apologise or retreat. ‘A few more words like that, young Maguire,’ he murmured ‘and I shall be obliged to punch your nose.’
‘Any time you like.’
Verschoyle frowned. He had no real wish to indulge in fisticuffs. Standing in shorts and vest and gloves in the ring before the admiral and the rest of the fleet at a boxing tournament was one thing; brawling was another. He enjoyed the applause he got as a boxer but what lay in front of him now, he suspected, lay in an entirely different category. He had no fear of losing but he had an uneasy feeling that with this dour, dogged, hot-eyed youngster it was going to be a much more bloody affair.
‘Not here,’ he said quietly. ‘Wouldn’t be manners.’ He turned to direct another beaming smile at the two girls then swung back to Kelly. ‘Afterwards. There’s a moon.’
‘There’s also a shrubbery at the end of the drive. I’ll be waiting for you.’
Verschoyle smiled at the girls again. ‘I picked up a nickname at Gib,’ he pointed out. ‘For boxing.’
‘I heard it. “Cruiser.” I’m going to bloody well sink you.’
‘Tut, such language.’ Verschoyle’s smile was growing a little fixed. ‘Very well, then. When we leave.’ He turned to the two girls, his voice loud and cheerful again. ‘How about playing that thing, “Fall In and Follow Me,” Charlotte, so we can try a foxtrot or two?’
Charley shook her head, her face stiff and loyal to Kelly. ‘If any dancing’s being done,’ she said. ‘I’m dancing myself – with Kelly.’
‘Ah!’ Verschoyle was quite unperturbed. ‘Oh, well, perhaps we can use the gramophone instead.’
The evening passed tensely, with Kelly glaring across the room, Charley, aware of his dislike and troubled alongside him, watching him carefully. Unaware of the boiling hatred, Mabel stayed by the piano. They were both making a great effort to be brave and Kelly held on to his temper for their sake. Feeling that circumstances precluded anything lighter than classics, Mabel stuck to Chopin and it was Charley, heavy-handed and indifferent as a pianist, who went determinedly for ragtime.
‘Somebody’s got to behave as though nothing’s happened,’ she said. ‘The world’s got to go on, in spite of Father.’
Kelly stared at her determined young face with admiration and she managed a quick smile.
‘I play like the field coming up to the first fence at a point-to-point,’ she said.
But at least she played with verve and the evening proved just bearable. As Kelly left, Verschoyle was still saying goodbye to Mabel. Charley saw Kelly to the door.
‘What are you up to?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, you are. I’ve seen it all night. You’re seething.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you be seething after what Verschoyle said? I didn’t run away.’
‘Of course you didn’t. I know that. But setting about Verschoyle won’t prove a thing.’
‘Who says I’m setting about him?’
‘Nobody, but I know you’re going to.’
‘How, for God’s sake?’
‘I just know you, that’s all.’ Charley looked at him sadly. ‘Why do boys always want to fight?’ she said. ‘Isn’t there enough pain in the world?’
Kelly stared at her unhappily. ‘It’s got to be done, Charley,’ he said doggedly. ‘If only to stop him spreading the story around. I’ve got a reputation and a career to think of. I’m sorry it’s got to be done now, but leaving it and doing it later would be damn silly. If I could I’d sue the swine, but I can’t afford that and wouldn’t know how to, anyway, and besides he’s got more money than I have and he’d get some rotten expensive lawyer to prove he was right, and then I’d be right back where I started – only worse.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still thinking.’
He kissed her good night with the gentleness of an excited prizefighter about to begin a sparring match, and left her to look for Rumbelo.
Rumbelo studied him shrewdly. ‘Something up, sir?’
‘Yes, Rumbelo. I’ve arranged to fight Lieutenant Verschoyle,’
Rumbelo stared at him for a moment. ‘You’ve picked the wrong bloody man this time, sir, if you’ll excuse me saying so.’
‘No, I haven’t, Rumbelo!’
‘That one’s a boxer, sir. And he’s tall. He’ll make mincemeat of you.’
‘No, he won’t! I’ve wanted to punch him on his bloody handsome nose ever since I first met him at Dartmouth, and even if he knocks me out, I’m going to put my mark on him.’
Rumbelo was silent for a moment. ‘I saw him finish off Stoker Harben at Gibraltar, sir. And Stoker Harben–’
‘ – looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.’
Rumbelo’s eyebrows rose. ‘Does he, sir? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.’
‘What am I going to do, Rumbelo? I’ve got to do something.’
Rumbelo considered for a moment. ‘Well, sir, I told you I was an orphanage entrant and when I was a little nipper I was very small–’
Kelly gave an impulsive grin. ‘I don’t believe you. I bet you were born six feet six and built like a brewer’s dray.’
Rumbelo grinned back. ‘No, sir, it’s true. And one of the first things I learned was that “Thrice blessed be he what gets his blow in fust”.’
‘Might not work with Mr Verschoyle.’
‘It might, sir,’ Rumbelo said, unperturbed. ‘Mind you, this is none of my affair. Officers aren’t supposed to have words in front of the lower deck, let alone using their dukes.’
‘Something’s got to be done, Rumbelo, ain’t it?’
‘All right, sir, how about this? I’ve seen Mr Verschoyle in action. He’ll box. So don’t let him.’
‘How do I stop him?’
‘Well, I’ve been in one or two rough-houses. Dockside pubs and that. I learned a thing or two. Get your blow in first. Tap his claret. Never mind this straight left to the jaw tripe. A set of fives on his hooter’s much better. It’ll bleed and spoil his shirt. It’ll also stop him breathing and, if you hit him hard enough, he’ll think it’s broke and he’s the sort to start worrying about his looks. Above all, it’ll make his eyes run and then he won’t be able to see you.’
Kelly grinned. ‘Go on, Rumbelo. I don’t think all this comes under King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions but we’ll forget that for the moment. Just now, you’re the family groom giving advice to the young master.’
Rumbelo grinned back. ‘Right, sir. So get in a couple of good ones on his conk and you’ve won. If you can manage to butt him on it accidentally on purpose so much the better. And once you’ve got him on the run, don’t let him get his breath back. Just keep on hitting him.’
‘You mean when he’s down?’
‘Up, down, anywhere,’ Rumbelo paused. ‘Well, if it’s a pub rough-house you do, but it’d mebbe get round the Fleet, so perhaps you’d better fight fair. Or fairly fair, anyway. Just keep hitting him instead. Just don’t give him a chance to come back at you. Keep him back-pedalling all the time. I reckon you’re as strong as he is. Just a bit shorter in the arm.’
‘A bit weaker in the head, too, I think. All right, Rumbelo. I’ll do as you suggest. And thanks for the tip. And Rumbelo, you’d better buzz off. If you’re seen, it’ll be bad.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘And not a word either.’
‘Not a peep, sir.’
There was no sign of Rumbelo when Verschoyle’s runabout came clattering down the drive. Kelly stepped in front of it and it slid to a halt with locked wheels, scoring the gravel.
Verschoyle beamed. ‘You’re determined to make an ass of yourself, aren’t you, young Maguire?’
‘Yes. And don’t call me “young Maguire”. You’re a liar and a swine and probably too yellow to get out of the car and fight.’
Verschoyle sighed. ‘Well, that’s one way of making me,’ he said. ‘One isn’t called a liar and a rotter and a coward often in the same sentence.’ He switched off the engine and lifted a long leg over the door. ‘Where do you fancy?’
‘Among the trees here.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I know all right.’
‘How about that groom of yours? I saw one round the kitchen when I was saying goodbye. I don’t want him jumping on me and holding my hands behind me so you can hit me.’
The suggestion made Kelly see red and he forced himself to be calm. Rumbelo’s words were still in his ears: ‘Don’t let him get your rag out, sir. He’ll try. He’ll try to make you mad so you’ll do something daft. Don’t let him.’
Icily, he said, ‘He’s been sent on. There’s only me and you.’
Rumbelo, he guessed, was hiding in the bushes somewhere for a grandstand view.
Verschoyle began to unbutton his jacket. ‘Oh, very well then.’ He sounded thoroughly bored. ‘But let’s get this straight.’ His smile had vanished and his eyes were hard in the moonlight. ‘When people call me a liar and a coward, they must expect what’s coming to them.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘I hope you are.’
Verschoyle dropped his jacket to the grass. Kelly struggled out of his own jacket, fighting to contain his boiling temper. Verschoyle’s very calmness was acting as a goad.
‘Right?’
‘Right.’
Verschoyle straightened up, left foot and left arm forward, fight arm well back; right hand below his chin.
‘You can always back out,’ he said.
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘Very well, here goes.’
Verschoyle’s left jerked out and Kelly was immediately aware of tears in his eyes and a very painful mouth. Vaguely he heard a voice that sounded like Rumbelo’s murmur ‘Oh, Christ!’ somewhere in the shadows, then he forced himself to gather his senses and hold his temper in check. He knew exactly what he intended. He hadn’t a cat in hell’s chance of standing up to Verschoyle in a proper contest. His only hope was to make one of Rumbelo’s rough-houses of it.
He backed off, while Verschoyle stood watching, a smile on his lips. He was still smiling, when Kelly rushed at him.
Verschoyle hadn’t been expecting such sudden or such early aggression. His reputation usually went before him and most people he met in the ring sparred carefully round him a few times to see what he was going to do. This time, however, the whole weight of Kelly’s body hit him in the chest and sent him staggering backwards, his arms flailing as he struggled to keep his balance. While he was still wondering what had happened, he was aware of a sharp pain between the eyes and found himself lying on his back, staring at the sky. He put a hand up cautiously and realised his nose was bleeding.
‘I think it’s broken,’ Kelly said cheerfully.
‘Oh, Christ, no! Not that, you little bastard!’
As Verschoyle scrambled to his feet and pushed out his left arm again, he was bowled over once more by another violent rush and another heavy blow on his nose. His shirt was spattered with blood, and for a change this time, it was Verschoyle who lost his temper.
Rushing forward in a fury, he swung wildly, missed and tripped over Kelly’s leg as he ducked aside. As he scrambled to his feet again, a clout at the side of the head sent him reeling, then another closed his left eye.
‘You little bastard,’ he snarled. ‘That was cheating!’
‘Well, it ain’t the Marquess of Queensberry rules,’ Kelly panted. ‘But you’ve never known the meaning of fair play, anyway.’
Another clout sent Verschoyle reeling and, as he staggered back, a bunch of knuckles caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip and loosening a tooth. While he was still dizzy, a whole flurry of blows caught him about the head and he fell on one knee, aware suddenly that this was one fight he wasn’t going to win. As he straightened up again, the madman opposite rushed at him and he went down once more.
Again he struggled to his feet but Kelly was showing no mercy. Rumbelo had stressed very firmly that he hadn’t to let Verschoyle get his breath and as soon as he was on his feet and upright again, he flung himself at him, fists whirling. The fight had lasted no more than three minutes when Verschoyle found himself sprawled on the grass, his head in a bush, feebly waving a hand.
‘All right,’ he panted. ‘All right. Pax, you rotten little swine! You didn’t give me a chance.’
Kelly stared down at him, startled by the swiftness and completeness of his victory and knowing that Verschoyle’s bullying was finished for ever. ‘I’ll never give you a chance, Verschoyle,’ he grated. ‘Remember that. Never. Just keep clear of me or I’ll do it again. Somehow. Understood?’
Versehoyle’s hand waved gently and, picking up his jacket, Kelly flung it at him, then, snatching up his own, he marched out of the gate and set off for home.