Blood Line: Sometimes Tragedy Is in Your Blood. Julie Shaw

made Charlie strictly comfortable, always trying to catch him out doing something wrong, so he could give him a thump or a whack with his leather belt.

      ‘A sneaky bugger.’ Charlie had heard his dad call him that once. Which had hurt him, because he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. But it had been all right, because he’d said it to his mam, and she’d given him hell for it. She always did. She was like an animal – his protector, was how he always thought of it. Oh, if she copped his dad giving him the belt for no reason she’d lay into him good and proper, would his mam.

      As well as waiting on at the Punch Bowl, which he’d done ever since Charlie could remember, his dad earned a few bob from boxing. He’d do it at the Spicer Street Club, where, unbeknown to the police, they would throw open their back doors and happily host a fight – and between anyone who thought they could throw a punch. It was a nice earner for the landlord, because he’d take bets from the crowd, providing a pot to be shared between him and the winner.

      Much as he disliked his father, Charlie loved being taken to watch a fight with him. Boxing was in his blood, and it enthralled him. For as long as he could remember he had watched his dad training in the back yard, punching away at a huge home-made punch bag that was hung from an enormous hook fixed into the house wall. Charlie had even watched his mam make it; it was actually a coal sack that she’d filled with pieces of old lino that had been scraped up, bit by bit, from his grandmother’s kitchen floor.

      Charlie trained too. He’d begun when he was three. The linoleum in the sack hurt his knuckles like mad, but he’d soon worked out that it was the one time when his dad would give him his time, so if he’d had his way he’d have punched away all day.

      And boxing was the one thing that made his dad proud of him. Never prouder than when he heard Reggie telling his mam, ‘That kid’s gonna be the next Jack Dempsey’.

      ‘Where’ve you been?’ Annie said now, pulling pins from her hair. ‘You should have been in half an hour back. We’re in a hurry. We’re off to Spicer Street. Your dad’s taking on Billy Brennan today and it’s worth a lot of money.’

      It was a Friday afternoon and Charlie was just home from school. He was tired – no matter how long his legs got, the three-mile walk was never less than punishing come a Friday – but this was the best news he’d had all day.

      ‘I met some mates and we had a kick around,’ he said by way of explanation, lingering for a moment to watch his mam doing her hair. It was black like his and his dad’s but soft where theirs was wiry, and he loved watching her doing it, seeing how she magically made it change, sliding the pins out that she’d put in the night before, in tight little crosses, to reveal curls that would spring out and fall onto her shoulders in big lazy S shapes. He thought she was beautiful and he was glad when people said they could see her in him. She was like a movie star, especially when she put petroleum jelly on her eyebrows. It made her look like that actress Greta Garbo.

      ‘D’ya think me dad will win, Mam?’ he asked her now.

      She grinned. ‘He better do, son,’ she said, pulling her pink cardigan over her shoulders. ‘I’ve got all my mates betting on him. Now go on, go upstairs and get changed, then come back down and wash your face. We have to go.’

      Charlie ran upstairs. He’d been the last one home, he knew, but, bar his mam, the house was empty. His big sister Margaret would have taken the rest off to the park, and she’d be giving them their bread and jam after as well. He had lots of brothers and sisters now – they seemed to keep arriving all the time. As well as Margaret, there was young Reggie, who was eight now, and Eunice, who was five, then two-year old Ronnie and little Annie who was still a baby. There was another one coming too, but not till next year, his mam had told him. And he was glad it wasn’t yet, because he didn’t know where they’d fit. His gran always said there was no room to swing a cat in their house, and he agreed. They were all packed in just like sardines.

      But this afternoon was his, and as he ran into the bedroom he felt a familiar sense of excited anticipation. When Reggie was nine he’d be allowed to come too, but for the moment, at least, going to the boxing was Charlie’s treat alone.

      And as he pulled off his jumper, he also had a brain wave. The week before, he had earned a small fortune – a whole thruppence – for running betting slips around the estate for Mr Cappovanni. Mr Cappovanni was a bookie and his family came from Italy, and Charlie had done work for him for a while now.

      Not that he let on quite how much he’d been getting. No, he usually hid it, where it was out of harm’s reach, on this occasion inside a rip in the mattress upstairs. His dad only earned a pound and 12 shillings at the Punch Bowl, so Charlie knew if he knew about it he’d be after getting his hands on it, so he could blow it on beer for him and Annie. So Charlie constantly came up with new places to hide his earnings so he could be sure they’d still be there when he went to find them.

      Today, Charlie had a plan for those hard-earned three pennies. He’d use them to place a secret bet with Mr Cappovanni on Billy Brennan. He’d heard about him – heard things that hardly anyone else knew. That, for all his front, Billy Brennan was barely managing to keep his family from starving – so Charlie knew he had an awful lot to fight for. Reggie, on the other hand, was just in it for the booze. His dad was good, yes, but this fight was really no contest, not as far as Charlie was concerned.

      He finished changing and turned his attention to retrieving the money. The kids’ bedroom was one of only two in the house, and in this one you probably couldn’t even swing a rat. Not that there was a bed in it; just an old mattress which almost filled the room, set directly on the floor and on which all of the children had to sleep. It stank – of sweat and piss, and other even more revolting things, and was covered in coats, pullovers and scraps of material.

      Charlie was lucky, though. He and young Reg, being the oldest boys, at least had an outside edge apiece. Margaret would squeeze up next to Reggie – though she’d often get out and sleep on the floor instead – and all the younger ones ended up in the middle. Here they could piss away all night if they wanted to, because they only got it all over each other.

      Charlie held his breath as he glanced at the sunken middle bit of the bed now. Sodden and stinking, it was also crawling with maggots; something he tried hard not to think about at night, but couldn’t escape being reminded of now. He carefully retrieved his savings from the hole in the side and then ran out of the room and back downstairs to scrub his face clean at the kitchen sink.

      Annie was waiting in the hallway for him once he was done, and she smiled. ‘Ahh,’ she said, kissing the top of his head, ‘you are a bonnie lad when you’re nice and clean, Charlie Hudson. You, er, wouldn’t happen to have a spare bob or two for your mam, would you, son?’

      Charlie smiled back at her, feigning innocence with ease. ‘No, Mam,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Mr Cappovanni lost money this week. I might get summat next week, though, if I work hard.’

      He didn’t feel guilty deceiving her. Not on this occasion anyway. His mam would only have used it to bet on his dad, and as far as he was concerned old Reggie boy was going to take a tumble.

      Knowing the pennies were in his pocket put a spring in Charlie’s step as he walked with his mam down the street, past the big mill and then across the fields to the club. Cappovanni would definitely be going to the fight, he knew, and that was good because he’d be sure to keep the bet a secret. Billy Brennan was the underdog and when he took his dad down – which he would – Charlie would be in for a tidy profit. Which felt fair, too. He worked very hard for Cappovanni and he knew his employer was proud of him. Proud that he always kept his mouth shut, and also proud that he knew everything about everyone on the large estate where they lived.

      The back room of the club was already full of people when he and his mam arrived, thick with smoke, and with a rumble of excitement in the air. It was 5 p.m. now and the fight was due to start soon – it had to be, so it could be all over and done with by the time the club officially opened at seven. He couldn’t see his dad, but knew he was probably limbering up in the toilets – that’s where the fighters went to change