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

followed his mam to the bar, and now tugged at her sleeve. ‘Mam, is it okay if I go talk to Mr Cappovanni?’ he asked Annie.

      She ordered herself a gill of beer before turning to him. ‘Yes, go on then,’ she said, ‘but, Charlie, you be careful, son. That fellow breaks legs to them that owe him. If anything starts, I want you right back with me, you hear?’

      Charlie promised he would, then ran off towards his mentor. His dad might have taught him all he knew about boxing, but Mr Cappovanni knew about all sorts of other, more interesting things, like running books, protection rackets, extortion. And as far as Charlie was concerned these were the things you really needed to know about, and Mr Cappovanni was the man from whom he’d learn them.

      ‘Can you put this on Billy for me, Mr Cappovanni?’ Charlie whispered as he got near enough. ‘Only don’t tell me mam or dad, will you?’

      He slipped the pennies into the bookie’s dark, wrinkled hand and watched as his fingers closed over them.

      Cappovanni was in his mid-fifties, and though nobody knew for sure, it was generally assumed he had a connection with the Mafia. This alone seemed to be enough to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, and whether it was true or not, there was no doubt he was a force to be reckoned with; where the Depression kept the rest of the country in poverty and rags, Albert Cappovanni had risen to the top – like a great beast rising from a sea of grime.

      He stared hard at Charlie for a moment, skewering him under his gaze. Then laughed out loud. ‘My, my, kiddo,’ he said, ‘I’ll make a man out of you yet! And don’t worry,’ he added under his breath, ‘I’ll keep it quiet, son, but one thing.’ His eyes narrowed and he leaned down towards Charlie. ‘Don’t you go telling anyone else you’ve gone against your old man, will you? Or I’ll have to alter my odds. My old lady’ll have me guts for garters if I don’t go home on top.’

      Which was something Charlie couldn’t imagine Mr Cappovanni’s wife ever doing, but he promised he wouldn’t and scampered happily back to his mam.

      The fight was due to start very soon after. The club was heaving now, the air tinged with blue from all the pipe smoke and from those lighting up Players Navy cigarettes. The men had formed a ring now around Reggie and Billy, while the few women that were there hung back and chatted by the bar. This obviously included his mam, so Charlie was free to enjoy the fight, even more so when Mr Cappovanni scooped him up and gave him the perfect vantage point sitting on his shoulders. From here he’d cheer for his dad, obviously, shouting along with all his mates, but all the while hoping his long shot would pay off. Which to his mind wasn’t even that much of a long shot. His dad might be the favourite, but Charlie was sharp. He had eyes and ears and the reason he knew about Billy Brennan was because he never wasted an opportunity to use them.

      It was exciting but at the same time sometimes difficult to watch. It was his dad, after all, and this was a bare-knuckle fight. They always were. Gloves and padding were generally considered to be for sissies, so blood, snot and spit splatters were the norm, and he winced as he watched the blows raining down, as the two men pummelled the life out of each other.

      He took careful note though and, as each round ended – with the ringing of a bell – he made a mental note of the way things were going. And it soon became clear that his dad wasn’t going to win. Billy Brennan, as Charlie’d anticipated, was like a raging animal in the impromptu ring, screaming and running at Reggie as if protecting his young, which, in a way, was what he was there to do. And though Reggie tried to mirror every punch, and often succeeded, he was never going to be a match for a desperate starving man. The fight was all over in 20 minutes.

      As Charlie’s dad threw the towel in Charlie himself glanced around, and it was clear most of the bets had been on Reggie. Most of the onlookers looked as defeated as the fighter they’d backed, throwing down their chitties and grumbling to each other. Not that anyone would say a word to Charlie’s dad. They wouldn’t dare. His adrenalin still pumping, Reggie always had a punch in reserve for after a fight, and it would still be in his blood when they got home as well. A good time to do a disappearing act, Charlie thought.

      After watching his parents sink a few more morose gills, Charlie was glad when it was time to go home. He’d done well – he’d won a shilling – turned his three pennies into 12, all thanks to his bet with Mr Cappovanni, though it was money he’d not have to worry about hiding; he’d have it off him at a more sensible time. But there would be a price to pay for his dad’s loss, even though it wasn’t him that was responsible, and as they walked up the path he could tell even without looking that his mam would be watching his dad, trying to gauge his mood.

      He glanced up to see Margaret peering hopefully out of the window, knowing she’d work it out for herself even before he shook his head. It was the same every time his dad had a fight, always had been. If he won, they’d be linking arms, giggling and stupid – blind drunk, the pair of them, but in a good way. Those times the kids would all get a treat, too. If he lost, though, they would still be blind drunk, but scowling at each other and usually arguing all the way home. The kids knew there’d be no treat on those occasions.

      This was one of those occasions. ‘Why are you all still up?’ Reggie roared as he staggered into the front room. He lunged at Margaret and tried to grab her but she ducked. ‘Come here, you little get!’ he yelled. ‘I hope you’ve made us some tea, girl – and get these bleeding nippers up to bed!’

      Margaret kept her composure. She always did. Charlie imagined she always would. ‘There’s some dripping in the back room, dad,’ she said, ‘and some tea on the range. Shall I get you some?’ she ventured, trying to pacify him.

      Annie, being drunk, was less civilised. ‘Oh, so you’re a big man now, are you, Reggie Hudson? Not so bloody big in the club, were you? Don’t you dare take it out on these children!’

      Reggie spun round and landed a slap on the side of Annie’s head. ‘Keep it shut, Annie, I’m warning you,’ he growled. ‘You’re a wicked woman. Always was, always will be.’

      Annie drew herself up, just as she always did, and Charlie knew what was coming. ‘I promise you on my life, Reggie, I’ll leave you, I will! I’ll pack my things and take the kids and go back to my mother’s. I’m not standing for this every bloody week.’

      Charlie’s heart sank. He knew what was coming next as well. As did the others. You could see it on their faces. Little Eunice quickly scooped up baby Annie and backed away towards the fireplace. ‘It’s all right, Dada,’ she said. ‘We’ll be good an’ we’ll all go to bed now. Look, Dada – our little Annie is smiling at you.’

      ‘No!’ Reggie yelled, glaring at Annie. ‘It’s bloody not all right! Come on, the lot of you, line up. Your mother is leaving, is she? Well, let’s just see, eh? Come on – you too, Charlie. You get over here right now. Right. One at a time, then. Come on,’ he roared. ‘Who are you going to live with?’

      It was the same almost every weekend. Were they going to pick him or were they going to pick her? Too much beer and not enough to eat – that was what Agnes next door always used to say. All this nonsense for a bit of bread. And she should know, Charlie thought miserably, as he took his place in line. She heard every word, every time.

      The outcome never differed, either. The young ones would cry and refuse to answer, which would only make their father worse; he’d take his belt off and would wave it around, sometimes clipping one or two of them, threatening them with it till they’d all made their choice. And between them, the kids tried their best to make it fair. One by one, they’d alternate, half choosing Annie, the other Reggie, but whatever they did, and whoever they chose, it still earned all of them a crack. Still saw them sent off to bed without any supper. And in Charlie’s case, without any tea either.

      ‘Stop that snivelling,’ Charlie ordered as his brothers and sisters clambered across the freezing cold mattress. ‘It’ll do you no good and it won’t get you any supper either. Listen,’ he added, lowering his voice, just in case the rowing downstairs stopped, ‘I’ve earned some wages tonight, so if