Fair Fight by Anna Freeman Page B

though I were a gent, a wide and maddening smile, and swept away, holding her skirts up more than she need.
    Now Tom and I looked at each other and laughed aloud. Dora heard us and, thinking we mocked her, called back that we might go and rot.
    ‘The fair,’ we both said at once, and he took me into his arms, even knowing as he did that his shirt would have to be scrubbed with salt, to lift out the blood.
    St James’ Fair, held every year for the first two weeks of September, was to us what it was to all good Bristolians; the finest time of the year. Oh, there were always those piss-lickers who called for the fair to be outlawed, but come September there it was, fine as fivepence. All the autumns of my life I’d walked beneath the bunting there; it was the best time for the misses to find trade, as good as ten ships of hungry sailors come ashore. When we were younger Dora and I would follow the girls, to find likely lads and help them make the acquaintance of the misses, if they were shy. Always, though, I’d found time to visit the sights of the fair – for what brat wouldn’t? – and the greatest of these by far was the boxing booth. Any time that I could beg the penny entrance, I went in there and gawped like a hayseed. The crowds that gathered would have you shaking your head in wonder, if you could find the room to shake it, so close were they packed. The big-name pugs down from the Fives Court in London would come onto that stage in the evening and show such high displays of science as would have you gasping aloud. Sometimes these London pugs would take on a valiant Charlie from the crowd, and he’d only to stay three rounds to win a shilling. He’d not even to win. I’d been aching for years to throw my hat in the ring at the fair and see if I could stay the three rounds. Mr Dryer had forbidden it, though it was Ma who’d told me that sour piece of news. I was only to watch and learn and take that learning to The Hatchet ring, where Mr Dryer could take a lot more from my mill than a shilling. Now he wasn’t only allowing it but ordering me there. I could scarce believe it and didn’t care the reason.
     
    As low as we lived, and as sinful, we were never in real want; bawdy houses and taverns always will float through the harshest times. This is because those folks as can afford diversion will always want it; the lady boxer may stay afloat too for the same reason, while all about her sink and pull at her skirts.
    ‘At least something is left, look.’
    There was the heel of a loaf in the kitchen. Tom took it up and tore it in two.
    I took it from him quick enough. It was as coarse as if it’d been baked with sawdust and nearly as dry. I tipped the last of the milk into a saucer and we took all to the table, to sit and wipe our bread through the milk till it was soft enough that it wouldn’t cut our gums to eat it.
    The kitchen was dark but still warm enough; the misses would only have been in bed an hour or so and a grumble of red still showed in the grate. Tom’s face was in shadow. I could see only his shape and the movement of his jaw, working the bread like a cow.
    I’d not slept. Tom had found a cull we trusted to take a turn at the door and we’d brought the rushlight to bed at an uncommon hour, midnight or so. I’d meant to rest and rise fresh but habit is a strong master. I lay in the dark with my eyes open and my mind ran on by itself, along dark roads that led to strange places. Above me the sounds of the convent played out, sounds I knew so well that I could near see it all. I might as well have been up there with them all, for all the rest I got. I thought Tom hadn’t been much different, though he did sleep, at last. I lay and listened to his deep, satisfied breathing and by then I was so weary and queer that it seemed he did it just to tease me and I hated him a little.
    Now we sat in the dark kitchen with only the sounds our own mouths made upon the bread.
    ‘I’ve a thrupence kept