Heritage by Judy Nunn

everyone rooted for the local boy. Here in Cooma there was the added excitement of faction against faction – it was a good crowd-pleaser. He gave the secret hand signal to Col to cop a couple more punches. The mob could do with an extra thrill – Erik was fired up and they were loving it. Col dutifully copped two more punches and the bell rang end of round two.
    Halfway into round three Erik had tired himself out to such an extent that even Col’s clinches, designed not only to give the kid air, but to signal to the crowd that he, too, was tiring, weren’t really doing the trick. The kid was supposed to make it through, and if something didn’t happen soon, Col thought, the crowd would sense a sham.
    The two of them danced clumsily in the ring, locked together, and Col looked over Erik’s heaving shoulder for Jim’s hand signal. A lucky punch, it said. He’d thought as much. It irked him, it always did, but this time more so than ever. He pushed the kid away, got in three sharp jabs, none of which, he knew, would do any harm, before leaving himself open for the uppercut. He pulled his head up and to the left, going with the punch so that it would do little damage. Then he dropped.
    The fight was over, and Patrick Murphy lay on his back attempting to struggle to his feet while Jim counted to ten. Then, when he stood, seemingly unsteady on his feet, conceding defeat, the crowd went wild. The Italians jeered at the All Irish Champion, and the Germans and the others cheered Erik as Jim held his arm high, announcing the winner.
    With jeers and cheers ringing around the tent, Col leaned against the corner post, pretending a fatigue he didn’t feel. Bugger it, he thought. The kid’d earn an extra quid for winning the fight instead of just seeing out the three rounds, and he’d be a hero to his mates. Col wondered what his own mates in Sydney would say if he told them he’d thrown a fight to a bloody Kraut. They wouldn’t understand, he didn’t himself, it only ever happened in Cooma. But shit, that was part of his job, he’d had half a dozen fights already today, and there’d be more to go, so no point dwelling on it.
    As the mob poured out of the tent fifteen minutes later, two of the Germans hoisted Erik onto their shoulders, unintentionally barging into the Italians as they did so, which annoyed Luigi.
    â€˜It was set up,’ he said to his mates, very loudly and in English, so that the Germans could hear. ‘The fight, it was rigged.’
    There was a tense moment, as Erik signalled his friends to put him down and the Germans squared up to the Italians.
    â€˜You are a bad loser,’ one of Erik’s mates said.
    Luigi was about to come back with a further retort – he was in the mood for trouble – but Elvio interrupted. ‘It was a good fight,’ he said. And then Lucky stepped forward.
    â€˜Ja. Das war ein gute Kampf, mein Freund,’ he said to the Germans and he offered his hand to Erik. ‘ Sehr gut, Erik .’
    â€˜ Danke schön .’ Erik returned the handshake and the moment passed, the Germans agreeing with Lucky that it had been an excellent fight, chatting to him in their mother tongue, patting their hero on the back and eventually dragging Erik off to ply him with beer.
    Luigi was left scowling, and his workmates looked even grimmer, casting openly antagonistic glares at Lucky, whom they’d not met before.
    Lucky decided, diplomatically, that it was time to part company. ‘I am going to see Peggy,’ he said in Italian to Pietro and Elvio. ‘I promised I would – she is working in the Agricultural Hall.’
    Pietro nodded. He would far rather go with Lucky than remain with the brothers’ friends, but Peggy was Lucky’s girlfriend and he didn’t wish to intrude.
    â€˜I will see you at Dodds?’ Elvio asked, and Lucky responded with a smile of recognition. Of the many pubs in