Blood feud @ the All Stars
by Elsie Bauchalter
Image by Julia Larson for Pexels
There was a smattering of blood on the floor.
This was the day she dripped sweat on me and said, ‘Quit complaining you’re getting a free shower’.
All Stars Harrow Road, originally a guildhall; red brick, beautiful. There was a painted fresco of architects and builders above the small stage. The style clashed with the back wall, which was graffitied. The overall effect was a mash-up of old and new. Where once the professionals gathered to hone their trades, these days the place was home to a boxing club. The main area had a professional ring. Punching bags hung from red scaffolding by the entrance beneath a cathedral ceiling and a series of large stained glass windows.
Yvette and I were parring. ‘Come on hit harder, you pussy.’ She showed me how to do it. She danced and dived. Fast on feather feet, distracting me. She told me she had broken up with her girlfriend. ‘Don’t get to see the kids no more.’
Before Christmas, when the bitter cold bit, class numbers dipped to the diehards. On this occasion, less than a handful were in attendance. There was Coach, Yvette, Helga and Tattooed Dee. Dee was more ink than skin, had multiple piercings and a serpent tongue. That morning we’d found her distraught. Her on-off lover had finally confessed he was never going to marry her. We told her to tell him to fuck right off. She had been having one of those hinterland relationships. The type to stay in the shadows and never see the light of day. Dee said, ‘God damn yes!’ She would tell him to fuck right off.
We whooped in her glory.
‘Fuck 'em,’ shouted Dee, ‘Fuck 'em all,’ and then she started crying.
Post skipping and warm up we moved on to the bags. Coach demonstrated a sequence of power punches. ‘Upper-cut, cross, hook, slip, right hook, double jab. Come on Ladies.’
The two-minute timer set and upon the beep, the pounding of the bags began.
Each hanging sack represented some asshole, ex-lover, husband, wife, some significant other.
We let rip.
You have to be on your toes.
Focus.
‘Namby-pamby,’ Yvette was mocking me, mimicking my movements, ‘What are you, pussy cat paws?’
I asked if she’d ever been in a real fight.
‘Can’t you see all my scars?’ Proudly, she presented her body. Tall, lean and sinewy, with dints in her arm and only half a left ear.
Missing teeth were common amongst this motley crew of warriors but ears less so. These were strong women, strong as any man. Here was true diversity; economic, social, racial, and physical; tiny waists, botox lips, big asses, thick thighs, flat chested, skinny beanpoles, tubby, meaty, tattooed, bald, old, young. It was a strictly women-only class. Sometimes the Muslim women would uncover their heads, sometimes not. One hijabi had exceptional twerking skills. Her friend would take on the male role, sidle up behind her. ‘Time to slap that ass,’ she'd joke and begin to bump and ride.
Then there was Helga the Russian straight out of a James Bond movie. I cowered beside her in my blue and yellow Free Ukraine t-shirt. She put an arm around me and drew me close, ‘There are mixed classes on Saturday. You should come. I think you will like it. ‘It’s crazy, the smell of testosterone.’
‘I’d love to,’ I replied and the truth was, I absolutely would, but motherhood is restrictive at times, most times. On Saturdays, I transformed into a soccer mom, shivering on the sidelines sipping weak coffee and shouting support to my midfielder youngest.
‘Tell me the story of the ear.’
Yvette was back on the bags; jab, cross, uppercut, left hook, right hook. She threw me a cursory glance, considering whether I was worthy of the telling.
‘It was a dog.’
‘Yeah?’
‘A fucking dog bit my ear.’ She looked at me, seeing if I’d swallow it, the story.
‘I jumped on her, tried to bite her nose.’ She began laughing. ‘You want to know something?’
‘Sure,’ I nodded.
‘All I could think of was the stew my dad used to make, pig snout stew. I was looking at the dog, thinking about my father and tomato sauce bubbles coming out the snout in the pan.’
‘What kind of dog was it?’
‘Ugly, a pig ugly, dog.’
I pictured an English bull terrier. Our next-door neighbour used to have one. Ugliest dog, I reckoned.
‘No, what breed?’
‘I told you. A bitch she was.’
‘Not sex.’
She tried to divert the story, ‘hit the bag.’
‘I once had a student who barked at me,’ I said.
‘See, now you’re on the right track.’
It took a moment to dawn.
Dog was a woman.
The timer pinged an end to the final round. We went to get some water at the back of the hall. Sidling up close she whispered, ‘Don’t be scared of me,’ then emitted a low throat growl.
The fight had been planned. Yvette had met Dog at a designated site. ‘The bitch was out of order. A bully, turned up with a couple of guys. They were there when I floored her, had to pull me off.’
Yvette said after the fight, they both went to the hospital. She had the ear in her pocket wrapped in tissue, ‘lost my fucking gold hoop earring’. The nurses had cleaned her up, wrapped her head and put the remainder ear on ice, ready to be sewn back on. Yvette was told to wait in the queue. ‘I was about to be seen when this little boy arrived with his brother, both ears melted to the side of his face. He was in that much pain. Had been in a fire.’ Yvette gave him her place and went home. The ear was never sewn back on.
Yvette extended her left arm. All the better to see her scars. Beneath a dragon tattoo was puckered, dinted skin. ‘Brockwell Park at the 2012 festival in Brixton,’ she continued. ‘Remember the riots back then?’ It was all coming out now. ‘I’m with my girlfriend and I feel this threat.’ She jumped back and began enacting the scenario. ‘I used to do kickboxing. I thrust out my arm to protect myself. It was Dog with a knife. The bitch sent it up through my arm and out the other side. There was a knife inside my arm.’
She paused to let the words sink in.
‘And then?’
‘Dog fled.’
I slugged back some water and offered her the bottle. ‘Yeah, but the next time…’ She took a gulp and handed it back, then lightly put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me in, close. ‘The next time we met, I did her good.’ Yvette laughed at the memory, ‘Looked like Dog vomited herself up onto the pavement. Her face was mush. I gave the bitch a fucking face job. She was so goddamn ugly.’
‘Oy, you two cut the chitchat. Get in the ring now,’ shouted Coach.
It was time to partner up—a bit of parrying, tit for tat.
‘Fucking hell Yvette,’ I said, ‘you’re fierce.’
‘Had to be. Dog wanted to bully me. I wasn’t having it.’
Throwing jabs at Yvette, she was catching each one, ‘Relax your shoulders girl.’
‘Oy, I told you two to stop the chat.’ Coach was partnered with Helga and Dee was in the corner of the hall, speaking to her man.
We focused on fighting, forgot about Dog. I sank into myself, relaxed my shoulders, and began throwing proper punches.
‘That’s it, keep it up.’
Later when we were leaving, Yvette walked me downstairs. ‘I’m not a violent person,’ she said, ‘you know, I’m not a violent person.’
Elsie Bauchalter (she/her) is a writer of short shorts and souslelit novels. A devotee of the understated she is compiling an album of ‘snapshot’ life stories sifted from a twenty year archive, highlighting the extraordinary of the ordinary, alongside personal recollections on single motherhood and the passing of time.