The Toff And The Curate

Stupefaction reigned among the church-workers and astonishment showed on Billy the Bull’s bovine countenance.

The silence was broken by a piping voice from behind Billy. A man who did not come up to his shoulder and was thin, bald-headed and dressed in a dirty sweater with a polo collar in spite of the heat, pushed his way in to stand by Billy.

“I wouldn’t let him git away wiv’ that, Billy. I wouldn’t let no one say he’d bash my face in!”

Billy the Bull licked his lips.

“Take that back!” There was menace in his manner.

“If you haven’t the guts to admit that you helped to smash this place up, you’re not worth wasting time on,” said Kemp. “If you did, I’ll—”

“ ’It him, Billy!” urged the little man, indignantly.

“I don’t fight hinfants,” declared Billy, scowling. “But I wouldn’t mind knocking the grin orf yer face, parson. Talk, that’s all you’re good for. Standin’ up in the poolpit an’ shouting yer marf orf—that’s all yer can do. ‘Please Gawd, make me an’ all me flock good lickle boys an’ gels,’ continued Billy, in a fair imitation of the worst type of clerical drawl. “ ‘Please Gawd—’ ”

Kemp said quietly: “Don’t say that again.”

Billy broke off, looking at the curate in surprise. Kemp had gone pale and his fists were clenched.

It was the little man who broke the silence again, piping: “Strewth! Have yer gorn sorft, Billy? “It ‘im.”

“I don’t like knockin’ hinfants about,” repeated Billy. Something in Kemp’s expression had stopped him and he was obviously on edge. It was Rollison’s cue and he moved forward. “You do a bit of boxing, Billy, don’t you?”

“A bit!” squeaked the little man. “Why there ain’t a man in London can stand a round against ‘im!”

“I can use me mitts,” declared Billy the Bull, on safer ground. “But this apology fer a parson only shoots “is mouth orf, that’s all. Cissy-boy!” he added. “You ought to be back ‘ome wiv’ yer muwer!”

“

“I’ll fight you anywhere you like, unilei I lie Oueensberry Rules,” Kemp said, tense-voiced.

“Coo, ‘ear that?” squeaked the little man, dancing up and down. “ ‘E’s ‘eard o’ Lord Queensb’ry. Coo! Ain’t ‘e a proper little man! Why yer don’t know wot fightin’ is!”

“Don’t be rash,” Rollison advised Kemp, looking now as if he wished he had not mentioned boxing. “Billy’s an old campaigner.”

“I’ll fight him anywhere he likes,” Kemp said again.

“You mean that?” demanded the little man, coming forward and peering up into Kemp’s face. “You mean that —no, o’ corse yer don’t! There’s a ring not a hundred miles from ‘ere, I’ll fix yer up a match ‘ere an’ now, for tonight. Pound aside, one quid per man but you don’t mean it.”

“I’m not a—” began Kemp.

“The stakes to go to charity,” Rollison put in hastily.

“Suits me,” said the little man, loftily. “I managed Billy the Bull all his life, I ain’t above doin’ a bit for charity.”

“Does he mean it?” demanded Billy the Bull, incredulously.

“Try to make them understand that I’m not afraid of his size, will you?” Kemp asked Rollison, earnestly.

Rollison nodded and fixed the details quickly.

Billy the Bull and his companion stalked off, the sound of the little man’s squeaky voice drifting back into the hall. The woman helper looked troubled but the three men eyed Kemp with a new respect. Kemp himself seemed unperturbed. One by one, the others left the hall.

“Do you think . . .” Kemp began, when they had gone and talked almost without stopping for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, the grapevine of the East End, that remarkable information system rivalling the drums of Africa, began to work at high pressure. It played one refrain only. “Kemp’s fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt’s—nine o’clock. Kemp’s fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt’s—nine o’clock.”

News reached many unexpected places. It amazed most who heard it, it alarmed the Whitings, it brought church members post-haste to try to dissuade Kemp from going on with it—all to no purpose—it brought protests from the more influential church members; and it put Kemp’s stock up to undreamed-of heights, although he did not realise it.

It reached Keller.

It also reached the dockside canteen where Isobel Crayne was working.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Parson With A Punch

By a quarter-past eight, there was room for neither man nor boy in Bill’s gymnasium. By half-past, there was a great exodus for Bill had made hurried arrangements with the management of a nearby indoor stadium for the fight to be staged there. When Rollison heard about that he telephoned Bill who hardly finished speaking before he was roaring to his men:

“Mr Ar says a bob a time. Charge ‘em a bob-a-time-money fer charity. See to it, a bob a time.”