turned to him and smiled, her eyes sparkling with adoration. ‘Tell me about cockfighting,’ she said. ‘Explain how it works.’
‘You’ll soon catch on. It’s just fowl trying to tear each other to shreds. Mind you, you have to realise they’re bred for it. Tonight it’s a Welsh main—’
‘Main?’
‘Contest. In a Welsh main we pair off sixteen birds. The eight winners are then paired off to decide the two semi-finals. Then there’s a fight between the best two birds left, to decide the ultimate winner. There’ll be plenty of betting going on, especially as we approach the final. I shall be taking bets.’
‘You?’
He leaned towards her and put his mouth to her ear. ‘Easy money.’ He pulled out his watch again and checked the time.
Daisy saw men carrying their birds in wicker baskets, like the ones pigeon fanciers used. One or two opened the lids and she saw them attaching what looked like knives to the backward-facing claws of the birds.
‘What are they fixing to the birds’ feet?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the handlers.
‘Gaffs. They’re like spikes. Sometimes they use knives … To try and cut the other cock to pieces.’
‘Ugh, that’s terrible!’ Daisy protested. ‘No wonder cock fighting’s illegal. You surely don’t expect me to sit and watch it, do you?’
‘I told you, you’ll be all right.’
She had not noticed a queue forming in the gap between the benches at Lawson’s side. Those men who could write, and women too, were handing him slips of paper and coins. He pocketed the money, and handed the slips to Daisy.
‘Sort them by the name of the bird,’ he instructed, ‘and keep a tight hold of them. That’ll keep your mind off the cockfight,’ he said.
There were such names as Vulcan, Phoenix, Golden Eagle III, and others, all stupidly pretentious names as far as she was concerned. She sipped her drink and accepted another slip of paper; Razor Bill was the name written on that five-shilling bet.
Very soon the meeting was called to order by the pitmaster, who sat astride a chair facing the wrong way. The chair’s back had a lectern like a desktop attached to it. Daisy realised it was a library chair, but the incongruity of its use that night, compared with the more cultured purpose for which it had been made, struck her. He announced the commencement of the spectacle and the first two cocks were brought into the ring by their owners. The shining metal gaffs were already strapped to the birds’ legs. The two men held the cocks face to face, bill to bill, for a few seconds and the poor birds quickly became very agitated. A sudden murmur from the crowd told her that the men had let go of the birds. As they attacked each other ferociously there was a roar. Feathers flew as they flailed at each other, jumping in the air, wings flapping, as they each tried to inflict fatal injury to the other with those deadly metal spikes. At the first sight of blood the men and women screamed even louder at the two victims, which was how Daisy viewed both birds, irrespective of which one might survive. One bird fell over and seemed to submit. There were groans from some of the crowd and frenzied cheers from others. The handlers stepped into the ring again, picked up the birds and thrust them together once more, breast to breast, until they were both agitated enough to continue fighting. One of the cocks was badly cut and bleeding but it did not curb his will to overcome his opponent. The handlers let go the birds and they went on as before, squawking and thrashing in a rain of feathers. After another minute or so, the injured cock collapsed. The first fight was over.
‘I can’t watch any more of this,’ Daisy complained.
But Lawson affected not to hear her as people swarmed around him to collect their winnings. He took the slips of paper that bore the name of the winning cock and smiled affably as he paid out to those who had won. Another queue formed, of people wanting to place bets on the outcome of the next fight.
‘Do you want a bet on the next fight?’ he asked her and she wondered whether he was joking.
‘You’re not taking my money,’ she answered defiantly.
‘Take my advice and place a guinea on Razor Bill. And let it ride in an accumulator.’
She had no idea what he was talking about but it all sounded very foolhardy. ‘I haven’t got a guinea, Lawson. And if I had, I wouldn’t squander it on a bet. And certainly not on one of those poor birds.’
He smiled equably. ‘Then I’ll lend you a guinea. If Razor Bill wins – and I reckon he’s got a good chance – you can pay me back.’
‘Do I have to pay you back the winnings as well.’
‘No, course not. You can keep the winnings.’
Daisy smiled at him. This sounded more interesting. ‘Then I’ve got nothing to lose.’
He nodded, his eyes warm on her. ‘You’re catching on. Of course you’ve got nothing to lose.’ He handed her a blacklead pencil. ‘Write yourself a slip for a guinea accumulator.’
She did as she was bidden.
Razor Bill was next on, his first fight against Vulcan. To her utmost surprise, she found herself watching with interest. Razor Bill, his little eyes gleaming, attacked several times, found his mark and drew blood. But before the other bird could use his gaffs Razor Bill knowingly withdrew. Poor Vulcan was game enough but not in the same league. Eventually he collapsed and Razor Bill was declared the winner.
‘The money you’ve won will go on his next fight, and so on,’ Lawson said.
‘What if he loses his next fight?’
‘You’ve still lost nothing.’
Between fights Daisy saw people go inside the house and come out eating hot pies, the aroma of which drifted across to her and made her feel hungry on that cold, frosty night. But she could not eat, not with all that blood and gore from those poor mutilated fowl. And yet, with each fight her horror diminished. She was becoming desensitised to the horrifying ruin the cocks inflicted on each other. She even found herself on the side of certain fowl and actually cheered them on along with the rest of the bawling spectators, to Lawson’s great amusement and satisfaction.
She could hardly wait for Razor Bill’s next fight. When it came, he won that as well and she was delighted. He won the semi-final too and she could scarcely believe it. When the big fight came, the final, she was on the edge of her seat with excitement.
Bets were coming in fast and furious and, despite her own elation, she diligently retained all the betting slips, putting those for Razor Bill in her right coat pocket and all those for Jet Red, his opponent, into her left pocket. The crowd was wild with excitement, clamouring for blood, but nobody was more excited than she was. The appeal of this cruel and bloodthirsty sport, the nature of which she loathed, became clear; it was betting. Betting, the thrill of the gamble, was the fuel that fed it.
The final was a long and equal fight, accompanied by a protracted chorus of ranting and shouting. Daisy’s heart was in her mouth when she saw that Razor Bill was down with Jet Red on top of him, and she looked questioningly at Lawson. But Razor Bill was up again just as quickly and striking back, his head down, his neck feathers out. Both birds were tired and in a sorry state after four encounters. Neither seemed capable of
