Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson
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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 finishing off the other. Then Razor Bill took the initiative and charged, steel spurs glinting in the gas lights. Jet Red was down on the floor, weak and desperately trying to shake off his adversary, but he could not do it, and he lay, gasping for breath until he was picked up by his owner.
Razor Bill had won and Lawson reckoned he owed Daisy two hundred and fifty-six guineas.
‘Two hundred and fifty-six guineas?’ she repeated in utter astonishment. ‘I can’t take that much money from you.’
‘Course you can. That was our agreement. Razor Bill won. I told you he might.’
‘But it’s a fortune, Lawson.’
‘I’ll say it’s a fortune.’
‘I don’t think you understand. It’s more than four years wages for me … Four years … It’s probably more than you’ve taken the whole evening.’
He winked artfully. ‘Before I met you tonight I placed a bet myself with another bookie. I had a five-guinea accumulator on Razor Bill.’
‘Five guineas? So you’ve won … more than twelve hundred and fifty guineas.’
‘Not a bad night’s work, eh?’
‘But how did you know that Razor Bill would win?’
‘Oh, I didn’t. You can never be certain. But he has good form. He’s in fine condition and he has a good trainer … But there was a sentimental motive that made me bet on him …’
‘I didn’t realise you were sentimental.’
‘I am about cocks,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He belongs to me, you see. I own him. I always bet on my own cock-a-doodle …’
Daisy was not so prudish as to be shocked by this innuendo, rather she was amused by it. Lawson’s unconventionality was acceptable, not only because he broke the rules of what was expected in polite society, but he had also made her rich. For the sake of writing a few words on a piece of paper, at his behest, she was better off by two hundred and fifty-six guineas. It was magic.
Now she had money enough to spend on a doctor for her father – all thanks to Lawson Maddox. She blessed the day she met him. The trouble was, it turned out that Dr McCaskie had been right in the first place. Her father’s illness was incurable by medicine.
‘For a patient who is consumptive I prescribe not medicine, but a new mode of life,’ he told them on the day of his visit. ‘We cannot cure anybody of consumption. Endless steadfastness, courage, self-discipline and self-denial are the key. If I can get Mr Drake to alter his mode of life I am giving the correct treatment in some measure.’
But how far could her poor father go in altering his way of life? He would need the support of not only her mother, but Daisy and Sarah as well. Well, Daisy would give hers to the absolute best of her ability, for as long as her windfall lasted. She wanted to pay for her father to enter a sanatorium but, not surprisingly, he refused. They argued with him, they cajoled, they tried gentle persuasion. All failed. So her mother’s care and application of a rigid, monotonous discipline was what they depended on for him.
Doctor McCaskie also decreed that Titus Drake was to be given three good meals a day. ‘No special diet is necessary,’