A Spot of Bother Up North (and, Worse, Down South)

“I knew a sheila once.”

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow from behind my morning paper. Mickey seldom let slip a personal detail – a relic, I suspected, of his days keeping company with London’s more felonious set – and this omission, however insignificant it may have seemed to some, struck me for six.

“Oh?” I offered by way of a tentative response, like a huntsman treading gingerly through the bracken lest he startle the deer.

“Yeah. Big lass – arms the size of tree trunks. Had a gob on her like you wouldn’t believe! Swore like a sailor. Good looking girl, mind. Legs up to her ar— “

“Ugh ugh!”I interjected with a well-timed cough.

I'd hate you to think me prudish, dear reader, but when it comes to the fairer sex I insist upon propriety at all costs. No exceptions, not even for foul-mouthed Australians. We de Lacys believe that all ladies, however undeserving, should be treated accordingly. Mickey knew my stance all too well and lifted his head in quiet acknowledgment of his error.

“Anyway,” he continued. “ I met her while I was bouncing over at The Auld Shillelagh.”

“Ha!”

"What?”

“How very apropos.”

“Come again?”

It was clear by the expression on Mickey’s face – mouth agape, sucking in air like a trout stranded on a riverbank – that I'd overestimated his capacity for irony.

“Never mind. You were saying?”

“Well, the same time I was working the door, she was tending the bar. You know how those Australian gals are? All chatty, like. Big personalities. What was that word you used to describe Lady Carlisle after she spilt wine all over that new three-piece of yours?”

I hesitated.  Madeline Carlisle was the bane of my very existence and, moreover, a scourge of high society dinner parties the length and breadth of the British Isles. A soppy sort given to reciting poetry, with scarce regard for her fellow diners, she also had an unerring knack for personifying the old bull of china shop fame. If it wasn’t nailed down, you could count on Madeline to knock it off its perch, and if it was nailed down, she’d find a way of dislodging it with the same blithe obliviousness she brought to every dinner party. She was also at one time engaged to marry me – though through quite no fault of my own. Thank God for good old Chuggy then, who threw himself in the way of that speeding vehicle and paid the ultimate sacrifice by offering this wanton destructor of finest Carnaby Street tailoring first his hand and then his name.

“Let me remind you, dear Mickey, that what is said behind closed doors should remain so. The language I used to describe Lady Carlisle that night was, under the circumstances, understandable, if not entirely befitting of a gentleman.”

“No, not that word. The word you used when Lord Carlisle started grovelling?”

“I'm not sure I—”

"Fluorescent!”

“You mean the poor lassie had caught the sun?”

“Nooo. Like I said before, all bubbly and that.”

“Ah. Effervescent.”

“Yeah, she was one of those evanescence types.”

“Effervescent” is to the upper echelon what “bubbly” is to the lower social stratum. Namely, a carefully barbed euphemism used to eviscerate the fat-headed girls who mistake verbosity for personality. In reality, a girl one describes as effervescent could at best be described as intrusive and at worst, a veritable menace to civilised conversation. Mickey, unaware of the subtext, used the term earnestly.

“Anyway, bartending in central London you get to meet all sorts of folk. Aside from the usual tourists and booze hounds, you had your accountants, real estate agents and other pen pushers. Then you had the wronguns’: your loansharks, dodgy businessmen, wannabe gangsters. Well, one day she's all set to close up shop when some Billy big bollocks comes rapping on the shutter and demanding a drink. You know the sort. Two bob suit, combover, all full of himself. It's clear he's had a skinfull but her being an Aussie, and liking a sherbert or two herself, she lets him in and pours him and her a whiskey.”

“They are indeed unsurpassed in their tolerance for the amber nectar, are they not?”

“Oh yeah, she was a proper goer. So they get to talking and after his third or fourth he lets slip about this mate of his who knows some old boy who lives out in the country up north. According to him, he’s the sort of gent who’s likely to keep a tidy sum in cash and jewels lying about the gaff. Now, most people wouldn’t think twice about this. I mean, people talk a lotta’ rot when they’re half cut. But our Sheila, well she perked right up. See, she’d been working bar jobs for the best part of a year and her visa was running out. She figured she might as well make a little cash on the side before making the trip home.

So, she asked a few questions, all casual like, and before long she had the whole schedule nailed down. When the housekeeper napped, which windows never got locked, where the safe was stashed – all of it came spilling out and she pounced on every little detail she could get her hands on.”

He paused to roll up a cigarette, giving the tip a careful lick.

“I tell ya,” he continued, drawing on the paper, “she was sharp as a tack, that one. Reckon she knew more about that old boy’s place than the bloke himself. She had it sussed before the fella had finished telling her.”

“And you were in on this little enterprise were you?”

Mickey grinned, puffing on his cigarette. “Me? Nah, I’m no fool. Just kept me eyes open, like. Did a bit of legwork here and there, followin’ instructions and makin’ sure we  didn’t wake the wrong person, but the clever bit? That was all her. She ran the show. Roped in a couple of mates I knew from up that way.”

“And it was a success?”

Mickey shook his head, solemnly. “A success? Aye, I suppose you could say so. Depends how you look at it. See, we got in all right, no alarms, no bother. Grabbed a few trinkets, a bit of cash that was lying around just as the old boy had said. Thought we were laughin’.”

“Thought?” I enquired, wincing slightly as Mickey tapped ash into one of my finest Wedgwood teacups.

“Hmm,” he continued. “See, while me and the lads were fussin’ over the scraps, she must have slid past us, and by the time we realised she’d vanished with the best bits – jewellery, paintings, most of the cash.”

Mickey shook his head, chuckling softly, his eyes staring at the ceiling as if in a reverie. “I tell you one thing, she sure moved fast for a big lass.”

“Quite fond of this lassie, were you?”

“Fond? I loved her, Mister Charlie. I loved her and she broke me bleedin’ heart.”

“What a bi—”

“Still do, truth be told.”

“Quite, quite.” I offered consolingly, changing tack quicker than a politician spotting a microphone.

“Funny, it was looking at these that got me thinking about her.” He said, picking up a teacup with one of his giant mitts.

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, cups like these were about the only thing she left behind.”

My heart did that odd thing where it tries to exit the body via the southerly route.

“Mickey, where did you say this poor unwitting sap lived?”

The fella that got robbed?”

I nodded in the affirmative.

“Up north, like I said. Probably not far from your neck of the woods.”

“Could you be a tad more specific?”

“Listen, Mister Charlie, this is years ago now. I can’t remember exactly. It was up in the Dales somewhere. Big old house in the country, proper estate.”

“Wrought-iron gates?”

“Yeah.”

“Long winding driveway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Coat of arms above the front door?”

“Think so, yeah. A purple dragon standing on one leg, maybe?”

“A lion.”

“That’s right. Yeah, yeah. How’d you know all this?”

“Because it was my blasted house!”

As a proud Englishman I’d always harboured a healthy disdain for our antipodean cousins. Their fascination with barbecues, surfboards and fizzy beer struck me as a poor substitute for civilisation and Mickey’s revelation, shocking as it was, merely confirmed that no amount of “charming” accents could conceal the barbarity lurking beneath.

When I saw that my grand debut on a PRIME supercard was to take place against Anna Daniels – a fearsome “sheila”, to borrow Mickey’s phrase, if ever there was one – I found myself conflicted. On the one hand, here was an opportunity to establish myself on the big stage and challenge for a title to boot. On the other, was I really truly prepared to demean myself by entering the ring with such a problematic woman? In my brief spell with the company, I had barely acquainted myself with the top brass, let alone the sprawling roster, yet her name carried an unmistakable whiff of scandal making her jolly difficult to ignore. Tales of violent escapades and the occasional brush with mental instability did little to endear her to me.

Now, as I hope I have made clear, I wholly believe in treating the fairer sex with the delicacy and compassion they deserve. Why, one need only look at the restraint with which I dealt with Lady C. after she poured half a glass of Château Lafite over my prized whistle and flute. Lesser men would have had her escorted off the premises by the lobe. I, in contrast, maintained my composure, allowing my own lugs to endure the indignities of her half-witted apologies and excuses.

Of course, there are always extenuating circumstances. When a lady becomes positively hysterical, there are few remedies more swift and effective than a well-timed sock to the jaw. Nothing too heavy handed, mind you – merely a gentle reminder of one’s place, sufficient to restore equilibrium. Take my run-in with the odious Bobbinette Carey back in HOW. When that tyrant Lee Best saw it fit to pit the two of us against one another, I resolved to stay true to my principles. I refused to strike that woman, if such a term can be assigned to such loathsome a creature, even in the face of the most unsightly provocations. This remained my position right up until the moment she had me in a guillotine choke. I had underestimated her talent for affronts to my dignity. On this occasion, I’m afraid to say, I found myself compelled to respond in kind.

I assure you, I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. If Mickey’s horrifying anecdote had taught me anything, it was that the chap who decided Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned hadn’t met an Australian, for had he done so, he would have been forced to revise his opinion. Hell hath no fury like a sheila? That, in essence, was the sum of it.

“So, what you thinking about these stipulations then?”

You know how, in the novels, the Jeeveses of this world have a way of materialising out of nowhere? They drift into the room at the critical moment, bearing either a restorative cocktail for one’s hangover or a mot juste to untangle the day’s difficulties. Well, this is where fiction and reality part company – or at least, so it has ever been in my experience. Mickey’s entrances are seldom ethereal. They are heralded either by his thunderous clodhoppers upon the parquet or by the strangulated wheeze of his mouth-breathing. No, I had been aware of him long before he spoke, but as I was in the midst of a most satisfactory breakfast – eggs and bacon, accompanied by a restorative cup of English chai – I judged it wisest to feign ignorance.

“Hmm?”

“Well, according to this,” I looked up to see him waving one of those glossy dirtsheets, “the holder of the Alias title gets to dictate the conditions of their defenses.”

I confess, my interest was piqued.

“Is that so?”

“Yup. So what are you thinking?”

I pondered. Throughout my illustrious career I had made it my duty to restore a bit of class and sophistication to professional wrestling. For too long it had been the preserve of oversized Michael Bolton lookalikes – poodle perms, perma-tans, and a lamentable grasp of the Queen’s English. Perhaps this was the golden opportunity I had long awaited.

“Maybe we bring back the old Marquess of Queensberry Rules. Five-minute rounds, best of three falls. Might reinstate some order. The average wrestler spends more time swinging chairs than applying holds these days.”

“Could do, I suppose,” said Mickey, unenthusiastically.

“Do you have any better ideas?” I asked, disappointed that he did not share my grand vision.

“As a matter of fact,” he began, his face brightening, “I think I might. You know, I used to do a bit of fighting back in the day.”

“I’m well aware.” I instinctively tucked my hands under my arms. We might be thick as thieves now, but it wasn’t so long ago Mickey was being paid to remove my thumbs from their sockets.

“Nah, not loansharking. Proper fighting.”

This was news indeed. As I have remarked before, Mickey was not in the habit of airing personal history. He was no raconteur of the mis-spent youth variety.

“You wrestled?”

“Nah. Bit of boxing.”

“Mickey, please. I have the utmost respect for the sweet science, but it’s apples and oranges.”

“I know, I know. But I’m a quick learner.”

A dubious claim if ever there was one.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about getting in the ring. And with your help—”

“Mickey, I can’t in good conscience—”

“You could train me.”

“Mickey—”

“I could take some of the load off.”

“Mickey—”

“I mean, you’re not getting any younger.”

“Mickey, stop! Now, this has gone on long enough. Tell me, in words of no more than three syllables, what you are suggesting.”

“Why don’t you add a condition that lets me defend the belt for you whenever you don’t feel like it.”

“Good.”

“You mean you’ll go for it?”

“No. I mean you managed to stick to words of no more than three syllables.”

“Mister Charlie, I’m not asking to go in there straight away. Give me a few tune-ups. Have a look at what I can do. Then decide. But I really think it’s a win-win. You get the night off whenever you fancy, and I get to crack a few skulls.”

As the years ticked by, my body was proving increasingly unwilling to endure the rigours of the modern wrestling schedule. Countless miles on the road had left their mark, and the notion – however ludicrous – of letting Mickey shoulder a portion of the burden carried a certain appeal.

“I’ll think about it.”

Mickey clenched his fist in triumph, the picture of Tim Henman after winning the first point at Wimbledon.

“But first,” I added, “I need to find a way past Anna Daniels.”