‘I don’t understand,’ Joe said. ‘I won it fair and square.’

It was the Feldkommandant himself, Colonel Knackfuss, who held out his hand to Joe. ‘My congratulations,’ he said. ‘To the winner.’ He paused. ‘A man to watch.’ He beckoned to the nurse. ‘Perhaps this man needs some medical care too.’ He smiled, a stiff stretch of his lips, without warmth or conviction. ‘We treat all opponents fairly.’

‘A clean-up,’ she said. ‘At the least.’ She leaned over Joe, so the crisp of her uniform brushed his chest, and he smelled its starch. ‘Congratulations to the winner,’ she said, her voice cold and formal as she dabbed at his cut with disinfectant.

Knackfuss nodded, walked away.

The nurse smiled. ‘Well done,’ she whispered.

Joe felt as large as a giant. For wasn’t he Jack Dempsey himself? Or Jimmy Slattery?

When he went to the clubhouse on Minden Street the next evening, there was a swastika daubed across the notice and a large V had been painted on the door. British Victory is Certain had been chalked beneath it.

No boys turned up that Friday. It would be the run-up to Christmas, Joe thought. Carol singing. Nativity plays. Advent services.

None turned up the following Tuesday. Joe waited until eight o’clock, penned a notice, Boxing Club closed for the season. Will re-open in January. Pinned it to the door as Pierre arrived.

‘Word is, they don’t see it as a friendly. They see it as fraternisation. What’s worse,’ he added, ‘nor do the Germans. They see it as humiliation.’ Pierre lit a cigarette, handed it to Joe. ‘Your face is a treat,’ he said. ‘Every colour in the rainbow.’ He slapped Joe on the back.

Joe opened the club again in the new year but still no one turned up. He’d enjoyed the club, the company of the boys, at least. He handed the keys of the hut back to Pierre, took the gloves and skipping ropes and a punching bag back with him to his room, rigged up a hook on the door frame and hung the bag from it. At least he could keep in training. He rammed his right fist into the belly of the bag. It was such a paltry thing to have done, for the best of motives. Pounded with his left. It wasn’t even his war. Right, left. Who here stood up to Jerry? Who’d been counted? Left, left, right.