The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  ‘I reckon, sir, that I done that, and I am indebted to you, course I am – but that don’t mean I am owned by you.’

  This caused Sir Charles to throw his hands up in horror, it was all getting really out of hand. ‘Your contract with myself is legal and binding. With reference to Miss Jones, she asked to leave The Grange the day before you yourself left. Surely if she had felt any overwhelming emotional tie to you she would have told you herself? Now, I think we really must forget all this nonsense, I have a table booked for nine-fifteen and I am looking forward to introducing you to my guests.’

  He swept out, signalling for Ed to follow him. They walked a short way along the street together, Sir Charles’ manner deathly cold. ‘Make sure he’s there, will you, old chap, maybe you should tell him what he’ll be worth if he wins the title. He’ll get a purse of near two hundred. Tell him that and we’ll see how much this wretched woman means to him.’

  Ed went slowly back up in the small, gilded lift. He sat down next to Freedom and patted his knee like a father. It was impossible to know what Freedom was thinking, his face was mask-like, the black eyes expressionless, he even seemed relaxed. He stared down at his big hands and he spoke softly, as if he was miles away. ‘We have a saying, an old Romany saying, that if you love something, you must set it free; if it returns to you it is yours, if it doesn’t then it never was . . .’

  Poor Ed didn’t really know what to do. He couldn’t afford to lose his job, and Sir Charles was such an odd man, Ed never knew which way he would turn. ‘Freedom, lad, ’is Lordship’s investin’ a lot of money in you, and ’e don’t want no dirty publicity ’bout you an’ that murder investigation.’

  Freedom protested his innocence, and Ed sighed. ‘He’s adamant about it, an’ you know without ’im you would be swingin’ fer that murder, you know that. See, you’ll be meetin’ all kinds of people now, society, like, perhaps even the prince himself, they can’t ’ave no scandal.’

  Freedom frightened Ed with his sly, strange smile. ‘He won’t want me, though, if I lose the title, mun, will he?’

  Ed shouted at him that he would have two hundred pounds purse money if he won. ‘Gawd ’elp me, two hundred pounds, you know how many years I gotta work ter make that much?’

  Freedom still wore that smile and Ed was scared, not of what Freedom might do to him, but because he knew Freedom didn’t really care about money.

  ‘So what happens if we was to find ’er, and she not want you? Eh?’

  Freedom moved his hands like a bird, she could fly away, do as she wanted, but he had to see her.

  Evelyne had found work in a small bookshop in Charing Cross Road. The owner was an eccentric gentleman called Arnold Snodgrass. He wore a crumpled, stained suit, and was never without a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. His yellow teeth could be seen when he spoke in his strange, theatrical voice.

  The shop was stacked from floor to ceiling with books, manuscripts and papers. The stench of cats and musty, ageing paper was at first nauseating. Evelyne was so dizzy at times she had to sit down on the stepladder.

  Old Snoddy was unaware of her, as he was of the stench. ‘Listen to this, dear heart, a little snippet of interest – did you know that Shakespeare, that wondrous bard, actually made up the word “lonely”? Imagine him sitting at his desk with his quill and thinking it up . . . alone . . . lone . . . lonely . . . now first play he used this new word was . . . Coriolanus, fascinating, what? Wonderful play . . . lonely . . .’

  Evelyne picked up a volume so heavy she could only just carry it from one side of the shop to the other. She sighed, her own loneliness taking precedence over Mr Snodgrass’ snippet.

  The next thing she knew Mrs Harris was standing over her burning one of Snoddy’s own quill pens. Mrs Harris was a round, motherly woman who cleaned the shop and back room as best she could, and she also cleaned various other shops in the same area.

  ‘She’s comin’ round now, sir. What ’appened, did she fall or what? It’s them ’eavy volumes she’s carrying round.’

  Snoddy slurped his morning tea and shrugged, not interested in the slightest in the health of his assistant. He was buried in Coriolanus, still musing about his discovery.

  ‘Come on, ducks, best get you home an’ put yer feet up, ’e won’t notice yer gorn, ’e don’t know what day it is.’

  Mrs Harris was shocked when she saw where Evelyne was living. ‘Lord luv-a-duck, yer can’t swing a cat in ’ere, and by the looks of it it’s damp, shockin’ . . . have you no place even to boil a cup of tea?’

  Evelyne lay on her bed, wanting to cry, but she shrugged off Mrs Harris’ questions. ‘I’m saving my money, I want to go to night classes, get my teacher’s diploma, it’s all right.’

  Mrs Harris looked her over and then felt her forehead. ‘You’re running’ a bit of a fever, ducks, maybe you should see a doctor.’

  Evelyne buttoned her blouse, straightened her skirt and came out from behind the screen. The doctor was writing a prescription. She sat down and opened her purse, counted out the one shilling and sixpence her visit would cost.

  ‘You must eat fresh vegetables, get your strength up, but there’s nothing wrong that rest and a good diet won’t put right. I wouldn’t lift anything heavy, just in case . . . this is a tonic, you should come back for regular check-ups until the birth.’

  Evelyne blinked, swallowed hard. ‘Beg pardon, sir, what did you say?’

  When Evelyne came out into the waiting room, Mrs Harris rose to her feet, clutching her big cloth shopping bag, bulging with groceries. The girl looked worse now than when she had gone in. ‘It’s nuffink serious, is it, ducks?’

  Evelyne shook her head, biting her lip so she wouldn’t cry. Mrs Harris helped her into her coat, feeling sorry for her, ‘You come round and ’ave supper at my place, no need to go back to yer work, Snoddy’s got ’is brandy out so he won’t know if you was workin’ or not.’

  Sitting beside Mrs Harris on the tram, Evelyne suddenly blurted it all out. ‘I’m having a baby, that’s what he told me, but I can’t be, I just can’t be . . .’

  Mrs Harris sighed, she’d guessed as much, but Miss Jones was such a nice girl, very proper, and always so well dressed, so neat and tidy. ‘Well, love, there’s only one way to make one, have you been doing it? Have you got a young man?’

  The floodgates opened, and Evelyne sobbed her heart out on top of the tram. She was still in floods of tears by the time they were sitting in Mrs Harris’ kitchen.

  ‘Yer see, ducks, in some cases yer can go on gettin’ yer monthly bleedin’ and still be carryin’, how far gone are you, did he say?’

  ‘He reckoned about five months, but I just can’t be, I can’t.’

  Mrs Harris poured thick, strong tea, spooned in the sugar and eased her bulk into a fireside chair. ‘Well, if yer that far gone there’s no gettin’ rid of it – mind you, there’s some that would try . . . Dr ink yer tea now, don’t go gettin’ all upset again, we’ll sort it all out . . . but yer won’t be able to lift no more Shakespeare, that’s fer sure.’

  With seven children of her own, Mrs Harris needed Evelyne like a hole in the head. Her two-up-two-down was bursting at the seams. To help make ends meet her husband Te d worked nights at the gasworks, and during the day in a carpenter’s shop. When he came home he found his missus stewing up a large pan of soup, the brood sitting round the kitchen table.

  ‘We got a house guest, Ted. Now before you hit the roof, she’s able to pay us threepence a week rent . . . She’s in the family way, and she’s no one else to turn to. I’ve put her in the front room on the sofa.’

  ‘Gawd ’elp us, woman, how we gonna fit in? Even with threepence extra?’

  Covering the table with newspaper, Mrs Harris set out the cutlery. Te d sat down at the table, sighing. He was such a good-natured soul. ‘You know, ducks, you’d take in a lame donkey if he was homeless, but we got to think of the kids . . .’

  His wife pulled up a chair and held his callous
ed hand. ‘Remember our youngest, little Dora? Remember how I was all set to have a gin bath at Widow Smith’s in the Hollow?’

  Te d nodded, and kissed her big red cheek. Mrs Harris had been beside herself when she had discovered she was pregnant again, and had not said a word to Ted, but made up her mind to get rid of it. Te d had arrived home unexpectedly from work, knowing the kids were out, knowing she would be at home. ‘Come here, you big old fool,’ he had said, ‘you fink after sixteen years of marriage I don’t know when you’re in the family way? Now, gel, it’s gonna be tough on us, but we’ll manage, and I’ve got a name, it’ll be a girl if there’s anything in the law of averages, and we’ll call her Dora . . . now give us a cuppa.’

  ‘Evelyne’s ever such a nice gel,’ Mrs Harris went on, ‘an’ I can leave our Dora wiv her until her baby’s born, that’ll save us a few coppers, won’t have ter farm her out whilst I do me cleanin’.’

  Ted spooned up the hot soup, dipped a chunk of bread in the bowl and sucked on it. ‘An’ what ’appens when the baby’s born, Ma? What’s she gonna do then?’

  ‘Oh, Ted, get on wiv yer, we’ll face that when it comes, an’ she can read an’ write, she can teach the little ’uns their schoolin’ . . .’

  Evelyne entered the hot, stuffy kitchen, and Te d gave her a wide smile, held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the family, gel, sit down, the missus’ll take right care of yer, an’ we’ll all fit in somehow.’

  Evelyne had never known such friendliness, such warmth and love, she was once more in the bosom of a family. The seven Harris children were rowdy, scruffy, and as open and friendly as their parents. Baby Dora, just eighteen months old, was left in Evelyne’s care while Mrs Harris went out cleaning.

  Exhausted from a long day’s hard work, Mrs Harris sat by the fire while Evelyne changed Dora’s nappy, cooing and making the baby gurgle with laughter. Evelyne’s pregnancy had advanced quickly, and Mrs Harris began to think the doctor could have miscalculated. Evelyne was a big girl, and looking at her now Mrs Harris reckoned the baby was probably more like seven months.

  Evelyne had not said one word about the father, or what she would do when the child was born.

  ‘Will you keep the baby, Evie, ducks?’

  Evelyne rocked little Dora in her arms. ‘Oh, yes, I couldn’t part with him, couldn’t even think about it.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be easy yer know, love, woman on ’er own, you could have the baby adopted, there’s many wivout that would give it a good home.’

  Evelyne pursed her lips. ‘There’ll be no one bringing my son up but me, I’ll find a way, I’ll get work.’

  ‘You never talk of the father, an’ you’re so sure it’s a boy yer carryin’ . . . does he know, lovey? About the baby?’

  Whenever Mrs Harris mentioned the baby’s father she saw Evelyne withdraw into herself. She had grown used to Evelyne, the way she could clam up. ‘Do you love ’im still? Is ’e a society man, that what it is?’

  Evelyne busied herself with Dora, but Mrs Harris battled on. ‘Only, a first-born is important to a man, an’ you seem so sure you’ve got a son inside you, d’yer not want ter contact ’im?’

  She watched Evelyne put little Dora into her crib, an old orange box, and kiss the child lovingly. Her heart went out to the girl, especially when she turned with tears in her eyes. ‘I just don’t know what to do, I don’t, but . . . feeling the baby inside me, well, I think more and more of him, but I just don’t know what to do . . .’

  Evelyne did think of Freedom; every night before she slept she saw his face. Leaving him the way she had was cruel, she knew it, and the more she thought of the way she had treated him the more ashamed she was. She decided to write to Freda, tell her about the baby, but ask her not to say anything to Freedom. She would want to tell him herself.

  As soon as Freda received Evelyne’s letter, she wrote back, knowing she shouldn’t, giving Freedom’s address in Jermyn Street. She also set about making baby clothes, but said nothing to Ed in her letter to him. She did as Evelyne asked, and kept the secret.

  Evelyne opened Freda’s letter in the park while little Dora was asleep in the pram. She read that Freedom was waiting for acceptance to fight the British Heavyweight Champion, Micky Morgan, how he had beaten the Irish contender, and that they were all on tenterhooks waiting for the promoters to give the word.

  Seeing his name in writing, Evelyne’s heart missed a beat. She knew she had been a fool. She touched her swollen belly, pictured Freedom’s face. She could almost laugh at herself, she who had wanted a better life was now living in the slums, without a job, and wheeling someone else’s baby around. Then she felt a bit guilty. Mrs Harris might be poor, but she was like a second mother to Evelyne. Poverty was all around them, but Evelyne had never said a word about her legacy. It had become an obsession with her, she scrimped and saved every farthing, and yet she had more money in the post office than the Harrises ever dreamed of. Originally it had been intended to pay for her own education, but now it would be for her son’s. She blushed with shame, but then argued with herself that she paid her way, she wasn’t taking the Harrises’ charity, just their love.

  Every single head turned as Freedom entered the Café Royal. Women particularly noticed him, towering over every other man, even the elegant Sir Charles went unnoticed. All eyes focused on Freedom.

  Their table was very prominent, chosen for that specific reason, just as the table at White’s had been the night before. The whispers spread as the diners recognized Sir Charles and knew that the handsome man with him must be his contender. The sporting sections had been full of coverage of the forthcoming British title fight, including Pat Murphy’s unprecedented knockout. The venue had been changed from the National Sporting Club to the Albert Hall, and the fight delayed for two months as posters and tickets were altered and reprinted. The pre-fight sales were already the biggest in English history, and it was rumoured that tickets were scarce now and were becoming a ‘must’. It was also rumoured that the Prince of Wales himself would be the guest of Sir Charles and Lord Livermore.

  Much of the press coverage was down to Sir Charles negotiating long and hard with the promoters, who wanted to recoup their losses from the Pat Murphy knockout, which included billboards, posters, tickets, et cetera. With the larger showcase of the Albert Hall, the losses were soon made up. Sir Charles announced that a quarter of the profits would be given to charity, thus giving the match the seal of approval for society to be there.

  The British Heavyweight Champion himself kept well out of the limelight. Sir Charles had no intention of keeping Freedom under wraps, and was betting heavily on the champion as well, intending to cover his losses should Freedom lose. He loved the fuss, the glamour and the attention, basked in it, and paraded Freedom as if he were a prize hunter on a rein. Freedom held up well, his dark eyes flashing, his smile captivating everyone. His romantic Romany origins were well publicized, and the women fluttered and pretended to swoon when he kissed their hands.

  Tonight, at the Café Royal, Freedom had to stand for a round of applause as the band leader moved the spotlight on to Sir Charles’ table.

  Poor Ed shuddered with embarrassment as Sir Charles’ generosity had not included him and he was self-conscious in his ill-fitting suits and old shirt. Realizing that the slight was intended, he stepped aside from now until the last stages of his training. He contented himself instead with reading about his golden boy in the society columns.

  Freda was delighted when Ed sent for her to come to town. She had worked her fingers raw, sewing clothes for herself, hoping to be there on the big night. She set off from The Grange as excited as a child.

  When Ed met her at the station she was a trifle disappointed to discover that they had to travel by public transport, and even further let down to find that they had to stay with Ed’s family, who were waiting for them with tea all ready on the table. Ed’s brother and his wife and kids greeted the new sister-in-law with suspicion at first, but then made her w
elcome. They were East Enders and, although Freda never said a word, they were obviously living from hand to mouth. She and Ed were given the front room to sleep in, and it was not until late evening that Freda had a chance to talk to Ed in privacy.

  ‘Well, darlink, how is Freedom? Will we all have tickets for the fight?’

  Ed was hesitant at first, not as enthusiastic as she had expected. In truth, his nose was very much out of joint. Freedom seemed to have changed. Only a short while ago Ed couldn’t have got him to put a tie round his neck, and now he was never without one. Freedom had also been very cold and aloof with Ed, and that hurt him. He didn’t like to mention it to Freda, but she detected he was not too happy.

  ‘You won’t recognize ’im, Freda, ’e looks like a toff an’ ’e’s actin’ like one, out every night gallivantin’ around the town, showin’ ’imself off to everybody. He should be trainin’, night an’ day. You don’t see this Micky out in the clubs, no way, he’ll be trainin’ mornin’, noon an’ night.’

  Freda made all the right noises and bided her time. She didn’t like to mention Evelyne now.

  ‘I’m worried, Freda, see, I know ’is Lordship, next minute the lad’ll believe in ’is own publicity, believe that Sir’s ’is closest friend, but if ’e loses he won’t see ’im fer dust, an’ ’e’ll lose, Freda, mark my words ’e’ll lose, ’e can’t go on like this. I been round three times an’ ’e’s still in bed at twelve o’clock, him what was out at the crack of dawn at The Grange.’

  Patting his hand and kissing his cheek, Freda assured him that she would have a word with Freedom when she saw him.

  ‘You’ll need an appointment, Freda, see if ’e can’t fit you in between ’is barber an’ ’is tailor.’

  Often at night Freedom would walk along Jermyn Street and cross into St James’s Park. Climbing over the railings he would run silently round and round, or sit for hours staring at the sleeping pelicans. Then when he had exhausted himself he would return to Jermyn Street. The running eased his restlessness, his feeling of being cooped up, of being on display, a fairground amusement. The women who pawed him only made him long for his Evie, and the pain inside him grew worse and worse instead of easing, but he said nothing, told no one.