Edward and Freda were making sandcastles on the beach. Evelyne could hear Freda screeching, ‘Eddie! Eddie, that’s far enough in the water . . . Eddie!’ No matter how often Evelyne corrected her, she still called him Eddie. Evelyne sighed and tutted. Jane Austen would not have approved.
Far along the beach she could see Freedom running, no more than a small black dot. Ed drove the hired motorcar alongside, the exhaust leaving a trail of blue smoke in the warm air. Evelyne checked the time – she still had a few precious moments alone before the house would again revolve around Freedom. He ate early, a large steak, salad and fresh fruit, and drank a strange mixture that Freda spent ages mixing in her treasured blender. It consisted of raw eggs, milk, honey, and a vitamin powder Ed had been given by Dempsey. Freedom’s training schedule ruled their lives, and now that Evelyne knew what was at stake financially, she made every effort not to disturb his rigorous routine. Mealtime and exercise charts hung all over the kitchen. The lounge was now used for Freedom’s massage and as a place to discuss tactics, and the two of them spent hours closeted in there. In the afternoons Freedom went to Dempsey’s gymnasium to work out on the proper equipment, returning for his long run, his massage, dinner and bed. The fight was drawing closer and closer, but if Freedom was nervous he took pains not to show it in front of the women. Ed was sharp-tempered if they were a minute off schedule, but neither Freda nor Evelyne argued. The fight was all-important.
Ed had taken Evelyne aside for one of their private chats. Flushing with embarrassment, he forced himself to say what had to be said, ‘Now, love, I know he won’t tell you, so it’s up to me – yer not to ’ave it away, not ’til after the fight.’
Evelyne smothered her smile and stared, poker-faced, at Ed, ‘Have what away? I don’t follow you, Ed.’
‘Now, now, yer know what I mean! He’s in the spare room and, well, yer see, one night’s love-makin’, Evie, is equivalent to about a six-mile run – d’yer understand me now? Conserve ’is energy.’
Evelyne repeated what Ed had said to Miss Freda. She patted her hair looking at her dumpy little husband, ‘Well, I wish he’d do a bit of training. I don’t know what’s come over him of late, I think it’s nerves, either that or he’s been taking your Freedom’s vitamins.’ Ed, unaware that they were whispering about him, paced up and down. Evelyne kept her face straight as she looked back at Freda. ‘I don’t think it’s vitamins, Freda. It’s that floating nightdress with all the swansdown he brought you from New York, makes you look the image of Fay Wray.’
Freda giggled as Ed gave them a grunt, and walked out. ‘Well darlink, if that’s true, he’s King Kong. Tonight I’ll put my flannel nightie on, that’ll finish him off, always has before . . .’
The two women giggled and looked through all the film magazines Ed had bought. Evelyne had to put her hand over her mouth as she caught Freda looking at herself in the mirror. She had made up her mouth with a cupid’s bow and obviously thought she really did look like Fay Wray, or Clara Bow. She pursed her lips and batted her thickly mascara’d eyelashes. ‘Oh, I just don’t know what I am going to wear for the fight, have you thought about your outfit, Evie?’
Evelyne’s good humour evaporated. Her stomach turned over – just for a few moments she had forgotten about the fight. There were only three days to go . . . ‘Oh God, Freda, it’s not long now, not long.’
They both turned to the calendar where the dates were marked with crosses. Those few days slipped by fast.
On the day of the big fight Freedom left early with Ed. They all hugged him and wished him well. He kissed his son, and waved to them all as the car disappeared down the drive. The villa felt very quiet without him and Ed, and the day seemed to stretch endlessly ahead for Freda and Evelyne.
Jack Sharkey and Freedom faced each other at the weighing-in. Freedom had learnt fast – he out-stared Sharkey, glared for the press cameras and whispered that he was going to wipe the floor with Sharkey. He held up his fist for the photographers.
In the stiflingly hot dressing room, the thunder of the crowd could be heard. Ed bandaged Freedom’s fists, and Dempsey came in, raising his clenched fist to Freedom in salute. Sir Charles, Tex and Kearn also made an appearance, Sir Charles bringing a crowd of visiting English aristocracy who all wanted to meet Freedom. Finally, Ed ordered everybody out and banged the door shut.
The seconds were sweating with nerves as they checked their equipment – the buckets, sponges, gum-shield, plasters and towels.
Having finished bandaging Freedom’s right hand, Ed gestured for him to lift his left. When he was wrapping the cloth tightly between Freedom’s fingers, Freedom asked. ‘They in their seats yet, Ed? Is she here?’
Ed gave the nod to one of the seconds to check that the women were there, and he came back saying they were, and that the excited Edward was standing up in his seat waving a rattle. Having finished the bandaging, Ed started to massage Freedom’s shoulders. He could feel the tension and kept up a steady flow of chatter, easing the stiffness from the muscles. ‘Now remember the rules, Freedom. Make sure if ’e goes down you get over to the neutral corner fast as your legs’ll carry yer. That’s the law, they won’t start the count until you’re in the neutral.’
Freedom cuffed Ed good-naturedly on the chin. Before every single bout Ed went on like this, as if Freedom didn’t know. Ed was keeping an eye on the clock – it was almost time. They waited for the referee to come in and inspect the bandages. At last he arrived and checked each hand meticulously, then patted Freedom’s shoulder. ‘I’ll go over it in the ring, but I like to have a private word before the bout, understand me? Okay, you break when I tell you, no low punches, no holding. And remember, if either man goes down, you must return to the neutral corner for the count. I will not count until the fighter is in the corner – understand? We got judges each side of the ring, their decision is based on the effectiveness of your punches, they want nice, clean, forceful punches . . . Okay, right, we go in ten minutes, and good luck.’
Ed began to tie on the gloves, still talking in his soft, nonstop way. ‘Remember yer get points for aggression, so go in there ter win. Sustain the rounds, don’t pussyfoot up there, get in an’ take ’im. This is the big one and the most important to date, so I want you in there ter win, you wiv me? You wiv me? Yer goin’ ter knock ’im out, and yer goin’ ter get that title, yes? Yes, yes?’
Freedom slapped Ed’s open palm and yelled back, ‘Yes yes yes!’
There was a knock on the door and they were told to stand by. Ed pulled the robe around Freedom’s shoulders and double-checked that the corner men had everything ready. After one last look, he winked and they went out through the door.
The stadium was packed to capacity and the thunder of the crowd’s noise drowned out Ed’s pep talk. At the opposite entrance stood Sharkey, hopping from one leg to the other, waiting for the signal to enter the ring. A fanfare started up and the audience rose to their feet as the band played the ‘Victory March’.
Edward was jumping up and down in his seat, not really understanding what was going on but loving every minute of it. Evelyne’s heart was thudding, and she felt the baby kicking inside her. The heat in the stadium was overpowering and the noise like thunderclaps overhead. Freda held Evelyne’s hand tight, both their palms sticky from nerves.
The crowd roared as Freedom entered the ring, hemmed in by Ed and the seconds, with eight attendants to keep back the well-wishers’ outstretched hands.
‘Ladies and gentlemennnn . . . in the left-hand corner, the British Heavyweight Champion Freedom Stubbs, wearing the black shorts. Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds. In the right-hand corner, Jack Sharkey, from New York City, weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds!’
Not a single one of the ringmaster’s words about Sharkey was heard, the crowd rose with a deafening cheer, flowers were thrown and feet thudded on the wooden stands.
The two boxers met in the centre of the ring, while the band played first the ‘Stars and
Stripes’, then ‘God Save the King’. The referee was introduced, to whistles and cheers, and the boxers retired to their corners.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, there will be twenty rounds of two minutes each round.’
The judges took their bows and went to their seats, flowers and streamers were removed from the ring, and the gong was held up for display. Slowly the stadium grew quieter and quieter as they waited expectantly for the bout to begin.
Freedom glanced quickly over at Evelyne and smiled. She wanted to cry out, reach out to him and touch him. His hair, oiled to keep it off his face, was tied back in a leather thong, and his eyes, brows and cheeks were smeared with Vaseline. The gumshield was put into place and he sat poised and ready.
Sharkey delayed getting his gumshield in, talking to his trainer. The gong clanged loudly, and both men were up and moving to the centre of the ring. The seconds were out, taking the stools with them. Freda was shouting, ‘Come on Freedom, come on Freedom . . .’
The boxers were well-matched, and it was not until round four that the crowd began to settle down. The two men were in close, jabbing, punching, trying to find each other’s weaknesses. It was a good, clean fight when suddenly a punch that Evelyne didn’t even see made Freedom’s whole body buckle, and he fell to his knees. The crowd went wild. Ed waved his towel, screaming at the top of his voice, and climbed into the ring. There was almost a fight between Ed and the referee, two judges conferred and Freda was on her feet screaming along with everyone else in the front rows.
‘Foul . . . Foul . . . Foul . . . !’
Freedom was helped to his feet by the ref, who looked into his face and turned, holding off Sharkey with his right hand. He was not counting. Sharkey, panicking, thought he had been disqualified, and turned to his seconds, who now got into the ring. The chant of ‘foul’ was taken up by a vast group at the back of the stadium, and the sing-song of ‘low punch, low punch . . .’
The referee was holding Ed off, and Freedom backed, bent over slightly and shook his head. To everyone’s amazement, the referee held up his hand and gave a two-minute respite to Freedom, throughout which Sharkey fumed and raged like a madman. Ed had to be hauled out of the ring, still insisting it was a foul, but the ref gave the signal for the round to continue.
The muscles in Freedom’s left leg were seizing up, and it felt as if it were paralysed. For the duration of the round he fended off Sharkey’s punches as best he could and at the end he limped back to his corner, which drew a series of loud boos and catcalls from the spectators.
Evelyne sat huddled in her seat. She couldn’t understand what was going on, he was in pain and she knew it. ‘He’s hurt, Freda, he’s hurt, he can hardly walk.’
In desperation Ed massaged Freedom’s leg, at the same time yelling above the noise to Freedom, ‘You want me to stop the fight? Tell me, shall I stop the fight, can you move it, Jesus God, can you move your leg?’
The seconds could see that Freedom’s old cut was an angry red, and they plastered it with grease . . . Ed had actually reached for the towel to throw it into the ring when the gong sounded for the round to begin. Ed knew his boy was hurt, it was obvious from his stance. This wasn’t Freedom’s style, he was a mover, and a fast one.
Freedom took a series of short, fast jabs to his face and keeled over backwards, lost his balance and fell heavily out of the ring. Evelyne was on her feet, tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t stand to see it, see him hurt, she wanted him never to get back into the ring. The crowd around her were screaming like wild animals.
The referee started the count, holding Sharkey back as Freedom hauled himself back into the ring. The fall had cut him just above his left ear, and blood was trickling down on to his shoulder. Ed was at breaking point, but held back by the seconds. He wanted to throw in the towel; it was obvious Freedom couldn’t stand properly. His left leg was dragging, useless. Freedom was taking his punishment, gritting his teeth to hold on until the round ended. It was taking everything he had just to stand with the agonizing pain in his left leg and the feeling that someone was hacking into his spine . . . Every movement made it worse.
Sharkey took every opportunity, spurred on by relief at not getting disqualified, and came on to Freedom with punch after punch. He was a short jab man, and Freedom was on the end of his hard rights time and time again. He felt his nose split open and stood dazed as the bell rang for the end of the round.
Ed concentrated on Freedom’s face and begged him to throw in the towel. Blood was pouring from his nose, and the cut above his ear wouldn’t stay shut. ‘It’s over, Freedom, it’s over, he’s mauling you.’
Sir Charles sat stiffly through the next round, not making a sound, and his companions went quiet as they saw his champion beaten. There was nothing anyone could say, the ring said it all, the crowds bayed for a knockout and Sir Charles knew they would get it at any moment. There was a flash of Freedom’s old brilliance, but he stumbled and took a left hook to his jaw that lifted him off the canvas. No one could believe he would get up from it, but he did. It was tragic to see him swaying, blinded by his own blood, and for Evelyne and Freda it was a nightmare. Edward shouted, ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ and waved his rattle, thinking it was all a game. Evelyne hugged the child to her and sobbed; she couldn’t bear to look into the ring.
At long last Freedom was down and out for the count, but there was none of the hysterical cheering. The crowd went quiet as they saw Freedom’s terrible injuries and the pitiful attempts of his seconds to bring him round. His blood was all over the canvas, all over his opponent.
The referee held up Sharkey’s hand as Ed was still trying to bring Freedom to. He lay face down, breathing in the resin, and eventually the two seconds managed to lift him back to his seat. From then on it was a blur to all those close to Freedom – the ride in the ambulance, the wait outside the hospital room for news. Ed wept unashamedly, but Freda had strength enough for them all. She chided Ed, saying he must put on a brave face for Freedom, Freedom mustn’t see him like this. Evelyne cradled the sleeping child and was so exhausted she couldn’t even cry.
The doctors took Ed aside and said that Freedom was going to be all right. He was semi-paralysed down his left side. They doubted that the paralysis would be permanent, and hoped he would recover the use of his leg completely. The blow to the side of Freedom’s head caused much more worry, and although he had regained a semblance of consciousness he wasn’t lucid. So they had taken X-rays of his skull and he was under sedation.
Ed went into the private room. Unable to speak he just stood looking at the still figure with the terribly swollen face and broken nose plastered up, and his heart broke. The room was silent except for Freedom’s shallow breathing, and Ed touched his hand and had to hurry out before he broke down.
Ed tried to persuade Evelyne to go home with Freda, but he hadn’t counted on her strength of will. She refused point-blank to move, insisting that Freda and Ed take the child home and return in the morning. Evelyne sat outside the room, quiet, alone, her eyes closed. She prayed for him, hand to her heart, and whispered his name over and over again.
Sir Charles was led past the waiting room. He could see her, her anguished face, as she waited. He followed the nurse down the corridor and into Freedom’s room. The nurse hovered at the door.
‘Thank you, I won’t be a moment.’ Left alone with the shrouded figure in the bed, surrounded by machines and intravenous drips, Sir Charles stood as if frozen. Slowly, without making a sound, he inched towards the bed, peered down into the distorted face with the swollen eyes and the thick bandages over the broken nose. He removed his monocle and his mouth twitched.
Freedom’s hands were unmarked, his long, tapering fingers resting peacefully on the white sheet, making Sir Charles want to weep. Such fine hands, he had never really noticed them before. He looked towards the door, then reached out and touched Freedom’s hand, as if afraid, then bent and kissed the tips of the fingers. Then he slipped from the room and walked back al
ong the corridor to where Evelyne waited.
He looked embarrassed, he didn’t know what to say to her, and he tapped his walking stick on the blue lino, making small indentations. She said not one word, but stared at him, her face tight and angry, her eyes cold.
‘I’ll make sure all the hospital bills are taken care of, and, well, any expenses will, of course, be paid. I’m sorry.’
She wanted to strike him, smash his arrogant, stiff face, hit him so hard that his monocle would shatter on the floor. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, what about his heart, can you pay for that, too? He’ll not get over this and you know it.’
He coughed, shuffled his feet and said he would be flying to Chicago the following morning, and would no doubt see them on their return to England.
‘He’s just like one of your thoroughbreds really, isn’t he, sir? Except when they break a leg you shoot them. Where’s your gun? You’re finished with him now, aren’t you? Just like that, because he didn’t win.’
Sir Charles went white with anger at her rudeness. ‘Your husband never did anything he didn’t want to. You of all people should know that. No one forced him into the ring and no one is to blame. He is a sportsman.’
Evelyne moved closer to him and her fists clenched. ‘You forced him and you know it, you never let him off the hook, did you? Because you owned him, from the day you first met him, you bought him.’
Sir Charles snapped that perhaps she would have preferred him to hang, as he most assuredly could have done without him.
‘He repaid you, every penny you spent on that court case. How much have you made out of him?’
He pushed her away from him, his face ashen. His fury, usually so controlled, burst out. ‘If there was anyone to blame, my dear, it was you, you who never let him be, you hung on to your meal ticket as he would have hanged from a rope. Do you think I don’t know that?’
The Legacy (1987) Page 49