The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Freedom knew she would make for home. He had no thought for himself. He hitched a ride, then, to the consternation of the driver, jumped from the moving car. He ran the five miles down to the village, along the small, winding footpath, keeping up the steady, strong pace until his lungs were bursting. He saw the village below, pushed himself on. At the far end of the valley the mountain rose.

  The streets were thronging with miners. Freedom was no fool; he knew what would happen if any of them caught him. He kept to the back lanes, his jacket collar turned up, his breath catching in his throat. He reached the corner of Aldergrove Road and saw a woman with three children slam the front door. Had he got confused? Was it the wrong street? He felt a tug at his sleeve and spun around.

  Lizzie-Ann hugged her worn cardigan to her and stared up into his face. Her voice was strained, hoarse, ‘She’s gone up the mountain, gone crazy like her Ma.’ Backing away, she took a sly look over her shoulder, afraid to be seen talking to the gyppo. She was frightened of him.

  ‘There’s nothing here for her, nobody wants her back.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  Freedom gave her a small nod of thanks, but she turned on her heel and scuttled away before he could say a word.

  Gladys Turtle was out of breath when she caught Lizzie-Ann at the water taps. ‘They say she’s back, Evie Jones, is that right?’ she gasped. ‘Have you seen her? And the gyppo? Well?’

  ‘By Christ, yer a moaning Minnie, Gladys Turtle, if I hadn’t two kids an’ another on the way I’d be off, now bugger off” and mind yer own business.’ Lizzie-Ann watched as the water spurting from the tap overflowed the bucket, ran over her worn, down-at-heel shoes, and trickled away down the cobbles. She whispered a prayer. ‘Don’t come back, Evie, please, oh, please …’

  Although near exhaustion, Evelyne was still climbing, but now she gasped clean air into her lungs, heaving for each breath. Not far, not far now — she was almost there.

  Her hair had worked loose, tumbling around her shoulders. She unbuttoned her coat. Soon she would be on the very peak, high above the valley.

  Far below, Freedom began to climb. He couldn’t see her, but he had found her suitcase by the grave. Further on he found her scarf caught in a bramble bush and held it, standing poised and still, listening, shading his eyes to look up the mountain against the sun. He threw his jacket aside and moved on, his heart thudding in his chest. Alert as an animal he could sense her, knew she was not far. He climbed higher, and suddenly fear gripped him tight. He looked down — it was her coat, cast aside. For one terrible moment he thought it had been her, his manushi. He called for her, shouted. Her name echoed around emptily, no Evie answered back.

  ‘Evelyne … Evelyne … Evelyne!’

  Rounding a shelf covered in man-sized boulders, he saw her, way above him, standing like a statue, arms up, hair blowing in the clean wind. She was turning, slowly, dangerously, her head back and eyes closed. At any moment she could fall, lose her balance. She was dancing with death.

  His voice was low and soft, a whisper. ‘Is it a partner you’re wanting, Evie?’ He was terrified she would open her eyes and fall, but she smiled, head high, facing the sun. He inched towards her without a sound, closer, until he could reach out and catch her … he grabbed her by her long hair and pulled her to him. She turned on him like a wildcat, eyes blazing, and struck out at him, but he held her, took the blows … dragged her to safety, while she scratched and fought him every inch. When he had got her to a safe distance, he gripped her by the shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides … ‘Look, look, see how close you were, woman, you could have been killed.’

  She struggled, kicked out at him. ‘Maybe that’s what I want, get off me, you bugger, let me alone, this is my business … It’s my life, God damn you!’

  He didn’t mean to hit her so hard, her head snapped back and her mouth started to bleed. The shock made her still, calmed her.

  ‘You’re my life too, you’ll give yourself to no mountain.’

  ‘I’ll not give myself to you either, let me go!’ But she didn’t struggle any more, and he eased his hold until he simply held her in his arms. The wonder of the valley spread below them, as if only for them. He picked her up, gently, and carried her to a rock, sat her down.

  ‘What was his name? Your Da’s name?’

  She turned her head away from him, touched her bleeding lip … after a moment she whispered his name, ‘Hugh, Hugh …’

  ‘Well, girl, call out to him, call as loud as you can, release it, release him …’

  She shook her head, and Freedom cupped his hands to his mouth and called her Da … called for Hugh.

  His voice came back with the name of her father, and she felt the tears inside. She threw her head back and, as if defying the mountain, she cried out for her father. ‘Hugh … Dal Da… Da. ‘

  The echo thundered, boomed, the words meeting, joining, until the sound became a roar …

  Freedom watched her, her face like a child’s as she cupped her hands to her mouth and called to the air. He let her rise, moving closer to the edge … ‘Mary … Will… Mike … Daveyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…’

  She reached out to her dead, arms spread, calling to them, and when her grief broke through he was there at her side. All the tears she had not shed when she was a child, the tears for Hugh, for her family, for all of them.

  She would never remember how long she had wept, only that he was there. He cradled her, rocked her like a baby and she felt safe, secure, and slowly, gradually, she was quiet.

  ‘I can feel your heart, manushi He laid his hand over her right breast. It felt as if it was burning through her … then he took her hand and laid it against his own heart. He laughed, lying back in the grass.

  ‘You laughing at me, man?’

  He took her hand, kissed her fingers. ‘No, manushi, I’m not laughing … see, we gyppos, when we marry we don’t need no church, no service. Some of ‘em have ‘em, but most place hands to hearts … when they beat as one, well, then they’re married.’

  She didn’t know whether he was serious or not, because he had such a strange smile on his face. But she could feel the imprint of his hand on her breast, as if her heart were on fire. She looked into his eyes, and he drew her gently to him. His kiss was so sweet, his lips hardly brushed hers, and it was Evelyne who reached for him, pulled him to her … the burning in her heart spread through her whole body, and she clung to him.

  He reached over and slowly undid each button of her blouse. She didn’t resist, but lay still until it was undone completely, and he pulled it gently away from her breasts. Her skin was white, white, her breasts had the palest pink nipples he had ever seen … He bent his dark head and kissed each nipple in turn, then lay his head on her breast and felt the pounding of her heart.

  He whispered, ‘Manushi, my manushi…’ Gently, unhurriedly, he slipped her boots off, untying each lace and easing them away from her feet, kissing her toes, light, featherweight kisses. He unhooked her skirt, and she did nothing to assist him, lying with one arm across her face, eyes closed. He lifted her in his arms and pulled the skirt from beneath her until she was naked, and then he laid her down on her skirt. She was frightened, afraid to open her eyes, to see him, see his face. He stood up and slipped out of his trousers until he too was naked, and stood looking down at her for a moment. Then he lay next to her, she could feel his heart and she waited, but he didn’t touch her. Her whole body was burning, her mouth dry, her heart pounding as if it were going to burst through her breasts.

  She lowered her hand from her face and let it rest at her side. She could feel his skin. Slowly turning her body to face him, looking into his eyes, she put her hand to his heart. He smiled and laid his hand on her heart.

  He made love to her gently, guiding her, making sure he didn’t hurt her or make her afraid, and when he was sure of her, knew by the movements of her body that she was ready, he let loose his passion. Evelyne rose with him, moved with him, and they were insatiable,
their greed for each other consuming. She made love with a rage, until she was released by an explosion inside her body that in turn released her mind. It was such an exquisite emotion that she wanted it over and over again.

  She slept safe in the crook of his arm. He studied her face. She sat at peace now, and she was his. He would never let her go, she was his manushi, his wife.

  She was shy at first when she woke, covering her naked breasts with her hands. He made her take her hands away, telling her she was more beautiful than any wild-flower they could see. To assure her of this, he gathered wild cornflowers till his arms were filled with them and laid them over her body.

  ‘Oh, these were my Ma and Da’s favourite.’

  There was no pain when she said their names. Her grief had gone as her loved ones had been embraced and kissed goodbye. Then together they laid cornflowers on the grave.

  ‘Now, gel, which way would you say London was?’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Aye, I’m to be a champion boxer, I signed a contract. Sir Charles said he’d give thee work … Come, give us yer hand, gel.’

  Freedom had made a crown of cornflowers. She laughed when he set it gendy on her head! Then arm in arm they walked down from the mountain, away from the grave. Evelyne’s gentle, delighted laugh echoed back to them, like the soft whisper of Mary Jones …

  ‘Leave the valley, Evie, promise me …’

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 17

  SIR Charles Wheeler’s estate was twenty miles from Salisbury, After passing through Andover, the route then wound through mile upon mile of country lanes. Eventually, small, white, hand-painted wooden signposts directed the traveller towards ‘The Grange’ and along lanes only wide enough for a single vehicle, so that it seemed as though The Grange might be only one of the numerous farms buried among the fields and woods.

  The arched stone entrance, with gates twenty feet high, set in six-foot stone walls, gave no indication of what lay beyond. The driveway was of gravel, raked smooth, and showed no tracks, but the hedgerows and the profusion of rhododendron bushes with their bright pink and purple blooms gave a hint of what lay beyond. The bushes gave way to a stretch of oak trees half a mile wide, their thick trunks and massive branches joining in an arch, and still the driveway continued.

  After a further mile through the magical bower, The Grange itself was still not in sight until, rounding a curve, there it was, standing in such splendour it took the breath away. Hundreds of rose bushes covered immaculate sloping lawns which bordered the horse-shoe drive. A vast fountain sprayed fans of water twenty feet from the open mouths of marble dolphins. Glittering mermaids rode on the creatures’ backs, hands outstretched to welcome visitors. But dominating it all was The Grange, a majestic, overpoweringly beautiful house. Six white pillars flanked the fifteen marble steps to the arched entrance. Three storey high, built in white sandstone, the house was awe-inspiring in its size and architectural proportions.

  On each side were more lawns and gardens, with lily ponds and statues. Paths led to the outhouses, stables, barns and, hidden behind a bank of trees, a farm with sprawling, well-kept fields. Behind were more gardens, a man-made lake, and mile upon mile of forest and sloping hills. The Grange dominated the thousand acres surrounding it with such power that any onlooker bowed to its presence.

  Also behind The Grange were staff quarters for those who worked the land. In comparison with the house, their cottages were like rows of dolls’ houses. The stables were more splendid, with vast paddocks containing a herd of the finest hunters, groomed by a score of stable boys. The ground staff numbered thirty-five; gardeners, gamekeepers, huntsmen. In addition, there were more than twenty full-time staff employed to run the house. Cooks, butlers, footmen, pantry-maids, valets; all quartered on the very top floor of The Grange … the personal estate of Sir Charles Wheeler.

  Rawnie blew a circle of smoke from her hand-rolled cigarette. It drifted and curled above her head in a blue haze. She closed her eyes. She stood high on the brow of a hill overlooking The Grange. Next to her stood Jesse, chewing a long piece of grass, as handsome as ever. He shaded his eyes to look down into the paddocks below.

  ‘Do ye see him?’

  ‘Aye, it’s him, cross the paddocks, running like a hare … Mun runs for ‘em like one of their grys … look at.’im.’

  Way below her Rawnie watched the running figure of Freedom. Behind him was a motorcar, and they could see a boy standing on the running board, shouting and waving his arms at Freedom.

  With one eye on his stopwatch and the other on the road, Ed Meadows swerved the car, almost knocking the boy off the running board. He put his foot down on the accelerator, and closed the gap between the car and Freedom. ‘Tell ‘im to ease off, that’s enough for today.’

  The boy shouted, but Freedom continued to run. If anything, he picked up speed.

  ‘Jesus God, ‘e’ll run ‘imself ter death.’

  Ed tooted the horn and drove alongside Freedom. ‘Hey, hey, that’s it, — Freedom … come on, lad, ease yerself down.’

  Freedom turned his head towards Ed, but ran on. He had a look on his face that Ed had become accustomed to, a strange, defiant stare. Eventually Ed drove in front of Freedom and turned the car across the lane, got out and shouted at him in a fury, hands on hips. ‘When I say you’ve ‘ad enough I mean it. You’ve run more’n fifteen miles and we got to go an’ work out, you tryin’ ter kill yerself?’

  Breath hissing, lungs heaving, Freedom faced him. His long hair was dripping, and his old, rough shirt was sodden with sweat. He laid his hands on the motor, and Ed quickly wrapped a towel around his shoulders and began rubbing him down. Freedom shrugged him away, flicked the towel out of his grasp, and stepped aside to wipe his own sweating body. ‘Months I been here, mun, every day, runnin’, sparrin’, liftin’ the weights, trainin’ … and for what, when do I fight, mun?’

  Ed’s look told the young lad to move off. The boy was one of the sparring partners they had brought from London and he was standing staring at Freedom, hero-worship written all over his face.

  Ed moved closer to Freedom. ‘You don’t talk ter me that way. You want a fight, I want a fight, but we do what ‘is Lordship tells us to do, we wait. tell you when we’re ready for a bout, not you, I’m the bloody trainer.’p>

  His breathing eased, Freedom tossed the towel to the boy and shrugged. His voice was quiet, his fist clenched.

  ‘I’m ready, you know it. I been fighting years before I was brought here, I’m in the gym day in day out, an’ for what? To entertain ‘is Lordship’s toffs when they come ta visit? I hate him always watchin’ me, is that all I’m here fer? I want a fight.’

  Ed knew all that Freedom was saying was right, but he could do nothing. He moved to Freedom and began to rub his shoulders, calming him as if he were an animal. ‘I know, I know, lad … maybe we’ll take it easy for a few days, huh? Maybe I pushed you too hard.’

  Freedom laughed, rubbed Ed’s balding head. ‘I want a fight, Ed, that’s all.’

  As they were about to climb into the car there was the sound of an owl hooting. Neither the young boy nor Ed paid any attention, but Freedom turned, suddenly alert. Then came a whistle, soft but shrill, and Freedom shaded his eyes to look up into the woods. He cupped his hands and whistled, and again came the high-pitched, single note, like a bird.

  ‘Gawd ‘elp us, get in the car, what yer doin’ now? Birdwatchin’? Come on, lad, let’s have breakfast, I’m starvin’ after all this exercise.’

  Freedom jumped on to the running board of the car as Ed drove back to The Grange. He looked up to the woods and smiled, gave a small wave like a salute. Jesse and Rawnie knew he was aware that they were waiting, he had answered their call.

  Evelyne had been up since six-thirty, eaten her breakfast in the kitchens and then begun her work in the library. Sir Charles had given her the job of repairing and cataloguing the vast collection of books. Since her arrival at The Grange, Evelyne had seen him on
ly once, when he implied that he would employ her on condition that she have no contact with Freedom. Quietly and icily, he had told her he was prepared to make Freedom a champion, but if he discovered there was anything more in Freedom’s run from the train than the desire to thank her for her part in his acquittal, he would have no option but to destroy Freedom’s contract. He did not want any scandal, any repercussions or publicity in relation to the murder charges Freedom faced in Cardiff.

  ‘He ran once, let him try it again and I will wash my hands of him, is that clear?’

  Evelyne understood the veiled threat and assured Sir Charles that she would work in the house as instructed, nothing more.

  She was given a small room in the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. She spent her days in the musty library, ate her meals with the servants. The housekeeper, Miss Balfour, was loathed by all of them. She ran The Grange like a military camp and God help anyone who did not knuckle under her regime. Due to the nature of Evelyne’s work, she was immediately set apart.

  ‘I have always interviewed the staff in the past, Miss Jones … However, as Sir Charles has already instructed you in your duties, make sure you carry them out to the letter.’

  The housemaids’ and parlourmaids’ gossip bored Evelyne, and the rules and regulations they all abided by frustrated her. The house revolved around the periods when Sir Charles was in residence, his weekend house parties. Evelyne had no chance to see any of his high-society guests. All servants, unless they were actually in attendance, were told to stay out of sight. Evelyne felt trapped. Even to enjoy the beauty of their surroundings was forbidden; they were not allowed to use the grounds or walk among the rose gardens. The gulf betweeen ‘them’ and ‘us’ was brought home to Evelyne daily.