In a fury he pulled her to him, but she slapped his face. He took it, smiled down at her, and she stepped back and slapped him again.
‘Oh, manushi, is that all yer know, the fight? But my, my, you’re rinkeney when you’re angry … now come to me before you give me a tatto yeck … see, I got something for you.’ He handed her the gold coin Jesse had pressed into his hand … she threw it across the room. He cocked his head to the side, then picked up his shirt and began to dress.
Suddenly she clung to his back … he turned in her arms and cupped her face in his hands. ‘Eh, woman, you twist me so, ye don’t know what thee wants, listen to your heart, manushi, listen.’
He kissed her, slipping her nightdress off, carried her to the bed and laid her down. He snuggled his head close to her and whispered, ‘They’ll have a long night ahead searching for me.’
‘No they won’t, you’re going back, go and give yourself up to them before you cause any more trouble.’
‘Is that what you want?’
Miss Balfour rapped on Evelyne’s door.
‘Open this door this instant, I know you’ve got a man in there, come along, I’ve got Mr Plath with me, open up.’
In a panic, Evelyne reached for her nightdress while Freedom pulled on his shirt and hopped around trying to get into his trousers. Miss Balfour threw the door open. She was carrying a policeman’s truncheon, and was followed close behind by Mr Plath, the estate manager. They just caught Freedom slipping out of the window. Mr Plath made the mistake of grabbing Freedom’s leg, and got a nasty kick in the groin. He rolled in agony on the floor while Miss Balfour screamed, ‘Help, help … someone help!’
Sir Charles made a hurried exit from the house to talk to the police, who were there about the poachers. He had been playing an after-dinner game of rummy, and he was still clutching his cards. His house guests gathered at the windows.
Poor Ed was beside himself, he knew it had all got out of hand. The gamekeepers were embroidering their stories about the gypsy campers every time they retold it. They had been set upon, fired upon, punched and threatened with knives. ‘Freedom, was ‘e wiv ‘em? Will someone tell me, was ‘e wiv ‘em?’
‘Was ‘e wiv ‘em? Look at me throat, the bugger nearly throttled me.’
Sir Charles crossed the courtyard to speak to Ed, his cards still in his hand. ‘I want him found, Ed, brought back, in handcuffs if need be. This is outrageous, do you have any idea of how much time and effort I have been putting in, trying to arrange a bout for him in London? So help me God, he can go back to jail, what on earth possessed him to …’
A screech from a gamekeeper interrupted him. ‘Sir, oh, sir, there’s a man on the roof, look, there he is!’
All eyes were raised to the roof of The Grange, and there he was dancing, singing at the top of his voice,
Oh, can you rokka Romany,
can you play the bosh,
Can you jal adrey the staripen,
can you chin the cosh …
Balancing, holding his arms out as if he were walking a tightrope, Freedom teetered on the roof’s edge. The crowd grew silent.
‘The man must be mad, or drunk, or both.’
Miss Balfour ran to join the crowd. Behind her, Mr Plath came limping, clutching his injured parts. ‘This is her doing, sir, he was with her.’ Sir Charles turned to Ed. His voice was steely, and Ed’s heart sank. ‘When the fool comes down, give him to the law.’
‘But, sir, he’s done nuffink wrong, he’s just ‘ad a few too many.’
Sir Charles’ face twitched, he was so furious. ‘Don’t play games with me, Meadows, I know exactly where he’s been. His friends, so called, have been poaching on my land. He almost killed Fred Hutchins over there. Be in my study first thing in the morning, is that clear? And get all these people away, there has been enough disturbance for one night.’
As Sir Charles strode from the courtyard, there was a gasp from the onlookers. He looked up to see Freedom swinging down from ledge to ledge like a monkey. The police moved in to corner him, and he dodged and ducked as they chased him, then they surrounded him. As they dragged him away, he looked back and Sir Charles flushed as he gave him a dazzling smile.
Ed went into the barn. They had tied Freedom’s hands to one of the posts. His shirt was torn, his face filthy.
‘Why did you do it, lad, there’s two coppers out back with black eyes, and to kick Mr Plath of all people, in the balls. He’s the estate manager … I dunno, I don’t, why in God’s name did you do it? Why did you run?’
Freedom sighed, shook his head. ‘If I’d wanted away, Ed, I’d not have been dancing on the roof, now would I? You tell me why they trussed me up like a chicken?’
‘Sir Charles says he’s through with you, you could even get sent to jail. Poachin’s against the law, never mind what you done to the estate manager.’
With one movement Freedom wrenched the ropes away from the post, shaking the whole barn. He turned on Ed, and Ed backed away, terrified by the anger in those black eyes.
‘You tell His Lordship I want to fight; I don’t want to be kept here like one of his stallions. They’re groomed, and brushed, but spend more time than they should in their stalls. You tell him I could have killed his gamekeepers, each one of ‘em, and Mr Plath’s lucky ‘e still got anythin’ between his legs.’
He swung a punch at the punchbag, splitting it in two. ‘They set their dogs on children, that were wrong.’ Then he walked out, calm as ever. All Ed could think of was that punch, he had never seen one like it…
The following morning Ed went cap in hand to Sir Charles, beseeched him to listen before he launched into the speech he had obviously prepared.
‘Last night I saw a punch, Sir, that would floor any champion in England. I saw it with me own eyes. He’s wild, but he’s trained every day, not put a foot out of line. Don’t send ‘im away, sir, find him a fight! ‘E’s yer champion, I swear it.’
Sir Charles listened, tapping his fingers on his mahogany desk. ‘Ed, I’m a sportsman, you know that, I believe in him just as much as you, but I cannot have any scandal. Unless you control him, then I am afraid, champion or no, he’ll have to go … if these riff-raff follow him around, then …’
‘Your gamekeepers should not ‘ave set the dogs on to the children, gyppos or not, sir.’
Sir Charles rose from his seat and stared out of the window, his back to Ed. ‘How’s your wife? Settled in, has she?’
‘You bastard,’ thought Ed. He knew exactly what Sir Charles was implying; his livelihood depended on Freedom. He and Freda didn’t own their cottage, they owned nothing.
‘I’d like to see how he’s been doing, set up a bout in the barn, would you? Then we’ll discuss it later … that’s all for now.’
Evelyne sat on the edge of the leather chair. Sir Charles’ study smelt of polish and cigars. She watched him carefully cut the end of his Havana with a gold clipper.
‘I will, of course, give you references, but you must understand, under the circumstances your presence here is …’
Evelyne interrupted him. ‘I have packed, sir, and Mr Plath has given me my wages. You see, I had already made up my mind to leave.’
Sir Charles studied her for a moment. Her composure unnerved him slightly. Sitting ramrod straight, her chin up, her green eyes never leaving his face, she was not apologetic in any way. Suddenly he leaned forward, and she could see a muscle twitch at the side of his jaw, ‘Stay away from him, I shall clear everything with the police and my gamekeepers, he’ll get every chance I can give him, but stay away from him.’
Evelyne stood, her mouth trembling slightly, but she held on to her emotions. Without shaking his outstretched hand she opened the oak-panelled door. She didn’t look back, just closed the door silently behind her.
Freda was polishing her brass fender when a housemaid tapped on her door. She handed Freda a letter. ‘She said be sure you get it, I got to rush now, I’m behind with me work … you done this place up
ever so nice, Mrs Meadows.’
Freda didn’t hear the girl leave, she was turning the letter over in her hands. It was Evie’s writing, she’d know it anywhere, with its fancy loops and curls.
Ed had warned Sir Charles to stand well back from the ring. The sweat from the boys might spray on to his grey suit.
Freedom was in high spirits, despite a slight hangover. The evening’s drama appeared to have had little or no effect on him. He was unaware of how Sir Charles had settled everything, unaware how close he had been to losing his chance as a professional boxer.
Taking each boy in turn, even though he was only sparring, he gave such a good performance that Sir Charles gave Ed a wink, gestured for him to go to his side. Ed called out for the boxers to take a break, and he and Sir Charles waited for Freedom to join them.
Sir Charles leant on his silver-topped cane. ‘Appears you don’t think I’ve been pulling my weight? Not arranging a bout soon enough for you? Well, it’s not as easy as that, old chap. You’re unknown, a pit boxer, and they are, as you must be aware, two a penny. To gain a good rating in the game, why, you would more than likely have to take on twenty bouts before you could get any legitimate recognition.’
Freedom rolled his towel into a ball and chucked it aside. Sir Charles could smell him, like an animal, his sweating body was so close … he stepped back, just a fraction. ‘I have been masterminding a plan for you to hit the main circuits in one swoop. I have arranged for you to be the sparring partner for the present Irish Heavyweight Champion. He will be arriving in England shortly for an attempt at the British title.’
Freedom was about to let rip, Ed could see it, so he put out a restraining hand. Sir Charles continued, uninterrupted.
‘They will have all the sports writers there to see this Irish champion working out. And, Freedom, it will be up to you to show what you are worth — particularly when the press are in abundance — be your showcase, so to speak.’
‘Sparring partner? But I been workin’ for a professional bout, that’s what Ed — what you promised me from the word go, sparrin’ ain’t no professional bout.’
Sir Charles checked his gold fob watch and pocketed it before he spoke, making Freedom wait, hanging on his every word. Then he smiled, such a rare occurrence with Sir Charles that it was rather off-putting. His voice was almost sexual in its softness, its humour. ‘Ahhh, but what happens, old fella, if the sparring chappie knocks out the contender — leave a bit of a gap for the main event, wouldn’t you say?’
Ed gave Freedom a warning look to keep his mouth shut. ‘He’ll beat that Irish git wivout a doubt, if you’ll excuse the language, sir.’
Sir Charles strode to the barn doors, swinging his cane. ‘Let us hope he can. Ed, we leave for London first thing in the morning … jolly good bout, lads, well done.’
It was a few moments before it dawned, then Freedom gave Ed such a hug it winded him and he had to sit down on a bench to get his breath back.
Freda could hear Ed singing, ‘Oh, we got no bananas, we got no bananas today … tarrah!’
He opened the cottage door and threw his cloth cap in the air, then swung Freda round, wanting to dance, but she pushed him away. Behind him, Freedom bounded in, forgetting to stop so that he cracked his head on the top of the door, but he didn’t care, he was in such high spirits. ‘Get Evie for us, Freda, we got some news — we’re off to London and we got a fight.’
It was Freedom’s turn to twirl Freda round on her dumpy little legs. ‘I got her this, picked it on the way over. She was in a fair temper with me last night, so put it between the sheets … her book’s sheets, Freda, no need to look so shocked!’
Freedom laughed and tossed the cornflower in the air, then tucked it into Freda’s hand. She turned helpless eyes to Ed, but he was beaming from ear to ear. There on the table lay Evie’s letter. Freda held it out to Freedom, then let her hand drop. She had forgotten Freedom couldn’t read well enough yet. ‘Evie’s gone, Freedom, she left this morning … Here, she wrote to us all. She says she couldn’t come and say goodbye as … well, I don’t have to tell you, we’d all be crying. She wants to make her own way, better herself…’ Freda couldn’t go on, her face crumpled like a child’s and she sobbed.
Freedom went to her, held her gently in his arms and whispered to her, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’
Releasing her, he walked to the door like a man bereft. Ed tried to stop him leaving. ‘Now, don’t do nuffink you’ll regret, son, we go to London and …’
Like Freda, he couldn’t continue. Freedom gave Ed a heartbreaking look, then a strange, soft half-smile. He seemed so calm, his voice so soft and gentle.
‘We have a saying, if you love something, set it free, if it comes back to you it is yours, if it doesn’t, it never was …’
Freda opened her hand, and there was the cornflower. Freedom held her hand gently, then tucked the flower behind her ear. He smiled. ‘Evie’s favourite flower.’
Freda had never seen such open despair in a man’s eyes, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. She watched helplessly as he walked away.
‘I’ll go to him, go with him.’
‘No, Ed, leave him, leave him a while.’
From the cottage window they watched him walk, straightbacked, across the courtyard. There was no spring in his step now, no highstepping Romany saunter. As he reached the open fields he looked up and let out a single howl, like an animal caught in a trap. The cry chilled them both, the rooks screeched and flew from the trees like a black cloud, and then Freedom began to run, and run, until he was no more than a black spot on the horizon, as small as the birds he had disturbed.
Chapter 18
ED became more expansive as the train pulled in to Victoria Station in London. He was getting back to his home territory, and he couldn’t wait to get Freedom ready to meet the Irish champion.
From Victoria Station, Ed and Freedom took a taxi to Lambert’s Gym in Bell Street, a run-down area of Soho. The city throbbed, noisy, crowded and dirty, and Freedom loathed it, was disgusted by it, but Ed was in his element, ‘Oh, it’s good to he back, you’ll love it ‘ere, Freedom, come on, down yer go, gym’s in the basement.’
The gym was alive with the thudding sounds from punchbags and ten boxers working out. The walls were covered with photographs and posters of famous boxers and bouts. Freedom looked around, feeling out of place in his suit and shirt. The boxers gave him only a cursory glance and carried on with what they were doing. Ed seemed to know everyone, waving across the gym, thumping a young boy on the shoulder.’ ‘Ello, son, how ya doin’? ‘Arry me boy, nice to see you, long time … Jimbo, you still at it, thought you retired …’
Ed passed through, beckoning Freedom to follow him, and they crossed the floor of the gym, skirted the ring in the centre and made their way to the small offices at the far end. Ed banged on the door and opened it, again gesturing for Freedom to follow.
‘Jack, I just got in, any chance of a word in your shell-like? Want you to meet me new lad.’
An ex-boxer himself, with cauliflower ears and a flattened splodge of a nose, Jack Lambert was now a promoter. He wore a shirt that was minus its collar and wide red braces, and he was rarely seen without a huge cigar sticking out of his mouth. Freedom and Ed followed him into his small office at the back of the gym.
Freedom was aware of being given the once-over by the cigar-smoking man. The puffy eyes stared hard, examining him from the top of his head down to his feet. Freedom shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor.
‘This your new lad then, Ed? He’s a big’un, isn’t he? He a half-caste, is he? Dark, isn’t he?’
Freedom opened his mouth to speak, but Ed shut him up with a quick look, and launched into a speech that had Freedom listening intently, hardly able to believe his ears. Ed told Jack that Freedom was a fresh’un, straight out of the booths, not had a professional fight, but they wanted to try him out for starters, he was just a gypsy lad.
Ed shrugged, although he knew Freedom’s weight down to the last ounce, muttered that he was around twelve, thirteen stone, so he’d have to be in the heavyweight class.
‘That’s my trouble, see Jack, I don’t want ‘im to go into a professional bout yet, ‘e’s not ready, what I’m after is — until I’ve ‘ad time to work on ‘im, just for a few shillings, lad’s gotta eat, know what I mean — I was wonderin’ if you could see to a couple of sparrin’ matches, anyone comin’ in fer a big bout around his weight. You got a match ahead? One suitable, eh?’
Ed knew exactly which bout was due — it was Murphy, the Irish Heavyweight Champion, coming to fight the present holder of the British title. Jack scratched his head and then drummed his fingers on a page of his book. ‘There is the Murphy crowd comin’ in, but they’ll be bringing their own spar. Doubt if they’ll want a bum an’ mouth round before the big bout. ‘E’s an Irish bog fighter, an’ he’s takin’ on Sam Gold’s boy. It’s a big bout, Ed, whoever gets through will have a crack at the world title, take on Dempsey ‘imself.’
Ed homed in on Jack, Murphy would be perfect. ‘You got it all up ‘ere, Jack, always said that, we can see how the lad fares with a champ, we’ll know for sure what we got or what we ‘aven’t, you’ll set it up then?’
Jack stubbed his cigar out, had another good look over Freedom and then nodded. As Freedom and Ed left, Jack wasn’t sure if he’d been given the bum’s rush himself. But then it had been his idea, so he asked the operator to put a call through to Ireland.
Ed skipped along the pavement, clapping his hands. ‘The old bugger fell for it, hook, line an’ sinker.’
Freedom strolled along beside him, still not knowing what the hell was going on.
‘Look, son, we got you a sparring bout with the Irish titleholder, he’s comin’ over for a crack at the British title, right? British Heavyweight, now then, you show what you can do and ‘is Lordship’s gonna make sure the press‘11 be there, with me?’
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