The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Ed sighed with relief when Freedom entered the gym, no one paying him any attention. Murphy was up in the ring, posing, swinging on the ropes, and yelling for Freedom to join him. ‘I’m not wearing me helmet, man, I want me face to be seen in all its beauty.’

  As Freedom stepped into the ring, Murphy pranced over and gave him a wink. ‘Right, son, don’t hold back, let’s give ‘em a show, get your face in the press with me, all right?’

  The room was set up, all the cameras in position, and O’Keefe stepped into the ring, spouting a few words about this being just a taster for the championship. Freedom’s name was not even mentioned, he sat in the corner while his two lads massaged his shoulders. Murphy was pounding the air, and was led into his corner for his gumshield to be fitted.

  The bell sounded, and everyone in the room focused their attention on the ring. Murphy came out hunched and ready for the attack, gave Freedom a good pounding, flashy punching, and even while he was doing it he was still talking. ‘Oh, wait ‘til they see me in the papers, me mother’ll throw a fit, me lovely face on every stand.’

  Murphy’s face altered as he felt a punch hit home hard, and diis time he didn’t mess around, he went back at Freedom, his eyes never leaving Freedom’s face. Murphy was amused, he’d seen that look, so the boy wanted to make a show of himself, did he? Well now, he would have the lesson of his life.

  The whole room picked up the new atmosphere in the ring — suddenly it wasn’t a game. Ed could feel his right leg shaking all by itself, and he swallowed and looked at O’Keefe. The last thing he wanted was for him to step into the ring and stop the sparring match.

  A murmur ran around the gym, people moved closer in, the cameras flashed. Ed was saying a silent prayer, over and over he was willing Freedom to find that break, that break in Murphy’s defence. Murphy had Freedom up against the ropes, gave him a good left jab and was about to come in with a right, left, and his famous right, when he felt as if his stomach had been blown out. The punches came one after the other, three times the force of Freedom’s punches in their previous sparring matches. Murphy couldn’t believe it was happening, he gave back everything he had and his fists seemed to glance off the lad, eyes to eyes, the blue twinkle had gone, and the last thing Murphy remembered was the blackness, the blackness of those eyes staring into him, expressionless, masked, in a set, impassive face.

  The room went silent as Murphy crashed, unconscious, to the canvas. Then the place was in an uproar, the reporters clamouring, fighting to get into the ring, shouting for the name, the boxer’s name. Ed gave the signal and the two lads grabbed Freedom and hauled him to the ringside. Freedom shoved them aside and pushed his way through the men gathered around the still unconscious Murphy. Ed was shouting, ‘Freedom Stubbs, his name is Freedom Stubbs.’ It was the name that went with the first face Murphy saw as he came round. O’Keefe was hemmed in by reporters already asking if his man would still fight. O’Keefe ignored them and tried to get to Murphy.

  Freedom already had Murphy sitting up, leaning against his shoulder. Murphy’s right eye was streaming blood, his face blotchy red and his lip cracked. He was dazed, but even in that condition he managed a joke, ‘Well I’ll be buggered, I’ve been beaten at me own game.’

  He looked helplessly at O’Keefe, beseeching him to get him out somehow. Freedom helped the big man to his feet, he wanted to tell him he was sorry, but O’Keefe pushed him away with tears streaming down his face, and helped his man out of the ring, ‘You bastard, Ed Meadows, you bastard!’

  It was Murphy who broke up what looked as if it could become an ugly situation. He held his hand up and looked to Freedom. ‘There’s your champion, good luck, son, you certainly took all o’mine!’

  Murphy’s legs buckled beneath him and he was carried into the dressing room. The press surrounded Freedom.

  Jack looked stunned, he stared at the departing group carrying poor Murphy out, then back to Freedom in the ring. He said it to no one in particular, to the air.

  ‘I ain’t ever seen a punch like that, not ever, Gawd almighty, what a punch.’

  Chapter 19

  Sir Charles swung into motion, the press had a field day, and Freedom was accepted as a contender for the British Heavyweight title. He was going to make sure his champion would be totally acceptable both socially and in the ring.

  Freedom was removed from Ed’s lodgings and installed in Sir Charles’ small bachelor flat in Jermyn Street. He wanted to dress Freedom in the finest before he was taken to the Pelican Club or White’s. Freedom went to Mr Poole, the famous tailor, for his sporting set, then to the equally famous trio of high priests of fashion — Mr Cundy, the general manager of the store, who waited on his every whim, Mr Dents, in the coat department, and Mr Allen, responsible for waistcoats and trousers. Mr Allen had to measure Freedom’s inside leg twice as he couldn’t quite believe how long it was, and the shirtmaker tutted and muttered as he measured and remeasured Freedom’s arms and neck.

  On all questions of cloth, texture and style, Freedom allowed Sir Charles to dominate him. He was unbelievably pernickety, feeling each piece of cloth and taking it to the daylight to examine it.

  ‘Would it be possible, sir, to have a camelhair coat?’ Sir Charles didn’t even reply to this, just let his monocle pop out in disgust. The fellow would be wanting a velvet collar next.

  Freedom’s feet were measured for boots and shoes, and Sir Charles put pressure on the makers to complete them as soon as possible.

  The Jermyn Street flat consisted of a single bedroom, a valet’s room, a dining room and a small sitting room. There was no kitchen, one either sent out for food or dined out. Dewhurst was installed in the flat and instructed to make sure Mr Stubbs never ate with a serving spoon again. He was to be shown how to eat like a gentleman with the correct tableware, and to be taught about wines.

  Ed was amazed to see Freedom allowing himself to be carted around like a show-horse without a murmur. Not once did he complain, and only kicked up a fuss when it was suggested that he have his hair cut. This became a major argument, and eventually Sir Charles attempted a compromise.

  ‘All right, old chap, we’ll find a happy medium — won’t have you sheared, just a trim, it’s frightfully long and could do with a simple trim, what do you say?’

  Freedom stared gloomily at his reflection and stubbornly refused to have it cut. They couldn’t say it would get in the way when he was boxing, because it would be tied back with a leather thong. Ed knew what would happen if Freedom’s temper was roused so he quietly suggested to Sir Charles that the long hair could be a unique advantage in being so unusual. At last Sir Charles acquiesced, and Freedom grinned. It wasn’t that he minded taking care of it, he loved having it washed, loved his head being massaged, and loved choosing perfumes to use on it.

  One week later Freedom stood looking at himself in the bedroom mirror. After three attempts to tie Freedom’s tie, Dewhurst was finally satisfied, and stood back to admire his work. He had to admit the man looked splendid, apart from the hair, of course, which went without saying. With that hair and the colour of his skin Freedom could never be taken for a gentleman. Yet somehow he looked almost regal. He now had a complete wardrobe of suits, shirts, ties, overcoats, boots and underwear.

  Sir Charles rested his chin on the top of his cane and looked up as Freedom entered, then beamed. Now they could dine at White’s. Ed gaped and looked with renewed interest at Freedom. He was a fine looking fella, and Ed hid a smile. The lad was certainly a looker, just like the movie idol, Valentino, no doubt about it.

  ‘I wonder, Sir Charles, if you’ve had any word from Miss Evelyne?’

  Sir Charles was nonplussed for a moment, and Ed gave Freedom a shifty look. ‘He means Miss Jones, yer know, sir, from Cardiff, she was stayin’ at The Grange wiv us.’

  ‘You see, she was my girl, an’ I’m worried about her.’

  Sir Charles pursed his lips. ‘Miss Jones? Is that who you’re referring to, Miss Jones? Good God, man
, I’ve absolutely no idea where on earth she is, she left weeks ago. Besides, I don’t like this “my girl” thing at all. If you recall your words on oath in the witness stand in Cardiff, you categorically denied any relationship with Miss Jones, are you now telling me you lied?’

  Freedom’s hands were clenched at his sides, and Ed began to sweat.

  ‘I never lied, sir, it was the truth, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have no feelings for her. That came after the court case, she’s my wife.’

  Sir Charles’ monocle popped out and he had to sit down. He repeated the word.

  ‘Wife …? Wife? Ed, did you know about this? I find it all very disturbing. When Miss Jones left, she made no mention of you being married.’

  Ed was so perplexed he didn’t know which way to turn and he could see Freedom’s temper rising. ‘Now, now, Freedom, that might be stretchin’ it a bit far, they’re not married, sir, not in a church, they did some Romany thing.’

  In an icy voice Sir Charles reminded Freedom again of what he had said in court, on oath. He went on to inform him of the mounting costs of his new wardrobe, not to mention the lodgings, the training, wages for Ed and the two corner men, everything provided for Freedom on the simple condition that he box. Freedom was fighting to hold on to his temper as he faced Sir Charles.

  ‘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 … Drink 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 Ted 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. Ted 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 calloused hand. ‘Remember our youngest, little Dora? Remember how I was all set to have a gin bath at Widow Smith’s in the Hollow?’

  Ted 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. Ted 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.’