The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  He had been displaying his ticket for days. He parted with it reluctantly at the box office, and proudly announced to everyone that he had once been knocked out by the contender.

  He made his way to his seat, clutching his programme and making a great show of reading it, although he couldn’t read a word. Inside the programme was a photograph of Freedom, and he pointed to it, turning to anyone close at hand. ‘I’d put me money on this lad, he took me out once, bout in Cardiff.’

  The clamour of the crowd in the pit seats and the glitter of the society people filling the boxes made the huge hall seem to vibrate. A match was in progress in the ring, but no one was paying much attention, and many seats were still empty, most of the people not bothering to claim their seats until the main event. A murmur went up as the news spread that Prince Edward’s party had arrived at the entrance to the hall. The tiered boxes were almost full and still the stragglers made their way to their seats. The first match ended in a spattering of applause, and a brass band began to play a lively march. The audience clapped their hands along with the music. The noise drifted down to the dressing-rooms, where Ed had barred everyone but Sir Charles and the two corner men. Freedom sat on a table, hands out, as Ed carefully wound his bandages. Despite eighteen years’ experience of bandaging boxers’ hands Ed was meticulous, constantly asking if it was all right. Freedom looked at him, ‘You don’t need me to tell you, just get on with it.’

  The atmosphere was tense, electric. In the main dressing room Micky Morgan’s hands were being bandaged. His trainer stood behind him, massaging his shoulders, soothing him, talking quiedy. ‘Big crowd, not a seat to be had, His Royal’s arrived, there’s touts outside selling tickets at five times the price, gonna be a night, Micky, your night, it’s your night, Micky.’

  Freedom’s hands were ready, and they waited for the referee to come and check them over. He sat with his eyes closed, swinging his legs. Ed wished he knew what made Freedom tick, but he never had been able to fathom him out. He might be sitting waiting for his dinner, he seemed so relaxed.

  Freda, her brother-in-law and his wife edged their way along the row to their seats. They waved to a few faces they knew, and sat down.Evelyne’s empty seat was now more obvious in the crowded hall. Freda had tried to get round the back but hadn’t been allowed in, they’d done all they could. The phones were all engaged. The. operator had said she herself couldn’t put any calls through, as there were so many people waiting.

  A group of men in evening dress came walking along the passage from the dressing-rooms. The hall grew quiet as all eyes watched the ring. The band struck up a fanfare. Now they could see, way up by the entrance, the tight group of trainers and corner men, and behind them the hooded figure of Micky Morgan.

  ‘This is it, gels, here they come.’

  The corner men flanked Freedom as he progressed down the hall and up into the ring. The crowd went mad, cheering and yelling, but Freedom kept his head low, his gloved fists touching each other. Behind him came Ed, sweating, his face bright pink.

  ‘There’s Ed, there … see?’

  The group entered the ring exactly opposite them, exactly opposite the empty seat, but for the moment it went unnoticed. The fanfare blasted again and the cheers grew even louder, nearly lifting the roof off as Micky entered. He wore a dark red velvet cape with the word ‘Champion’ written across the back. He bent to climb through the ropes, then stood with his fists above his head, and the crowd went wild.

  Carrying a microphone on a long, thick lead, a white-haired man in tails and top hat stepped into the ring. He walked to the centre.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the King!’

  The band played and everyone in the hall sang in unison, ‘God Save the King’. Prince Edward and his party were all standing in the royal box, and he too sang the National Anthem. He gave a small wave and then he, like everyone else in the hall, took his seat.

  In the ring stood Freedom, head bowed, and Micky stared straight ahead. As the audience settled in their seats again, the boxers went to their corners. The master of ceremonies called out their weights and announced twenty, two-minute rounds. The referee, Ron Hutchinson, was introduced and bowed in the centre of the ring. He had once been a middleweight champion boxer, and was now about to retire from the police force. He had iron-grey hair and a stern-looking, craggy face.

  On a podium overlooking the ring were two men with a film camera, recording the match. Ron Hutchinson went first to the champion’s corner and asked if everything was ready, then crossed the ring to Freedom’s corner. He actually had to ask twice, as Freedom was more intent on looking across at Freda than on what was happening in the ring.

  ‘Her seat’s empty, Ed. Where’s Evie, she’s not here?’

  Hutchinson spoke a few words to the corner men, then made a slow circuit of the ring instructing all those close to the canvas to keep their hands away from the ring itself.

  ‘Ed, she’s not in her seat, Evie’s not here.’ Ed gritted his teeth and swore at Freedom, this was not the time to start worrying about Evie.

  Back in the centre of the ring, Hutchinson signalled for both boxers to come forward. Freedom was staring, concerned and preoccupied, at the empty seat. Hutchinson hooked an arm around each boxer’s shoulders, and above the roar of the crowd he could be heard clearly, his voice harsh. ‘I want a good clean fight, no butting, no holding. You break on my word, understand? No low punches, let’s keep this professional. An’ above all, obey my voice. I don’t want to have to say things twice, an’ I don’t want to disqualify either of you for dirty fighting … All right, then back to your corners and may the best man win.’

  As the boxers’ gumshields were fitted the crowd went quiet, knowing the bell would clang at any moment. Ed whispered in Freedom’s right ear as he rubbed his shoulders, repeating it over and over, desperate to get through to him. ‘Evie’s all right, she’s fit an’ she’s strong, and she wants you to win, understand me, are you listenin’ ter me? Evie had to stay ‘ome, the baby’s coming sooner than expected.’

  Beneath Ed’s kneading ringers Freedom’s shoulders froze. ‘Why didn’t Freda stay with her for God’s sake, mun? Is she on her own?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ed could see the bell being lifted, the stopwatch being shown to the referee. Any moment now they were going to begin, and here was his man worrying himself sick over his wife.

  ‘Evie said if Freda didn’t come to the fight she’d never forgive ‘er. She’s got Mrs Harris, a doctor an’ a midwife an’ a nurse, so she’s being taken care of … Now, think of the fight, son, concentrate, Freedom, get in there and go fer it.’

  The bell rang, the corner men whipped the stools out and jumped down from the ring.

  Micky was out of his corner like a bullet, his hands up, moving towards Freedom, and Freedom took two punches before the pain brought him round. Micky’s eyes were like steel, staring into Freedom’s face, and his gum protector made him look as if he was leering.

  Mrs Harris knew it was time, the pains were ripping through Evelyne, and she was heaving for breath. ‘Grab hold of the sheet, love, pull down, come on, grab it an’ pull.’

  Evelyne held on grimly to the twisted sheet knotted round the bedpost. With every contraction she held on and yelled her head off. Just by feeling her belly Mrs Harris knew the baby was big, so she heaved Evelyne on to her side, knowing her spine would take too much strain if she lay on her back.

  “E’s a big’un, an’ ‘e’s on ‘is way, so grip hard and press down, press him out of you every time that pain comes, press down and hang on to the sheet…’

  Mrs Smith brought up hot water, standing by and giving way to Mrs Harris’ experience. The big woman was so calm, soothing Evelyne and rubbing her back, talking quietly to her and going through each spasm herself.

  “Ere we go, love, ‘ere comes another one … and push him, that’s my girl, push.’

  Freedom slumped into the corner, and Ed dipped
his sponge and squeezed it over Freedom’s face. One of the lads dipped the gumshield in the water to clean it, and the other held it ready and gave Freedom water. He gulped and spat into the bucket.

  ‘Is there any way we can get word if she’s all right, Ed?’

  The lad watched as Ed lathered Vaseline over Freedom’s eyebrows and cheeks.

  ‘We got someone standing by in the pub, anyfink ‘appens they’ll call us, don’t worry.’

  All Freedom’s concentration was on Evelyne, and he was sick with worry. On the other hand, Ed was sick that Freedom wasn’t fighting, he was letting punch after punch penetrate his defence. Already there were deep red marks on his chest, Micky’s glove prints were all over him.

  ‘You’re buggerin’ around out there, hear me? If Evie knew what you was doin’ she’d get into this ring herself. Your gel’s a fighter, for God’s sake, you gotta win for ‘er.’

  The bell rang again, and Micky was up and out of his corner. His trainer was satisfied, so far Micky was ahead on every round, and he began to think that Micky would take the gyppo out in five rounds as he had bragged. All through the break his trainer said, over and over, ‘You’ve got him on the run, and he’s got no punch, he’s not landed one home. Take him, Micky, go on, take him.’

  Round four, and Micky certainly looked as if he was beating the contender. He began to get cocky, hissing through his gumshield, ‘Whassamatter, gyppo, scared, scared? Fight, come on, whassamatter, hit me, hit me.’

  So cocksure was Micky that at one point he turned to the crowd so they could see him smile. The sounds of cheering were getting mixed now with booing, so Micky decided to go for it, and moved in. Bam, bam … he edged Freedom on to the ropes. Freedom ducked, sidestepped, ducked, sidestepped, then threw two punches so wild that Micky got in one hell of a crack. His right hook landed on Freedom’s jaw.

  The crowd gasped, Freedom was off balance … he staggered slighdy then recovered. Micky was sure the punch would have knocked him down, and was surprised when the big lad came straight back at him. The bell rang, and it was yet another round to Micky. Ed had screamed himself hoarse from the corner, Freedom wasn’t using his brains, he was dancing, to Ed’s knowledge he hadn’t thrown one decent punch, one that had landed. ‘He’s wiping the canvas with you, an’ you’re lettin’ ‘im do it, come on, come on, get your temper up, fight him!’

  Ed eased the elastic on Freedom’s trunks as the corner men sponged and towelled him. Freedom spat water and sniffed, and again Ed lathered the Vaseline on. Freedom’s face was marked on the right side.

  In the other corner the trainer barked into Micky’s face that this was it — this was the round. Micky heaved for breath and said it was like doing the Charleston out there, but he was still heaving. The gyppo might be on the run but he was still tiring Micky. ‘I’ll take him this round.’

  Clang! They were up again, Ed’s screams going unheard beneath the roar of the crowd. Ed was screaming,

  ‘Body! Body? as Micky was keeping his hands high, head down. He held Freedom and they both lurched over to the ropes. Micky still held on, leaning his whole weight on Freedom until the referee split them apart. Micky was no longer hissing insults, he was moving in for the kill, and he looked as if he would pull it off until Freedom caught him with a good left jab, straight on to his old cut. Micky swore and went after Freedom, hurting now, his eye smarting. He was also worried, he’d felt that jab — not that it could have cut him down, but it could be dangerous if the old wound were to open up.

  When the bell clanged, round five was evens, leaving Micky a clear four rounds ahead.

  ‘He’s like an ox, I’ve been hitting him hard and he just takes it, I dunno where he’s coming from.’

  Micky’s eyes were checked and greased, his trainer giving him instructions all the time, telling him to go for the head, Freedom was open ‘upstairs’. The bell rang for round six, and one of the lads ran to the dressing room to get fresh water.

  Mrs Harris soaked strips of cloth in hot water and laid them over Evelyne. The heat soothed her. Mrs Harris herself had never been this long in labour … Evelyne lay on her side, hands slightly above her head, gripping the rope. A sudden, terrible pain shot through her, as though she was being torn in two, and she screamed through clenched teeth, screamed that she’d had enough, she didn’t want him, she couldn’t take any more. The relief was so sudden it stunned her, and she gasped, her mouth open wide.

  ‘Here ‘e is, love, here ‘e is, come on you little bugger, and about time, too.’

  She was right, he was big, and she had to help him in the first few moments, but out he came, and she held him upside-down by his heels, one sharp slap and the next moment Evelyne’s howl was joined by a lusty yell from her son.

  ‘Here ‘e is, come on, Evie love, let go of the rope, ‘e’s ‘ere.’

  Evelyne loosened her grip and eased herself over. Mrs Harris held the baby out to her and she saw the thick thatch of black hair. His lungs were working overtime, and as Evelyne held him to her, his fists punched the air.

  ‘He’s a boxer like ‘is dad, eh? Will you look at ‘im, Evie, I’d say he was a ten-pounder, more … My God he’s strong.’

  Round seven, and Micky slumped in his corner. As they eased out his gumshield he gasped, ‘By Christ, when he gets a punch home it hurts, how’s the eye?’

  Micky was confident, he knew he was well ahead on points, but the corner men had their work cut out for them because his eye was opening up. They painted it, daubed him with Vaseline, and his eyes smarted and filled with tears. He gulped at the water and spat it out.

  Freedom was panting and Ed was sponging him down, drenching him with the cold water. ‘That was the first time you connected, the first, and you ‘urt ‘im. ‘Is eye’s openin’ up, keep on that eye, an’ watch ‘is right. He’s got a nasty sneaky double punch, left-left-right, and then in he comes, watch out for it.’

  Suddenly Freedom jerked his head away from Ed’s greasy fingers and stared up at him with such an expression that Ed stepped back, ‘I got a son, I got a son, Ed, my boy’s born.’

  Ed’s jaw dropped, and one of the lads had to ram the gumshield in Freedom’s mouth as the bell was raised. Freedom was up before it rang and prancing into the ring. The lads had to haul the amazed Ed out of the ring. He wasn’t sure what to think, the look on Freedom’s face had completely unnerved him. He checked his watch and almost gave himself whiplash as a huge cheer broke from the crowd.

  Freedom was punching now, for the first time he was showing his colours, and Micky was taken off-balance. He took a punch to his left side that winded him, and he rocked. The crowd roared, but Micky paced back and gave himself a push off the ropes. For once he was on the run, the crowd knew it, and so did Micky. Freedom was jabbing, tough, hard, tight jabs, and they were hammering down on Micky’s eye. He felt it splitting, and the blood began to drip down his face; he knew he would have to keep on the move for this round. This was Freedom’s first clear round, and the crowd began to sense that the fight had only just begun. They were on their feet, throwing caps in the air, and when the bell rang it was hard to hear. The sound of it was sweet relief to Micky, and his men worked double time trying to close the cut. His eye was puffing up, and his vision on the left was blurred.

  Freda’s hat was over one ear, she had eaten her handkerchief, and shouted so much she’d lost her voice. Hammer jumped up from his seat and swung his fist as Freedom began to perk up. The poor elderly man sitting directly in front of him felt his false teeth shoot out as Hammer’s fist connected with the back of his head. The pair scrabbled beneath the seat, Hammer shouting his apologies.

  ‘Just get me teeth, twenty-five shillings’ worth there, mate.’

  But the teeth were forgotten as the bell clanged for round nine.

  Ed was mopping his brow with the sponge, his shirt drenched, his bright red braces sticking to him.

  ‘Come on lad, this is it, go for it. Go for it!’. Micky was tough and there was n
o way he was going to go down easily. He knew he was still ahead on points, and he took a breather, keeping on the move, letting Freedom do all the chasing.

  ‘Fight, mun, go on, stop doing the dance, mun,

  Having worked so hard in the earlier rounds, Micky was warned three times by the ref for holding. Round nine went to Freedom, and the ref went over to Micky’s corner in the break. His men grouped tightly around him, swearing that everything was all right, and the ref had to pry their pressing hands from Micky’s cut. Satisfied that the blood had been stemmed, he gave the signal for the fight to continue.

  ‘It’s yours, Freedom, keep on his eye, it’s split like an orange, hear me, get his eye.’

  Round ten, and Freedom was on his feet before the bell rang. The crowd was going crazy, and fights were breaking out as the people behind tried to make those in the ringside seats sit down so their view would not be blocked.

  Freedom swigged the water and tried to get his breath as Ed flapped with the towel. ‘I’m hitting him with all I’ve got, Ed, and he’s still on his feet.’

  Ed massaged him and kept up a steady flow of instructions. He knew Freedom was exhausted, Micky was holding on to him at every opportunity. Freedom’s face was red, but there was no broken skin, and not even a hint of puffiness around the eyes.

  ‘You got the Prince standin’ up shouting for yer in that last round, take him this round, lad, you know you can.’

  Freedom smiled and said that if he won this round his son would be called Edward. Again Ed felt a chill through his sweating body, and he shuddered. Freedom talked as if he knew something Ed didn’t, but the bell clanged and he had to hurry down from the ring.

  Micky got a second wind, God knows from where, and lambasted Freedom. Micky’s nose was bleeding and his eye was swollen so he couldn’t see … He was flaying the air, coming back for a right hook when the jab caught him, right on the jaw, clean-cut, like steel.