The Legacy (50 page)

Dewhurst coughed politely.

‘Will you be wanting anything, sir?’

Still staring into the street, Sir Charles was carefully pulling on his gloves. When he spoke his voice was matter-of-fact, with hardly a trace of emotion. ‘Appears our problems were to do with the gel, young fella loved her.’

Dewhurst raised his eyebrows. Sir Charles didn’t look at him, could have been talking to himself. ‘Funny, ya know, I have never known that sort of love, the sort he feels for this girl, never known it … but I do understand. You see, somewhere in the darkened recesses of my mind, I have dreamed of him loving me - never known me treat one of my boxers with such lavish care, have you, eh?’

‘No sir, I have not, sir.’

Sir Charles’ monocled eye glistened with a magnified tear. He adjusted his cravat. ‘Get my things sent over from the Savile, would you, shall be moving back here. Ed can arrange accommodation for him, and he will not be using my barber or my tailor again, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir, perfectly clear, I shall call them straightaway.’

Sir Charles smiled at his manservant, ‘You’re a jolly good fellow, Dewhurst, I appreciate you greatly … still, I didn’t embarrass myself, did I? Does no harm to have lascivious dreams …’

Dewhurst bowed himself out of the room and went immediately to the bedroom where Freedom had been sleeping. Sir Charles followed him and stared at the crumpled sheets. ‘Well, maybe we’ll have a champion. Then again we may not, send everything here to the gym. Oh, and Dewhurst - throw the sheets out, would you?’

The door closed silently behind him, and his voice echoed from the corridor.

‘I’ll be at my club should anyone call.’

After folding Freedom’s clothes carefully, Dewhurst got some brown paper and made a neat parcel.

Freedom worked out hard and well with his two sparring partners, but he constantly glanced at the doors, waiting. Finally, Ed reappeared. ‘Freda’s gone to get her, lad, now get on wiv it, we need all the time we can get … Come on, get on with yer work out, the press is comin’ fer an interview in ‘alf an hour!’

All the neighbours were staring out of their windows, peering out of their doors. Freda had arrived in a horse-drawn cab, and she knocked and knocked on Mrs Harris’ door.

‘What’s up, somebody die? Hey, darlin’, you with the ratcatchers then, are you?’

A scruffy little boy answered the door.

‘Is Evie here? Evelyne, is she here?’

He couldn’t understand what the hysterical little woman was saying. Mrs Harris came to the door and opened it wider. She was carrying little Dora on her hip. ‘Evie? Is it Evie yer want? Well, she’s gorn ter the clinic, it’s in Upper Lambeth Street.’

Freda was already rushing back to the cab. Mrs Harris called after her.

‘If she ain’t there, try Swan an’ Edgar’s, she winder-shops a lot.’

Freedom had changed into his best clothes for the photographers. He seemed not to care about posing, constantly glancing at Ed and then to the doors. ‘Freda not called yet, Ed? You think she’s found her?’

Ed began to panic, maybe Evie had moved, that would be all they needed. ‘Just concentrate on puttin’ on a good show fer the photographers, lad, I’ll nip outside an’ have a look, she’ll be here.’

As Ed bustled out he offered a silent prayer that Freda would find Evie, and fast. They’d got Freedom back to work, but if she didn’t show up Ed didn’t know how long he would behave himself.

Evelyne had walked up Jermyn Street every day for the past five days, each time pausing outside the ornate building where she had seen Freedom, and the uniformed porter had begun to raise his hat to her and smile in recognition. Today she had been about to ask him if Mr Stubbs still lived in these apartments, but at the last moment she couldn’t find the courage. She turned and hurried away.

Freda swiped the tram conductor with her handbag when he tried to prevent her jumping off, shouting to her that she would kill herself. She had seen Evelyne, staring into one of the windows of Swan and Edgar. Poor Freda ran round and round the building, calling Evelyne’s name frantically, but she had disappeared.

‘Get yourself thinking, Freda darlink, where would she ‘ave gone from here, where? Please, dear God, tell me where she is?’

She scurried among the baby clothes and toys, diving among the shoppers, but Evelyne wasn’t there. Disappointed, she turned back towards the stairs … and caught sight of the familiar red hair. Her heart skipped a beat, and she hurried around the counter … and lost her again … no, she hadn’t, there was Evelyne, bending over a cradle, touching it lovingly …

‘Evie! Evieeeee … Evie …’

The reporters and cameramen were just packing up when one of the boys fell down the steps into the gym. He rubbed his shin and gasped incoherently. ‘They got her, she’s found her, she’s coming!’

Ed shouted for quiet and ran to the boy, grabbed him by the collar. ‘What…? What…!? Speak up, lad.’

Freedom seemed to cover the distance from the far end of the gym to Ed’s side in one leap.

‘Take it easy, mate, Freda’s found her, we’ve found her.’

Freedom sprinted up the stairs to the street, looking this way and that, desperate, but there was no sign of anyone. Panic-stricken, he turned to Ed, who ran up and down the road shouting for Freda, for Evie. The lad joined them, saying he had just seen them in a cab, they were outside the gym not two minutes ago.

Freda held Evelyne’s hand as the cabbie drove them once again around the block. Evelyne studied her face in Freda’s small mirror.

‘Oh, Freda, I can’t, look at me, I look terrible, my hair’s all down and I got my old coat on and shoes full of newspapers.’

Freda rummaged in her bag for a comb, waved her hand for the cabbie to go round the block yet again. ‘Here, darlink, my comb, come, let me, let me.’

Freda tried frantically to drag the comb through Evelyne’s hair, but it was a tiny comb and there was so much hair.

On the corner stood Ed, hopefully eyeing each vehicle that passed. He spotted the cab and jumped right in front of it, making the horses shy. Diving into the back he fell into Evie’s arms, kissing her as if he were her long-lost lover, he was so excited. Freedom reappeared and Freda and Ed ran down the road to him, Freda’s feet hardly touching the ground.

‘She’s in the cab, go on, she’s in the cab.’

The look on his face made them both want to cry, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He ran his hands through his hair and tried to straighten his tie while at the same time running as fast as he could to the cab. Fascinated, the cabbie looked down from his seat, this was better than the picture houses.

Freedom bent his head into the open carriage window. Evelyne had pressed herself shyly into the corner of the carriage, her cheeks flaming red and her wondrous hair tumbling over her shoulders. Standing staring at her, Freedom could find no words. His breath heaved in his chest, and try as he might he couldn’t stop the sobs forcing their way into his throat, nor could he move.

Eventually he spoke, his voice strained. ‘Can I ride a while with you, manushi?’

He climbed into the cab and sat by Evelyne’s side. He could hear Ed shouting to the driver to just keep driving, drive anywhere. The carriage jolted forward.

Evelyne took Freedom’s hand and placed it on her stomach, and he gasped as if he were about to explode. Immediately she let his hand go, and turned to stare out of the carriage.

She whispered, ‘I’m sorry, he’s yours, Freedom.’ She felt his hand gently caress her swollen belly, and fraction by fraction she turned her head until she could look into his face. She placed her hand over his heart, felt it thudding, and he put his hand over her milk-filled breast. Heart to heart, they whispered each other’s names.

‘Never leave me, manushi. I died a little while you were gone.’

It was getting dark, and the cabbie began to wonder who would be paying his fare. They were still trotting round and round Regent’s Park. The lovers whispered to each other, their fingers interlocked as they vowed they would never again be parted.

Ed Meadows led Freedom into the weighing-room. It was full of reporters, promoters and officials, standing around the scale. Freedom wore shorts, boxing boots and a robe, the hood pulled over his head, hiding his face.

Micky Morgan, dressed in the same way as Freedom, stood with his corner men and trainer at the far end of the room. His back was to the entrance, but as the murmur of voices died down he knew his opponent had arrived. He didn’t turn, but his back straightened, like an animal sensing danger.

‘Gentlemen, to the scales, please.’

Micky turned slowly, eyes down, refusing to look at Freedom as they were led to the scales. Micky took off his robe first and stepped up. The two officials looked at the pointer, conferred with each other and pushed the weights along the scale bar as Ed tried to get a look over their shoulders to see what weight Morgan was carrying.

‘The champion weighing in, gentlemen, at thirteen stone ten pounds, standing at six feet one and a half inches.’

Still without even a flicker of a glance at Freedom, Micky stepped down, and his trainer immediately replaced his robe around his shoulders. Ed gave him a clinical, professional appraisal. The man was in terrific shape, his skin taut, his body muscular, and his shoulders were slightly concave - good, hunched, boxer’s shoulders. There was no sign of the cut he had taken over his eye in his last championship bout, it seemed completely healed. His nose was flat, eyes hooded, and there was a slight puffiness just below the brows. One of his front teeth was missing, and one of his ears was larger than the other. As he pulled his robe around his shoulders, Ed could see his massive hands, the flat, gnarled knuckles.

The fight was by no means going to be easy, Ed knew Micky looked confident, and Ed knew he was purposely refusing to look in Freedom’s direction.

‘Would the contender please step on the scales.’

It was Freedom’s turn, and off came his robe as he stepped on to the scales. The officials moved the weights, checking carefully, and Micky now watched closely. Freedom was one hell of a size, and his skin was tawny, unlike Micky’s which was whiter-than-white. As the marker on the measuring stick was lowered to Freedom’s head, Micky could see he was well over six feet tall.

‘The contender, gentlemen, weighs in at fourteen stone, one pound, eight ounces, standing at six feet four inches.’

‘He’s a ruddy Red Indian, look at the hair on ‘im, halfway down ‘is back.’

Both boxers were taken back to their dressing rooms, and an hour later they were called in to the conference room. The champion was applauded as he entered. He was wearing a cheap, brown pinstriped suit, a white shirt and tie, and he was carrying a brown trilby hat. He took his seat on the platform beside his trainer and promoter, Lord Livermore, who wore a black coat with an astrakhan collar and smoked a fat Havana cigar. Sir Charles, as immaculate as ever, was talking quietly to him, and shook Micky’s hand when they were introduced.

Ed ushered Freedom into the room and everyone turned to look at him. He did not warrant applause, and Ed whispered for him to take the seat next to Sir Charles. He stepped on to the platform and sat down, fingering his collar and straightening the jacket of his new, single-breasted suit, tailored in soft dove grey. Carrying Freedom’s fur-collared coat, Ed inched his way in behind them and sat down, worried about falling because the leg of his chair was precariously near the edge of the platform. Lord Livermore held his cigar in front of his face and smirked to Sir Charles about his snazzily dressed boxer.

‘How many rounds do you think it’ll go, Micky?’

Smiling, Morgan gave a jerk of his head at Freedom and said that maybe they should ask the contender how many rounds he reckoned he could stand up for. This got a roar of laughter, and Micky posed for a solo photograph. Freedom was asked if he wanted to answer the champ’s question, but he stared blankly and remained silent.

The press requested a shot of Micky and Freedom together, and the two men rose and faced each other, Micky confident and brash, smiling his gap-toothed grin. He got no response from Freedom whose dark eyes stared back, expressionless. The photographers took their time preparing their cameras, and as they waited Micky whispered to Freedom, his voice inaudible to the rest of the room, ‘Goin’ to mark that pretty face, gyppo, goin’ to mark you, break you, gyppo, hear me, take you out in five.’

Freedom stared impassively into the champion’s face, as if he hadn’t heard the threat.

Ed’s brother had found a house for Evelyne and Freedom, further along the terrace in the same street, not five turnings away from Mrs Harris’. The previous occupants of number twelve had fallen behind with their rent, and the bailiffs had moved them out. The house had been infested with mice and bugs so they had had to scrub and disinfect everything, and call in the ratcatcher to put down poison. This was Evelyne’s first home of her own and, to the concern of all the women in the street, she had worked herself into exhaustion. Seeing her, heavily pregnant, scrubbing at the steps, had earned her the acceptance of all her neighbours. Freda and several other local women had scrubbed and washed and helped hang curtains, nail down lino, and had even brought odd bits of china to help out. They all called her Evie.

Mrs Harris was Evelyne’s first proper visitor. She came walking slowly up the road, carrying a big pot of stew. ‘ ‘Ello, lovey, I ‘ad this on when one of the kids came round, so I didn’t like to waste it … well, well, just think of it, you a neighbour! Well I never!’

Evelyne showed her round the scrubbed little house with pride. When she saw that Evie had got a gas stove, Mrs Harris went into raptures. There wasn’t a stick of furniture yet, but the curtains were lovely, and the lino was a pretty shade of green.

‘Oh, Evie love, it’s a palace, a real palace, you’ve done wonders.’

A small crowd had gathered outside, and one of the women yelled to Evelyne at the top of her voice, ‘It’s the bed arrived, yer bed’s come!’ A new bed in this street was something, and all the neighbours were agog. The mahogany headboard met with nods of approval. The bed was enormous, and the delivery men had to be helped getting it into the house.