The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Mr Beshaley was beside himself, there was not a soul at the station, even to collect his ticket. There wasn’t a horse or a cart, nothing insight, and Devil’s Pit was a good five miles up the mountainside.

  Doc Clock chugged by in his precious motor. He’d been up at Mrs Morgan’s on an emergency call, only to discover it was her dog that was ailing. The poor animal was very old and couldn’t understand that with the strike on Mrs Morgan didn’t have the money to put in the purse for him to take to the butcher. He was turning nasty, hanging on like grim death to the shopping bag and biting anyone who tried to take it from him. Doc Clock’s thumb was bandaged to prove it.

  As if that wasn’t enough, the Doc was confronted by a lunatic in a dreadful suit who demanded to be driven to Devil’s Pit. Beshaley took out his fob watch and looked in desperation at the Doc. ‘The fight, I’ve got to get up there to see the fight,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you whatever you ask – anything – it’s a matter of extreme urgency, sir, I beg you.’

  Doc Clock tooted his horn as he rounded a curve on the narrow mountain track, and smiled to himself. At long last he’d got a watch on the end of his chain. Beshaley held on grimly as the old motor bounced and swerved along the unlit track. Twice he thought they’d go over the edge, but the motor somehow weaved its way back to the centre. They could hear the cheering and shouting, and Beshaley stood up, banging on the windscreen, and bellowed for the Doc to go faster.

  Evelyne stood on tiptoe at the back of the screaming crowd, but she couldn’t even see the men fighting. She pushed her way through the crowd and, spotting Jesse, made her way towards him.

  ‘Jesse . . . Jesse? Do you remember me? . . . Jesse?’

  He shrank away from her, wondering if she’d seen him lift the man’s wallet. His eyes narrowed and he turned to dart back into the crowd, but Evelyne caught his sleeve, and then he recognized her by her red hair tumbling down from her schoolmistress’s bun. She was Freedom’s paleface friend. Jesse could barely hear what she had to say over the roar of the crowd, but when he understood they weaved and elbowed their way through the men to the opposite side of the makeshift boxing ring where the gypsy men watched the fight together. He squeezed his way among them, cupping his hand to their ears and whispering, and they passed the message on.

  Evelyne looked at the ring and shuddered. Freedom and Taffy were in the centre, Taffy bleeding badly from a cut below his eye. Jesse moved like a dart, in and out between the men, then he returned to her side. ‘The wagon’s yonder, git outta here.’

  He slipped away so fast that Evelyne had no time to grab his arm, and the gypsies were quietly leaving, one by one. The combined noise of the waterfall and the men’s voices was deafening, and across the ring she could see fists raised as the miners yelled, ‘Take the man out, Taffy!’ Over their heads she could see her father, way over on the far side, shoving his way towards the ring. His face was set, he looked vicious, and he too was shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  The bell clanged for the end of the round, and Freedom walked abruptly to his corner and sat down, snorting through his gumshield. He was surprised Jimmy One-Eye didn’t take it out of his mouth, and where was the water? Then Jimmy leaned over and cupped his hand to Freedom’s ear. ‘Go down, mun, first punch go down, they know who you are, all hell’s gonna be let loose – police’ll be here, we’re gonna have to do a runner.’

  Hugh was close to the side of the ring, pointing at Freedom and yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Killer! Killer!’

  The men around him tried to hear what he was saying and Evelyne could see him making gestures, slicing his hand across his throat and pointing again to Freedom.

  Taffy’s corner men worked hard, rubbing the big man down, plastering Vaseline over his swelling face. Taffy was heaving for breath and trying to listen to his trainer’s instructions. He gasped with pain as they painted his cut then flapped their hands and blew to dry the paint. It was smarting so badly his eyes were watering, but he could have been weeping. His hopes of the Heavy weight Championship were dimming – he couldn’t even get near the bastard.

  The bell clanged, and Freedom was up on his feet before the clapper was still. He looked fresh, his breathing under control but his body glistening with sweat. Taffy lumbered into the centre and hunched up, somehow he knew he was going to get it, that was it, he knew it was coming, but he wasn’t going to let the gyppo get him down easily.

  Freedom opened up his defences and looked as if he’d walked into the right uppercut. Over he went, falling back against the ropes, which sagged under him. The crowd went berserk and Taffy gazed in astonishment at the slumped body, the ref. bending over him, counting and waving his arms. The crowd joined in as he counted.

  ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .’

  Beshaley ran from the Doc’s car just in time to see Freedom take the final punch. He slumped against the rocks, feeling as if he himself had been hit, winded. Through the celebrating crowd he could make out the tall figure of Sir Charles and was about to push forward to talk to him when he saw Taffy’s manager. Sir Charles was shaking his hand, congratulating him.

  Doc Clock panted over to Beshaley, muttering that nobody had told him about any fight. Beshaley had paled visibly, and the Doc was concerned, but he was bodily moved aside by a group of women. ‘Dear God,’ he thought, ‘what is the world coming to when women are watching boxing matches?’ He was walloped on the back with a frying pan, and spun round.

  ‘Oh, sorry, bach, didn’t recognize you!’ said the woman.

  Taffy was riding high on the shoulders of two miners, and the make-shift ring was swarming with men, dancing and yelling, while Hugh Jones stood in the centre, screaming for quiet, his arms waving and his face bright red with fury. ‘Quiet . . . Quiet . . . Listen to me, will you listen to me!’

  Freedom went inside the wagon while Jesse organized the hitching of the horses. Outside the wagon the noise of the men was diminishing, and one voice was raised high above the rest, a voice screaming, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The wagon rocked as the horse was backed into the shafts. Hugh Jones was slowly getting the men to listen, despite the added din of the high-pitched screams of the women who had just arrived. ‘The police couldn’t find him and they been lookin’, we got him right here, here amongst us . . . Freedom Stubbs killed Willie, slit his throat, are we gonna let him get away with it?’

  Evelyne put her hands over her ears to shut out her father’s voice. She wanted to turn and run – run away from the madness echoing round the mountain like the Devil himself. She stood up and tried to get to her father’s side.

  ‘Turn the wagon over, get him out, get him out!’

  Evelyne was within feet of her father, screaming at him to stop, but a clod of earth flew through the air, narrowly missing her head.

  ‘Tell us what you know, Bitch! Bitch!’

  Frying pans and rolling pins thudded down on heads, the women were screaming and pointing at Evelyne. A man grabbed Evelyne from behind and held her arms. ‘This is the one, she’s known all along . . .’

  Now Hugh was fighting to get to his daughter. Evelyne pulled her arms free and lashed out at her father with her fist.

  Miners swarmed around the heavy wagon, heaving together to overturn it. The horse reared and kicked, striking a man on the side of his head. The wagon rolled forward, heading directly into the crowd around Hugh and Evelyne, and the men and women sprang away in fear for their lives.

  Jesse whipped up the horse and lashed out at a man who tried to bring him down from the wagon. As they careered through the crowd, Freedom leaned out of the back and grabbed Evelyne by the waist. She tried to fight him off, but she was lifted off her feet and hauled on board as the wagon bounced and rumbled through the crowd.

  Chapter 12

  Hugh stood in the ring, or what was left of it, the ropes trailing on the ground. His initial fury had subsided, he knew he had been wrong, but he couldn’t understand his daughter – his own daughter had
raised her fist to him in front of the whole village. He stood still, shaking. What in God’s name had got into her? Suddenly he took off after the mob chasing the wagon.

  Evelyne clung for dear life to the side of the wagon, terrified. Behind them the mob followed, running down the mountain. Freedom yelled to Jesse to keep clear of the camp, lead the madmen away from their people, take to the main roads. Evelyne wept, begged to be let out, but Freedom ignored her and clambered up beside Jesse. The wagon rolled from side to side as the dirt track wound and curved. The running figures were now a good distance behind them. They passed the entrance to the campsite, and Jesse handed the reins to Freedom. He jumped down as Freedom whipped the horse faster, leading the mob away from the camp. They could see that the camp was already packed up, the caravans in line, set to move out. Alone in the back of the wagon, Evelyne was bruised and battered against the sides, and still she held on.

  The sound of the wheels clattering on cobbles told Evelyne they had arrived in the village. The horse slowed its frantic pace and stopped.

  ‘Stop in the name of the law, now get down, hands above your head, come on, you vermin, do like we say, get down.’

  The wagon’s flap was pulled open and a policeman who looked inside shouted that there was a woman on board. At the same time Evelyne heard a voice asking, ‘You the gyppo they call Freedom Stubbs?’

  They were already putting the handcuffs on him by the time she stepped down. He made no effort to escape, did nothing to stop them handcuffing him, and said not one word. They hauled him roughly towards the police van, and even though he made no effort to evade arrest, one of the policemen brought his truncheon down hard on the back of his neck. He slumped forward, and they dragged him like an animal into the cage at the back of the van, locking and bolting it just in time as the mob appeared at the top of the village street.

  The men and women were quieter now and, seeing the uniformed police encircling the van with truncheons at the ready, they kept their distance. ‘Keep on walking now, come along, get back to your homes, the show’s over. Come along now, keep walking, everybody keep walking.’

  Slowly, they moved in groups past the police van, their interest directed first at the van, then at Evelyne. The women shot foul looks at her, then turned their faces away.

  Hugh walked to his daughter’s side and laid his hand on her arm.

  ‘Don’t touch me, this is your doing, this is down to you, Hugh Jones, I’d have thought you had more sense.’

  Lizzie-Ann passed by and heard Evelyne’s words, and muttered an abusive, bitter, ‘gyppo lover’. The other women nearby picked up the phrase, murmuring quietly but clearly as they passed the wagon, ‘gyppo woman, gyppo lover.’

  Hugh stood still, head bowed, and Gladys whimpered and slunk to his side. The police van was cranked up and the engine chugged into life; then it headed for the police station with Evan Evans, flushed and apologetic, hurrying alongside.

  Evelyne walked, head held high, back to Aldergrove Street. She knew they were all looking at her, talking about her, and she kept her eyes straight ahead. She was comforted by the thought that behind them all the caravans would be silently moving out, at least they had not torn the campsite apart.

  Hugh wanted Gladys gone; he wanted to talk in private with Evelyne, but Gladys clung to his arm. He sat her down, then folded his arms, staring hard at Evelyne. She met his gaze head on, defiant.

  ‘Now, Evie, out with it, we have a right to know.’

  In a quiet, dead voice, Evelyne told them the truth. ‘I was at a boxing match in Cardiff, remember, Da, the time I went by myself? I don’t want to go into the details of how I got there, but I went to a boxing fair. There was a riot, and I was leaving, but I had to go back inside the tent for my bag, I’d lost my handbag.’

  Gladys stood up and demanded to know what on earth this had to do with Willie’s murder. Evelyne pushed her down and leaned over her.

  ‘Because when I went back I saw a poor gypsy girl being raped, not by one but by four lads. An’ they’d worse than raped her, they’d taken a bench leg to her.’

  Gladys screeched at the top of her voice, ‘You sayin’ Willie had something to do with it?’

  ‘I saw him, he was on top of the girl . . . it was me that pulled him off by his hair, and I’d swear to it on the Bible, you want me to swear it on the Bible?’

  Gladys shook her head, repeating over and over that she couldn’t believe it – not that boy, not her sister’s boy, he wouldn’t do a thing like that.

  ‘He did it, Gladys, he was one of those lads, the poor girl. I’ll never forget her face.’

  Hugh brushed Evelyne aside. ‘That’s enough now, come on, Gladys, I’ll walk you home.’

  He helped Gladys to the door, and just as he went out he gave Evelyne a heart-broken look. She couldn’t meet his eyes, the look was filled with so much hurt, why hadn’t she told him?

  Freedom sat in the small village gaol that had only ever housed the poor lunatic who had bashed his mother’s head in. Evan Evans ponderously filled in all the forms. His prisoner was to be taken directly to Cardiff to answer the charges there. Evans had to endorse the charge-sheet accusing Freedom of the murder of Willie Thomas.

  Doc Clock, very irate, appeared to report the theft of a gold fob watch. He was insistent, never mind the ruddy gypsy, his new gold fob watch had been stolen right off the chain he had just put it on. Evans took down all the particulars, and waited until the Doc left, before he tore up the description of the fob watch. ‘He’s not had a watch attached to that chain for more’n fifteen years. We should have a word with the Medical Board, he’s past it, the silly old fool.’

  Mr Beshaley sat in Rawnie’s wagon. He swung his gold watch on its chain, fingered it and replaced it in the pocket of the checked waistcoat that matched his suit. He had used that watch to bribe people on several occasions, but he had always been able to steal it back. ‘Ye think he got himself away then, do ye?’

  Jesse shrugged and put his feet up on the shelf, Freedom would be all right, he murmured. Mr Beshaley pursed his lips, what a wasted night it had been, all this way and for what, to be almost mobbed. He had never even got a chance to talk with Sir Charles Wheeler – maybe to get him interested in one of his other boxers.

  Rawnie, with her skirts hitched up over her bare knees, smoked a hand-rolled cigarette clenched between her teeth. Perched up on the boards she held the reins loosely between her fingers, clucking for the horses to move on, then flicked a whip across their backs. She began to sing, low, husky, as if she had not a care in the world.

  Mande went to poov the gry, all around the stiggur sty,

  Mush off to Mande, I takes off my chuvvel,

  I dels him in the per,

  So ope me duvvel dancin Mande cours well.

  Inside Rawnie’s caravan Jesse was held by her husky voice, he smiled at Beshaley, and lowered his thick, black eyelashes.

  ‘Freedom always was a loser, tonight he proved it.’

  He joined in singing with Rawnie, their voices as soft as each other’s. Beshaley shivered, they seemed so close, these two, and he felt like an intruder. He couldn’t wait to get to Swansea. The pair of them unnerved him.

  Hugh climbed the stairs, heavy-hearted. He could see the gaslight beneath Evelyne’s door. Before he reached the door she opened it and stood, hands on hips. ‘Well, what have you heard?’

  Hugh shifted his weight and mumbled that they’d taken the gypsy to Cardiff, and the word was he’d be hanged.

  ‘What if I was to tell you he didn’t do the killings, none of them, it wasn’t him?’

  Hugh said that was for the courts to decide. Evan Evans was in the pub telling everyone that the gypsy had said not one word, which in Evans’ eyes proved that he was guilty.

  ‘If what you said about Willie is true, then so help me God I’m for the gel, but that’s no reason to slit a man’s throat – more than one.’

  Evelyne snapped that more than one boy had raped Rawnie
, and turned to go back into her bedroom. Hugh caught her arm. ‘Tell me how you know so much, miss? Why you had the papers, why you showed your fist to your father in front of the whole village?’

  Evelyne pulled her arm free and pushed past him, back into her bedroom snapping that he’d no need to worry, she’d not been touched by any of them.

  ‘Where you goin’? Evie?’

  She kicked the door to behind her, shouting that she was going to Cardiff. Hugh kicked the door back open again, his temper rising. ‘Like hell you are, you stay out of this, you’ve done enough as it is.’

  Evelyne was pulling clothes out of a drawer and throwing them on her bed. ‘It’s you who’s done it, Da, you, you’re power-mad since you got into that union. They hang him and they’ll hang an innocent man.’

  As fast as Evelyne took out her clothes, Hugh stuffed them back in the drawers, his temper mounting, and he shouted that she was not to leave the house.

  ‘I was with him, Da, the night Willie was killed, I was with him, and I’m going to say so, he couldn’t have done it.’

  Hugh pulled her roughly to him, his hand raised to strike her, and she stared at him, stony-faced. ‘Go on, hit me if it’ll make you feel better, I was with him but not in the way you think. God help me, I went up there to warn him.’

  Hugh slumped down on to the bed. He couldn’t understand her. He shook his head and rumpled his hair. She still opened and closed the drawers, taking out what she needed. She brought a cardboard box out from under the bed.

  ‘Don’t get involved, gel, trust me, leave it be . . . unless . . . does this lad take your fancy, is that it?’

  Evelyne threw up her hands in despair. ‘No, I just know he didn’t do it, and I can’t live with myself knowing what I know . . . Oh, Da, I should have told you before, everything, but I just couldn’t, I just couldn’t.’

  He patted the bed beside him and she sat close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Slowly, piece by piece, she told him about the night in the boxing tent in Cardiff. The terrible humiliation she had suffered, the money she had taken from David, money she’d been so ashamed of, and at last her bitterness came to the surface. She made no sound, but he knew she was crying and he cradled her in his arms.