The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  ‘Being poor, Evie, is nothing to be ashamed of, one does things in a life that’re much worse.’

  She looked up into his sad face and asked if he was thinking of little Davey, and he nodded his head. He still held his big arm around her shoulders, but he stared vacantly ahead. After a moment he rose and walked to the window, drawing back the curtains to look out into the dark night.

  ‘I was quite a lad, you know, when I was a youngster. Easter fair was always a night out for the lads. She was telling fortunes in a small booth – not like they have now, it was decorated with painted canvas, sort of draped – and you paid a ha’penny for a palm reading. By God, Evie, she was a beauty, not like your ma, different, exciting to young bloods, and we was all after her. See, we couldn’t lay a finger on the local gels, not without their mothers coming around with their rolling pins . . . Anyways, I set out to capture the little dark-eyed wench, all the while cocksure of myself, telling the lads I’d have her. She said I was to come back at midnight, she’d leave the caravan door ajar. Well, I had my night with her, and the next day three of ’em came prancing down the street, seems she wasn’t no ordinary gyppo, but one of high blood. They dragged me out and up to their fields and all of them set on me, even the old man threw in a few punches. I was handy with me fists so I gave as good as I got, but me pals hadda carry me home.

  ‘Next morning, black-eyed and aching all over, I made my way to the pithead, an’ she was there, waitin’ with a small bundle under her arm. Seemed the family threw her out, see, an’ there she was waitin’ for me with her bangles and beads and the little bundle tied up with string.’

  Hugh turned from the dark window. He seemed heavy, sluggish, and eased his body down on to the bed and lay flat, his eyes closed. ‘Maybe if the lads hadn’t been gathered around I’d have acted different. I just laughed at her, Evie, told her to be on her way with the rest of her vermin.’

  He leaned up on his elbow and fingered Evelyne’s slip which was lying across the bed. ‘Her eyes went black, like a cat’s, and she lifted her hand and gave me some kind of sign, she didn’t scream or shout, it was husky, her voice, that’s what made it worse, the strange softness of her words . . . She cursed me, Evie, said I’d have no sons to bury me.’ He put his arm across his face and his whole body shuddered as he wept, his voice muffled. ‘By Christ she was right, I’ve seen them buried. God help me, Evie, she was right.’

  Now it was Evelyne’s turn to hold her father gently, wipe his tear-stained face. She said that maybe it was fate, fate that made her cross the path of the gypsies.

  ‘I’ll leave for Cardiff on the first train, Da, all right?’

  The mist clung to the top of the mountain, the grey rain drizzled, making grey, cobbled streets shine. As Evelyne turned at the corner to wave to Hugh at the bedroom window, he felt a terrible sense of loss, as if he would never see her again.

  Evelyne passed three women standing at the water taps. They turned their backs to her and whispered. Evelyne held her head high and walked on.

  ‘You’ll not be teaching my kids, Evelyne Jones, you dirty gyppo lover.’

  A group of men leaving their house for the early shift called to her and raised their fists. ‘You should know better, Evelyne Jones. Our lads not good enough for you, eh?’

  Their laughter echoed down the wet street, and she hunched her shoulders as if to defend herself from their malice. She crossed the street so she wouldn’t have to face another group of women who stood waiting for the post office to open. They, too, stared at her then turned and whispered to each other. She gave them a frosty smile and almost bumped into Lizzie-Ann dragging the two kids and a pramful of laundry.

  Evelyne stopped, and Lizzie-Ann had the grace to blush – she had, after all, thrown a clod of earth at Evelyne the night before. ‘Well, where you off to at this hour, thought a woman of leisure like you would have a lie-in of a wet morning?’

  Evelyne murmured that she was on her way to Cardiff.

  ‘Going to see your boyfriend, are you? Better make it fast before they hang him.’

  Evelyne looked into Lizzie-Ann’s face. Her hair hung in rat’s tails, her coat was stained, her legs bare and her shoes so worn that her heels, red and raw, were showing.

  ‘That’s right, go on, take a good look at me, Evelyne Jones, nothing a few pounds wouldn’t put right, but then you’re such a tight bitch, you’d not a give a beggar a farthing.’

  Evelyne banged her cardboard box on top of the pram and pulled Lizzie-Ann to her by the lapels of her coat.

  ‘What have I ever done to you, Lizzie-Ann, to make you talk like this? Tell me now, I don’t deserve it and you know it.’

  Lizzie-Ann pushed Evelyne away, her voice rising hysterically.

  ‘You’ve always been too good, haven’t you? You give me a roof over me head but begrudge a shilling for food, you’re a hard one, Evelyne Jones, you always were . . .’

  Evelyne felt sick. She couldn’t fight Lizzie-Ann, there was nothing to say. She picked up her cardboard box and turned away.

  ‘Don’t you turn your back on me, Evelyne . . . Evelyne . . . Evie!’

  There was such desperation in Lizzie-Ann’s voice, it made Evelyne turn. Old before her years, beaten, roughened, the prettiest girl in the village had gone, and in the big, pansy eyes was a terrible, heart-breaking desperation. For a fleeting moment Evelyne wanted to hold her, but the accusing voice persisted, ‘Where you going? Cardiff is it? Oh, well, all right for some, go on, there’ll be more than one person pleased. You should stay there, your poor Da can’t get up the courage to tell you he wants to get married, go on, you won’t be missed.’

  A few of the women joined in, chipping in their farthing’s-worth.

  Evelyne was already walking away, knowing Lizzie-Ann was trailing behind.

  ‘Take the deeds to Doris’ house, take them, just like you took everything, without a thank you.’

  Head high, she strode off, clutching her cardboard box in front of her. Lizzie-Ann broke down, propping her swollen, sagging body against a filthy brick wall. She cried out, but her voice was distorted with tears, ‘Oh, I wanted to go to London . . . oh God, I wanted to go to London.’

  Somewhere out of the past Evelyne heard the soft, sweet voice of her mother repeating, ‘Get out of the valley, Evie, don’t let it drag you down,’ well, she would get out, and she would never come back, there was nothing left for her here.

  As she paid for her ticket, her mouth trembled, and she had to bite her lip until it bled to stop herself from crying. She had only one goodbye to say, it cried in her throat, the sound of the train’s steam hissing and the ‘chunt, chunt’ of the engine drowned her words, ‘Goodbye, Da, goodbye, Da.’

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 13

  Evelyne walked up the stone steps of the police station in Cardiff and stood at the high counter. The sergeant on duty gave her a pleasant smile. ‘What can I be doing for you, ma’am?

  Taking a deep breath, Evelyne coughed. ‘I have information regarding the murders of the four boys. I would like to make a statement, and I am prepared to go to any court and swear on oath that what I have to say is God’s truth.’

  The sergeant rubbed his head and leant on the desk. ‘And what murders would these be, young lady?’

  ‘The gypsy revenge killings . . . my name is Evelyne Jones. I want to make a statement.’

  Half an hour later, after she had related everything to the sergeant, she was taken to meet the detective chief inspector. The sergeant held the door open for her and placed a stack of forms on the inspector’s desk.

  ‘I think you’d better listen to what this lady has to say, sir.’

  The inspector listened attentively to every word, nodding his head and refilling his pipe. He puffed and stared at a spot on the wall just above Evelyne’s head.

  ‘And that, sir, is the truth. I was with Freedom Stubbs the night he is supposed to have killed Willie Thomas, and I’ll stand up in court and say so.’

&
nbsp; The inspector tapped his pipe and began to scrape at the bowl. He chose his words carefully, because asking this tall, stiff young woman if she was ‘familiar’ with the gypsy was a delicate matter.

  ‘I know him only as someone who helped me on the night of the rape, that is all.’

  The inspector felt she was withholding something, she knew more than she admitted, but he had to take her statement and pass it to his superiors. The statement took an hour and fifteen minutes to complete, and Evelyne’s meticulous handwriting and perfect spelling impressed everyone.

  ‘I see you’ve put no address down, Miss Jones, where are you residing in Cardiff?’

  Unable to think of where she would stay, Evelyne bit her lip. A large poster behind the inspector caught her eye – it was an advertisement for a charity ball at the Grand Hotel.

  ‘I’ll be at the Grand, Sir.’

  He looked at her for a moment then carefully wrote down the name of the hotel.

  ‘Will Mr Stubbs be released now?’

  Evelyne’s innocent question made them laugh, it wasn’t as simple as that. The man was charged with murder and one statement was not good enough. There were, after all, three more murders with Freedom Stubbs the main suspect in each case.

  ‘Will I be allowed to see him?’

  The men flicked sly glances at each other and then back to Evelyne, looking at her from top to toe. One of the uniformed men said it could possibly be arranged.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Miss Jones, and we will contact you at the Grand Hotel if we feel it is necessary.’

  As Evelyne walked out of the office, she heard a chuckle behind her and the inspector speaking to one of the officers, ‘I’m sure Miss Jones will be at the Grand, lads, I’m sure.’

  She felt humiliated, and realized she had accomplished nothing, and they were laughing at her behind her back. She took a deep breath, decided she would have a good breakfast and think about what she should do next. She would have breakfast at the Grand, and book a room there.

  When she reached the Grand Hotel she realized why the inspector had been cynical about her staying there; it certainly lived up to its name. Even the steps up to the lobby were covered with thick-pile red carpet, and there was so much braid on the uniformed doorman’s jacket he looked in danger of being tied up in it permanently. He inclined his head to her, haughtily, and swung open the big brass doors with ‘The Grand’ painted on the glass in gold.

  Once inside, Evelyne felt even more overpowered by the ornate building. The lobby was busy with residents and porters everywhere, and a bellhop loudly calling a name, trying to deliver a telegram. The head clerk Mr Jeffrey, wearing an immaculate black jacket and pin-striped trousers, looked up sharply as Evelyne tentatively rang the bell on the desk.

  Evelyne almost dropped the cardboard suitcase when she saw the prices of the rooms. A heavy smell of perfume wafted past her nose, and a woman with two tiny parcels tied up with ribbon held her hand out languidly for her key. The clerk grovelled and bowed, placed a key into the kid-gloved hand and gave Evelyne a sidelong look.

  ‘Room twenty-nine, Lady Southwell.’

  Evelyne glanced down at the brochure and noted that her Ladyship had a suite on the third floor.

  ‘Do you have a room vacant on the third floor?’

  ‘The third floor is suites only, modom.’

  Evelyne was getting hot, a flush creeping up from her toes.

  ‘I’ll have a suite, then.’

  The suite was decorated indifferent shades of pink, the twin beds draped and canopied with tiny, fluffy pink mats beside them. The bathroom was huge, marbled, and more luxurious than any she’d ever seen in a magazine. Bath salts, courtesy of the hotel, stood in a neat row. The water smelt lovely and she stayed in the warm, scented bath until her skin wrinkled.

  Her scrubbed face shining, Evelyne walked through the lobby, aware of Mr Jeffrey’s scrutiny. She gave him a small, prim nod and nearly walked into a palm tree. A painted board on an easel announced the opening hours of the various dining-rooms.

  ‘The Grand Hotel is pleased to offer guests the choice of three dining rooms . . .’

  Evelyne chose the tearoom. The small tables were painted white and laid with white linen cloths, the upholstered chairs also in white, and there were potted palms scattered around the room. A trio played on a corner stand, and the few customers spoke in whispers.

  Evelyne selected a table at the far side which gave her a good view of the whole tearoom and the lobby from behind one of the palms. A waitress in a neat black dress with a frilled white cap, pinafore and cuffs promptly placed a menu in front of her. The toasted teacakes and pot of tea tasted better than anything she had ever made at home, with jams in tiny individual pots. Hot water was brought to freshen Evelyne’s teapot without her even asking, and she ordered another round of teacakes. She was loading butter on the hot bun when she heard a familiar voice.

  ‘My darling, forgive me, I’m late, but I simply couldn’t get away earlier, children’s wretched teaparty – have you ordered?’

  Evelyne peeked around the large potted palm to her right and saw Freddy Carlton just about to sit down at the next table. He seemed to have aged. His neat moustache was waxed at the ends, and he wore a pale blue shirt with a stiff white collar and narrow black tie with his brown pin-striped suit. She could just see a tiny gloved hand as Freddy raised it to his lips and kissed it as he sat down. Parting the thick leaves of the palm tree, Evelyne peered through.

  ‘We don’t have long, dearest, I have some shopping to do. I’ve ordered tea, are you hungry?’

  Evelyne let go of the palm. Lady Primrose laughed softly, and Evelyne saw Freddy lean closer to her. She was sure Freddy kissed her, and in public!

  ‘Is it you? I saw you from the staff door, is it you, Evelyne?’

  This time Evelyne was so startled that she yelped. There in front of her was Miss Freda with a large tray of toasted scones.

  ‘Shush, not too loud, yes it’s me, Miss Freda.’

  Freda beamed at Evelyne, her frizzy hair trapped beneath a frilled white cap.

  ‘I work here now, I’m not supposed to talk to the customers, but I will bring you over some cakes . . . shusssh . . . then maybe we can meet and talk, yes?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Evelyne was thrilled to see Freda, but a little worried about Freddy and Lady Primrose, at the next table. Freda gave her a little wink and scurried to her customer’s table, getting a stern look from a stout woman with an enormous bosom who was taking up her position at the pay desk.

  While Evelyne eavesdropped on the conversation between Freddy and Lady Primrose, several waitresses passed her table, each depositing a cake in front of her with a wink. She ate her way through a piece of strawberry gateau, a cherry pie, and a large white meringue filled with fresh cream, and still they kept coming.

  Rising to his feet, Freddy leaned once more across the table.

  ‘Can we meet this afternoon? I can’t bear being apart from you, it’s been three whole days, will you call me and I’ll arrange a room?’

  ‘You’d better leave, darling, they’ll be arriving . . . I’ll call you, I promise.’

  Evelyne hid behind her napkin as Freddy walked past her table. One of the waitresses blocked him from view as she laid a paper bag by Evelyne’s plate.

  ‘Freda says for you to put the ones you can’t eat into this, but careful, she’s got eyes in the back of her head.’

  Evelyne looked at the woman behind the pay desk while the waitress cleared Freddy’s teacup. She slipped three cakes into her paper bag and put it beneath the table. As she raised her head she found the woman with the huge bosom looming over her.

  ‘Your bill, madam.’

  Had she been spotted? Evelyne flushed, but the woman pivoted on her heel and made her way around the room, depositing more of the little pink slips on other tables.

  Freda sidled over to Evelyne. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m
here, room twenty-seven . . . I mean, suite.’

  ‘Here? You are staying here? Well, I’ll see you later.’

  She whizzed away through the swinging kitchen door, thinking to herself that Miss Evelyne certainly must have more money than she knew what to do with.

  Holding her bag of cakes close to her side, Evelyne gave two shillings to the stern-faced woman with the bosom, and her sixpence change clattered down a chute. She struggled to get it out with one hand, afraid to lift the other to reveal the bag of illicit cakes.

  ‘Do come again.’

  Turning quickly away she bumped into Sir Charles Wheeler, who stepped aside and apologized then surveyed the room from behind his monocle. The cashier beamed and led him to a small booth, murmuring that she felt sure Sir Charles would find it suitable. He sat with his back to the room and opened a copy of The Times.

  Evelyne pressed the lift button and waited. The brass was so highly polished it was like a mirror, and she adjusted a stray curl of hair . . . then her heart stopped.

  David Collins strode in to the hotel, paused to smile at the manager, flicked his gloves off and walked towards the tearoom. He looked handsomer than ever, wearing the latest Prince of Wales single-breasted suit, a tie with a Windsor knot, and carrying a brown trilby. With an ingratiating smile the fawning cashier directed him to Lady Primrose’s table.

  The lift gates clanked open.

  ‘Do you want to go up? Madam, up?’

  The snooty bellhop doubled as lift attendant during teatime.

  ‘Third floor.’

  Evelyne stepped out of the lift and the boy nearly caught her coat as he slammed the gates shut behind her. On the carpet outside her room lay a newspaper, and looking up and down the corridor she saw that there was one outside each door. At least something was included in the price of the suite.