The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Freedom smiled up at her and nodded, held out his hand for her to come and sit with him. She looked back at the arrogant, dancing Jesse. She wouldn’t come close.

  ‘Does he care for thee?’

  She drew on the ever-present hand-rolled cigarette, releasing a cloud of smoke that all but obscured her face as she spoke in her low, husky voice. ‘He does . . . are thee with the paleface woman?’

  Freedom smiled, tilting his head. ‘Ay, she’s my manushi.’

  A small boy with dark, flashing eyes and thick, black curly hair appeared behind Rawnie’s skirts. Freedom leaned forward and the child peeked around Rawnie and gave him a cheeky grin.

  ‘He be called Johnny . . . Johnny Mask, he’s a right bugger, we call him mask because you can belt the livin’ daylights out of him an’ he don’t ever care none.’

  Freedom looked up at her as she touched the young boy’s head, gently. Then Johnny ran back to Jesse, clicked his heels, and the pair danced together.

  ‘He be Jesse’s boy, a pure Tatchey, then there are two more doshas, see them, on the vargo steps.’

  Freedom looked over at the two little girls, hand in hand, watching the dancing. He stood up, watched Rawnie’s sad eyes. They were not her own, she did not even have to tell him . . . he held out his arms, wanting to hold her. She tossed her cigarette aside, stepping back so he could not touch her. ‘We’re moving to the races, north, we’ll join the clans. Jesse is leader now, but we need a strong-armed man, the fights are where the money is . . . livin’ like a king, maybe ye don’t need it.’

  Her voice had become mocking. She rolled another cigarette, and as she lit it the flame illuminated her face, her haunted eyes. ‘Will thee travel with us, Freedom? See, there’s Chalida with no man beside her, she’s Romanchilde.’

  Chalida, sitting with the two doshas, was a beautiful girl with her hair unbraided to show she was unmarried. She looked up, and Freedom gave her a small bow, then turned to Rawnie and shook his head. Before he could say a word, two gypsies ran to the fire and began stamping out the flames. They shouted and pointed into the darkness, and everyone began to run this way and that.

  Four gamekeepers with blazing torches were moving towards the camp through the woods. They carried shotguns, and their tracker dogs strained at their leashes. Jesse began shouting instructions. Pans and bottles and equipment were swiftly packed, and the horses were dragged from their roped pen to harness to the wagons. The poached rabbits and pheasants were quickly hidden.

  The children screamed in terror as the gamekeepers crashed into the camp and released their dogs. For a moment Freedom was frozen, he couldn’t believe what was happening. One of the little doshas was hunched by a wagon, shrieking with fear as a dog snarled and snapped at her. In seconds Freedom was on his feet and at her side. He kicked the dog away and grabbed the child, lifted her into the wagon. ‘Call your men off, you bastards, call the dogs back . . .’

  Jesse was already fighting with one of the gamekeepers. Freedom ran to a man he recognized, grabbed him by his lapels. ‘You call your men off or so help me God I’ll have your throat wrung, hear me . . . look at me, mun, you know me.’

  Little Johnny Mask was beating back one of the dogs with a stick. Jesse had wrested a shotgun from the hands of one of the gamekeepers, and had turned it on the man Freedom held. ‘No . . . Jesse, no!’

  He held the gun poised, finger on the trigger. Rawnie ran to his side and placed her hand over the barrel. ‘Freedom, get them out of the camp, tell them we’ll move out, we mean no harm . . .’

  The gamekeepers, terrified, did not need to be asked twice. They backed off, calling their dogs to their sides. Freedom held the shotgun, keeping the men back, but he stood with them, not his own people.

  It took only a short while before the wagons were ready. Jesse walked up to Freedom, carrying his son in his arms. ‘Come with us, brother, leave with us.’

  Past antagonisms forgotten, Freedom held Jesse close, and they kissed each other on both cheeks. From his pocket Jesse took a gold coin, pressed it into Freedom’s hand. ‘Kushti rardi, brother.’

  The wagons moved out, and the gamekeepers made their way back down the hill to The Grange. The men were silent, their dogs under control. Freedom walked slightly ahead of them, his thoughts with his people. As they came out of the wood he saw below him, glistening like a mirage, The Grange, lit by a multitude of chandeliers. His anger rose up and he stiffened. They had treated his people no better than dogs.

  ‘Come on, move on, bloody gyppo, get on back . . .’

  In an instant Freedom swung around and knocked the man out, took his shotgun and broke it into pieces. Then he took off so fast none of them had a hope of keeping up with him . . . the night enveloped him, and he could no longer be seen or heard.

  The gamekeepers ran into the courtyard and reported to the chief warden. ‘Bastard took off after his people, bloody gyppo should never have been brought here in the first place.’

  Evelyne could hear them and their dogs clearly. Watching from her little window, she saw the police wagon arrive, and she turned back to her cot bed. So Ed had been right, he had run. She was feeling queasy, and she reached for her dressing-gown, slipped quietly along the corridor to the bathroom she shared with the other servants. Fighting her dizziness, she was violently sick. More than ever she felt she must leave The Grange.

  As she returned to her room, she found two housemaids whispering together near her bedroom door. One of them turned to Evelyne.

  ‘Oh, Evie, they say the gyppo fighter’s run off, half-killed the gamekeepers, tried to strangle one, and him what was almost hung afore . . . and he stole the dinner cook was preparing for Sir Charles, what a to-do.’

  Miss Balfour appeared, wearing a hairnet, tight-lipped, her skin wrinkled like a prune. ‘Back to bed, all of you, now. This has nothing to do with you, back to bed this instant.’

  The two maids shot into their rooms like rabbits bolting into their holes. Miss Balfour stared at Evelyne with such overt disgust on her face that Evelyne barred her way.

  ‘If you have something to say to me, Miss Balfour, then say it to my face.’

  Miss Balfour shrank back and scurried to her room, locking the door behind her. Evelyne entered her own bedroom and gasped. Freedom lay on her bed, smiling, his feet up on the iron bedrail. She closed the door fast. ‘What are you doing here? Do you not know everyone’s out searching for you, and now the police are called in – are you mad, man?’

  Miss Balfour could have sworn she heard a man’s voice. She slipped out of her room and crept along the corridor, listened at Evelyne’s door. Afraid to confront them both, she tightened the cord of her dressing gown and hurried down the back stairs.

  Freedom cocked his head to one side and placed his finger across his lips to remind Evelyne to speak softly.

  ‘Will you come with me, you don’t belong here, and they keep us like prisoners . . . Come away with me? Is this the way you want to live your life? To be paid each month so they own you? So they can tell you when to eat and when to sleep?’

  He began to undo his shirt, as if the sounds of the baying dogs below and the whistling of the searching policemen had nothing to do with him.

  She whispered back, frantically, ‘You’re drunk, I can smell it, and you go back down right now. They think you’ve run, and poor Ed will get into terrible trouble.’

  He threw his shirt aside and began to unbutton his trousers.

  ‘Are you mad, man? What are you thinking of, here, in the house?’

  His face changed, his eyes were so black they frightened her, ‘They don’t own me, they got a piece of paper says they do, but I’m no animal to be bought. No man sets his dogs on me.’

  ‘You forget yourself, Freedom Stubbs. If it weren’t for Sir Charles you’d be at the end of a hangman’s rope and you well know it.’

  ‘It’s you that saved me, you, manushi, now come here.’

  She backed away from him, pressed herself against t
he wall. ‘I’m not your manushi, I am not your wife. You don’t belong to them? Well, I don’t belong to you. Now get out of here, go on, get out!’

  His fist curled in rage, but she stood up to him, unafraid now.

  She slapped his fist. ‘That’s all you know, isn’t it – the fight? You don’t want to better yourself – well, run back to your people, go on, run back, but don’t expect me to be with you in some wretched wagon, chased off the land, run out of every town.’

  In a fury he pulled her to him, but she slapped his face. He took it, smiled down at her, and she stepped back and slapped him again.

  ‘Oh, manushi, is that all yer know, the fight? But my, my, you’re rinkeney when you’re angry . . . now come to me before you give me a tatto yeck . . . see, I got something for you.’ He handed her the gold coin Jesse had pressed into his hand . . . she threw it across the room. He cocked his head to the side, then picked up his shirt and began to dress.

  Suddenly she clung to his back . . . he turned in her arms and cupped her face in his hands. ‘Eh, woman, you twist me so, ye don’t know what thee wants, listen to your heart, manushi, listen.’

  He kissed her, slipping her nightdress off, carried her to the bed and laid her down. He snuggled his head close to her and whispered, ‘They’ll have a long night ahead searching for me.’

  ‘No they won’t, you’re going back, go and give yourself up to them before you cause any more trouble.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  Miss Balfour rapped on Evelyne’s door.

  ‘Open this door this instant, I know you’ve got a man in there, come along, I’ve got Mr Plath with me, open up.’

  In a panic, Evelyne reached for her nightdress while Freedom pulled on his shirt and hopped around trying to get into his trousers. Miss Balfour threw the door open. She was carrying a policeman’s truncheon, and was followed close behind by Mr Plath, the estate manager. They just caught Freedom slipping out of the window. Mr Plath made the mistake of grabbing Freedom’s leg, and got a nasty kick in the groin. He rolled in agony on the floor while Miss Balfour screamed, ‘Help, help . . . someone help!’

  Sir Charles made a hurried exit from the house to talk to the police, who were there about the poachers. He had been playing an after-dinner game of rummy, and he was still clutching his cards. His house guests gathered at the windows.

  Poor Ed was beside himself, he knew it had all got out of hand. The gamekeepers were embroidering their stories about the gypsy campers every time they retold it. They had been set upon, fired upon, punched and threatened with knives. ‘Freedom, was ’e wiv ’em? Will someone tell me, was ’e wiv ’em?’

  ‘Was ’e wiv ’em? Look at me throat, the bugger nearly throtled me.’

  Sir Charles crossed the courtyard to speak to Ed, his cards still in his hand. ‘I want him found, Ed, brought back, in handcuffs if need be. This is outrageous, do you have any idea of how much time and effort I have been putting in, trying to arrange a bout for him in London? So help me God, he can go back to jail, what on earth possessed him to . . .’

  A screech from a gamekeeper interrupted him. ‘Sir, oh, sir, there’s a man on the roof, look, there he is!’

  All eyes were raised to the roof of The Grange, and there he was dancing, singing at the top of his voice,

  Oh, can you rokka Romany,

  can you play the bosh,

  Can you jal adrey the staripen,

  can you chin the cosh . . .

  Balancing, holding his arms out as if he were walking a tightrope, Freedom teetered on the roof’s edge. The crowd grew silent.

  ‘The man must be mad, or drunk, or both.’

  Miss Balfour ran to join the crowd. Behind her, Mr Plath came limping, clutching his injured parts.

  ‘This is her doing, sir, he was with her.’

  Sir Charles turned to Ed. His voice was steely, and Ed’s heart sank. ‘When the fool comes down, give him to the law.’

  ‘But, sir, he’s done nuffink wrong, he’s just ’ad a few too many.’

  Sir Charles’ face twitched, he was so furious. ‘Don’t play games with me, Meadows, I know exactly where he’s been. His friends, so called, have been poaching on my land. He almost killed Fred Hutchins over there. Be in my study first thing in the morning, is that clear? And get all these people away, there has been enough disturbance for one night.’

  As Sir Charles strode from the courtyard, there was a gasp from the onlookers. He looked up to see Freedom swinging down from ledge to ledge like a monkey. The police moved in to corner him, and he dodged and ducked as they chased him, then they surrounded him. As they dragged him away, he looked back and Sir Charles flushed as he gave him a dazzling smile.

  Ed went into the barn. They had tied Freedom’s hands to one of the posts. His shirt was torn, his face filthy.

  ‘Why did you do it, lad, there’s two coppers out back with black eyes, and to kick Mr Plath of all people, in the balls. He’s the estate manager . . . I dunno, I don’t, why in God’s name did you do it? Why did you run?’

  Freedom sighed, shook his head. ‘If I’d wanted away, Ed, I’d not have been dancing on the roof, now would I? You tell me why they trussed me up like a chicken?’

  ‘Sir Charles says he’s through with you, you could even get sent to jail. Poachin’s against the law, never mind what you done to the estate manager.’

  With one movement Freedom wrenched the ropes away from the post, shaking the whole barn. He turned on Ed, and Ed backed away, terrified by the anger in those black eyes.

  ‘You tell His Lordship I want to fight; I don’t want to be kept here like one of his stallions. They’re groomed, and brushed, but spend more time than they should in their stalls. You tell him I could have killed his gamekeepers, each one of ’em, and Mr Plath’s lucky ’e still got anythin’ between his legs.’

  He swung a punch at the punchbag, splitting it in two. ‘They set their dogs on children, that were wrong.’

  Then he walked out, calm as ever. All Ed could think of was that punch, he had never seen one like it . . .

  The following morning Ed went cap in hand to Sir Charles, beseeched him to listen before he launched into the speech he had obviously prepared.

  ‘Last night I saw a punch, Sir, that would floor any champion in England. I saw it with me own eyes. He’s wild, but he’s trained every day, not put a foot out of line. Don’t send ’im away, sir, find him a fight! ’E’s yer champion, I swear it.’

  Sir Charles listened, tapping his fingers on his mahogany desk. ‘Ed, I’m a sportsman, you know that, I believe in him just as much as you, but I cannot have any scandal. Unless you control him, then I am afraid, champion or no, he’ll have to go . . . if these riff-raff follow him around, then . . .’

  ‘Your gamekeepers should not ’ave set the dogs on to the children, gyppos or not, sir.’

  Sir Charles rose from his seat and stared out of the window, his back to Ed. ‘How’s your wife? Settled in, has she?’

  ‘You bastard,’ thought Ed. He knew exactly what Sir Charles was implying; his livelihood depended on Freedom. He and Freda didn’t own their cottage, they owned nothing.

  ‘I’d like to see how he’s been doing, set up a bout in the barn, would you? Then we’ll discuss it later . . . that’s all for now.’

  Evelyne sat on the edge of the leather chair. Sir Charles’ study smelt of polish and cigars. She watched him carefully cut the end of his Havana with a gold clipper.

  ‘I will, of course, give you references, but you must understand, under the circumstances your presence here is . . .’

  Evelyne interrupted him. ‘I have packed, sir, and Mr Plath has given me my wages. You see, I had already made up my mind to leave.’

  Sir Charles studied her for a moment. Her composure unnerved him slightly. Sitting ramrod straight, her chin up, her green eyes never leaving his face, she was not apologetic in any way. Suddenly he leaned forward, and she could see a muscle twitch at the side of his jaw.
‘Stay away from him, I shall clear everything with the police and my gamekeepers, he’ll get every chance I can give him, but stay away from him.’

  Evelyne stood, her mouth trembling slightly, but she held on to her emotions. Without shaking his outstretched hand she opened the oak-panelled door. She didn’t look back, just closed the door silently behind her.

  Freda was polishing her brass fender when a housemaid tapped on her door. She handed Freda a letter. ‘She said be sure you get it, I got to rush now, I’m behind with me work . . . you done this place up ever so nice, Mrs Meadows.’

  Freda didn’t hear the girl leave, she was turning the letter over in her hands. It was Evie’s writing, she’d know it anywhere, with its fancy loops and curls.

  Ed had warned Sir Charles to stand well back from the ring. The sweat from the boys might spray on to his grey suit.

  Freedom was in high spirits, despite a slight hangover. The evening’s drama appeared to have had little or no effect on him. He was unaware of how Sir Charles had settled everything, unaware how close he had been to losing his chance as a professional boxer.

  Taking each boy in turn, even though he was only sparring, he gave such a good performance that Sir Charles gave Ed a wink, gestured for him to go to his side. Ed called out for the boxers to take a break, and he and Sir Charles waited for Freedom to join them.

  Sir Charles leant on his silver-topped cane. ‘Appears you don’t think I’ve been pulling my weight? Not arranging a bout soon enough for you? Well, it’s not as easy as that, old chap. You’re unknown, a pit boxer, and they are, as you must be aware, two a penny. To gain a good rating in the game, why, you would more than likely have to take on twenty bouts before you could get any legitimate recognition.’

  Freedom rolled his towel into a ball and chucked it aside. Sir Charles could smell him, like an animal, his sweating body was so close . . . he stepped back, just a fraction. ‘I have been masterminding a plan for you to hit the main circuits in one swoop. I have arranged for you to be the sparring partner for the present Irish Heavyweight Champion. He will be arriving in England shortly for an attempt at the British title.’