Dewhurst woke Freedom to say that Mr Meadows and his wife had called, and would return later that afternoon for tea. Then he ran Freedom’s bath and began to lay out his clothes to wear for luncheon.
Mrs Harris could tell something was up, Evie was as bright as a button. She had also washed her hair and let out her best coat. She kept on asking how she looked, did she look ugly?
‘Lord love us, gel, there’s nothing more beautiful than a woman with a baby in her, you got a glow . . . are you off visitin’?’
Evelyne gave a tiny smile.
‘Well, you tell ’im from me, ducks, he’s got a special woman, you go to him, bring ’im back for supper an’ all, go on wiv you, you’ve waited long enough as it is . . .’
Evelyne caught the tram into London’s West End. Winter was coming on fast, and she hugged her coat around her. She got off the tram outside the big store in Piccadilly, Swan and Edgar. The windows were all lit up, and one of them was filled with baby clothes and cradles. She peered into the brightly lit window. Such beautiful things, the toys, the clothes. She couldn’t move away, she found herself smiling with pleasure, with excitement at the thought of seeing Freedom again. She could visualize him so clearly, in his old cap and baggy trousers, running across the fields, and she couldn’t understand why she was crying, it was so foolish of her, and in a public place, too.
She bathed her face and checked her appearance in the ladies’ powder room inside the store, then nervously enquired the way to Jermyn Street. She was surprised to find it in the heart of the West End, having expected it to be a tram journey away. She was directed across Piccadilly, past a very fashionable shop, and down a small alley alongside a church. So this was where Freedom was staying. Evelyne stood in Jermyn Street taking in the rows of small shops selling soap, the tailors, the barbers.
Freedom stepped down from the motorcar and held out his hand to help two women from the back of the car. Evelyne could hardly believe her eyes, was it Freedom? She inched further forward, trying to see round the open door of the car. He was wearing a long, charcoal-grey overcoat, with a wide fur collar slightly turned up around his neck, and a white silk scarf. He laughed, throwing his head back, as one of the women pulled at the scarf and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.
Dodging through the shoppers, Evelyne huddled in a doorway and watched as he held out first one arm, then the other, for the women to take. They fought for his attention. Being so tall he had to bend down to listen to what one of them had to say, and she took the opportunity to kiss his cheek. Evelyne gasped and stepped forward for a better view, then dodged quickly back as the three moved towards the building. A uniformed doorman stepped out and doffed his cap to them, holding the door open wide. As they went inside and the glittering doors closed behind them, Evelyne ran the few yards to the entrance, and peered through the doors in time to see them standing by a lift.
Freedom pressed the lift button. His head was aching from drinking too much champagne, but Dewhurst would have coffee ready. He was supposed to be training, but he would make up for it in the morning. As the lift gates opened he had a strange tingling sensation like an icy hand down his spine, and he whipped round, his scarf flying, ran to the doors and pulled them open. ‘Evie? Evie . . .?’
He stared along the crowded, fashionable street, then shook his head. He must be drunk. The door swung to and fro, and he returned to the women.
‘Oh, Freedom, we simply must take you to tea at the Ritz, say you will? Pretty please?’
He gave her a nasty, cold stare, gritted his teeth.
‘Pretty please, get in, let me show you my Ritz!’
The two of them giggled at his awful mood, and they cuddled close to him, clinging to his arms. They felt like a pair of monkeys to him, they loved to scratch him with their long, red-painted fingernails. Still, they helped him to forget, forget Evie.
Ted Harris heard Evelyne come in, and opened the kitchen door.
‘Evie, that you, ducks? A cabbie came round wiv a parcel for you, here, see, cab all by itself, no one inside.’
Evelyne took the parcel but wouldn’t meet his eyes.
‘You all right, ducks? Feelin’ poorly, are you?’
‘I’m fine, I’ll just rest, I’ll see to the children’s tea in a minute.’
Ted watched her hurry along the passage to her room. She was so pale, it worried him.
In the room Evelyne opened Miss Freda’s gifts. The tiny baby clothes, so perfectly made, were perhaps not in the colours she would have chosen, but they were beautiful. There was a little note in the parcel, but the writing was so bad that it took Evelyne ages to decipher what Freda had written.
‘In haste, darling, I will come and see you. God bless you and keep you well. Yours, Freda.’
Freda’s mouth seemed to be out of control, it kept dropping open as she sat and watched Freedom lounging on the sofa opposite her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, she had noticed that right at the start, as soon as they had arrived. He was being flippant and amusing, and from his shoes to his shining hair he was so well-groomed she would never have known him.
‘Lads reckon you’ll be having to start work first thing Monday, Freedom?’
Freda knew what Ed was going on about, but Freedom seemed to pay him little attention. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and asked Ed if he would go down to the teashop and order something for them.
An extremely disgruntled Ed departed, leaving Freedom and Freda alone together. They sat in silence for a minute, Freedom staring down at his shiny boots and Freda looking at the curtains, reckoning the material would cost at least four or five shillings a yard. He wanted to talk to her, desperately needed to talk to someone, but he just didn’t know how to begin.
Eventually he rose to his feet and picked up his walking stick, tossed it in the air and then showed Freda the silver handle. ‘See, it’s a boxing glove, Miss Freda.’
She looked, not that she was particularly interested. It was Freedom, he had changed, and she couldn’t speak to him any more.
‘Yes, Sir Charles give it to me, bought it for me, he likes buyin’ things, yes he does, I reckon he got me cheap, though . . . Well ta-ra, Dewhurst’ll see to your needs.’
He gave a low bow and was gone.
That night, Freda agreed with Ed that Freedom had changed. She couldn’t talk to him, not in the old way, it was as if he was a stranger.
Poor Ed was at a loss, ‘It’s the way ’e ’as of making you not know what ’e’s thinkin’, what ’e’s feelin’ . . . ’e told me they was married, did I tell you that? Yes, ’e said Evie an’ ’im was married, not a proper service like ours, some Romany thing they just did together – becomin’ a real ladies’ man now, though!’
This was Freda’s moment to ask if Freedom was missing Evelyne, wanted to see her at all. ‘Does he still ask after Evie, Ed?’
Ed replied in a mutter that Sir Charles had forbidden it, in case a scandal about the trial got out. ‘’E was on a murder charge. You think the prince an’ all those society people’d be sittin’ pawin’ at ’im if they knew that? It’s best Evie’s name never crops up.’
Freda couldn’t bring herself to tell Ed about Evie’s letter, about the baby. If anything it would cause an even greater scandal.
Sir Charles was staying at the Savile Club, and Ed went to meet him there.
‘He’s not the same lad, guv, shows no interest, an’ ’e’s not comin’ to the gym, I was wonderin’ if you could ’ave a word wiv ’im, seein’ as you’re takin’ ’im out an’ about . . . Only, if we don’t get ’im ter buckle down ’e’ll lose the championship an’ we’ll both be left – if you’ll pardon the expression – we’ll both be left lookin’ like bleedin’ idiots.’
‘Ed, what do you take me for, I’ve not seen him in over a week! Good God, man, I’m the first to know that a fighter mustn’t, as you say, burn up his wick, tell him to come to the Pelican tonight, and you too, Ed.’
Freedom was late arriving at the club, which a
nnoyed Sir Charles, who had checked his watch three times. There was a good snooker game going on in one of the annexes, and he saw Freedom strolling along, watching the players.
‘Here he is now, Ed, leave it to me.’
When he joined them Freedom asked the waiter for a beer, then leaned back in his chair, rocking it on its back legs.
‘Thinking of bringing in a sparring partner, just to work you up for the big day, what do you say?’
For a reply he got a shrug of the shoulders. Freedom seemed more interested in the snooker. Staring at him through his monocle, Sir Charles lit a cigar, puffed on it.
‘Ed here tells me you’re below par. That true, feeling off colour, are you?’
Again the annoying shrug of Freedom’s shoulders as he murmured that if Ed had said it then it must be true. Sir Charles had had enough, he leaned forward and snapped at Freedom in icy tones, ‘When you feel you can talk, please contact me. I’m afraid I have better things to do with my time than to sit here and be insulted. You may believe I own you, so be it, but I am not prepared to be treated like a pimp, pull yourself together, lad, or I will throw your contract back in your face, is that clear?’ He walked briskly away from the table without a backward glance.
Wanting to weep, Ed stared sorrowfully into his beer. How could Freedom do this to him after all the love and hard work Ed had put into him? ‘You just kicked me down, you know that, lad? I dunno why you done this to me, you could be the next British champion, I know it, but not this way. You’re breakin’ my ’eart.’
Shoving Freedom’s hand away he stumbled from the table, leaving Freedom sitting alone in the pit.
Outside the club an old, bent man was sweeping the pavement, where the sawdust had travelled on the gents’ shoes into the road. The old chap didn’t seem to notice Freedom, and almost ran the brush over his shoes.
‘Aw, sorry about that, sir, here, allow me . . . you a fightin’ mun are ye?’
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he was about to bend down to dust Freedom’s shoes. He looked up for a moment. His bruiser’s face was wrinkled, and he had cauliflower ears, a broken nose.
‘Hammer, it’s you, isn’t it? Dai Thomas, Hammerhead?’
The old boy chuckled and wagged his head, spat on his fists and held them up.
‘Ay, lad, that’s me all right.’
With a toothless grin he looked into Freedom’s face with no sign of recognition. Freedom’s heart went out to him, he looked at all the traffic heading towards Piccadilly. ‘Where can a mun get a cup of tea this time of night?’ Hammer waved his brush to a small alley, and accepted Freedom’s offer to accompany him there. He also accepted the steaming bowl of soup Freedom placed before him. He sucked at the bread, making loud noises as he slurped the thick soup. He wiped the bowl with his crust until it glistened. He made no reply when Freedom asked how long he had been in London. But his face lit up when the ham and eggs followed, then he turned sly.
‘What are you after? Why you buying all this for me, eh?’
He raised the fork and tucked into the ham, not waiting for a reply. At least, not until he had filled his belly.
‘I’m Freedom Stubbs.’
Freedom stared at Hammer, did he remember? Know him? Hate him? He could clearly recall the man as he had been, arms up in the air, swaggering in his corner all those years ago in Cardiff. The café owner slapped his fat thigh and went behind the counter, delving underneath for newspapers. ‘By Christ, I thought I recognized yer. Will yer look at this, this is the man that knocked out Pat Murphy just the other month.’
‘Gawd almighty, I know you, this is him that knocked me teeth down me throat, remember me always talkin’ of the bout, this is the mun that did it.’ Hammer seemed flooded with renewed energy, he was up on his feet, prancing around on the sawdust floor. Freedom had expected the old man to go for him, but there was no animosity, more hero-worship. He thudded round to stand by Freedom’s side, his big fist came down on the shoulder of Freedom’s expensive overcoat and gripped it hard. ‘Now then, mun, you’ll have one hell of a bout with Micky, lemme tell you, I see ’im box, oh, must be four, five years ago. He was just a kid, but ’e’s got hands like spades, and they hurt.’
Some old boxers sitting in the café began to take notice, pulling their chairs closer to listen. Hammer basked in Freedom’s glory. ‘I went down so hard they never thought I’d be comin’ round, three-quarters of an hour I was out, out for more than the count, eh?’
By the time Freedom and Hammer walked back towards the Pelican Club, they had their arms about each other’s shoulders, the best of friends, buddies. Hammer collected his broom from the club’s doorway.
‘Handle yerself well, son, don’t want to see you on the other end of one of these, well, not yet, anyway. Could you see your way to getting me a ticket for the Albert Hall? I’d like to be there to see you thrash the Liverpudlian. Be a proud day for me to say I went down to the British champ . . .’
Freedom promised to send him a ticket, then he hesitated. ‘Don’t put yer money on me, Hammer.’
Hammer grabbed Freedom’s arm, and his bent body straightened. Through globs of spittle at the side of his mouth he swore at Freedom, almost pushed him off his feet.
‘That’s not fighter’s talk, what’s the matter with you, lad? I’d have given me life for an opportunity like you got, any mun would – I know I would. What’s up with ye?’
To Hammer, of all people, the man Freedom had sent sprawling, he opened up, near to tears. ‘They own me, mun, own me, an’ I’m through, there won’t be no fight.’
Hammer’s chin wobbled, and tears came into his already watery eyes. He looked at Freedom with disgust, thudded his fist into his own chest. ‘Nobody owns a fighter’s heart, mun, you throw the fight and you’ll not live with yourself. Take the fancy clothes away and you’re a gyppo. But win the title an’ you’re a champion.’
Hammer stepped aside as three gents came out of the club and slipped him a few coppers. He immediately started sweeping the sawdust-covered pavement again. Freedom walked away, he didn’t look back, he couldn’t.
Mrs Harris could hear Evie down in the kitchen. She pulled on her worn coat over her nightdress and went downstairs.
‘All right, are you, lovey? Fancy a cup of tea?’
Evelyne turned her face away, not wanting her friend to see she had been crying. They had not spoken of what had happened in Jermyn Street, there had been no need. Evelyne had been so quiet that Mrs Harris knew something had gone wrong.
‘There’s nothing to say, just . . . I saw him, and, well, he’s not the man I knew, and I know he wouldn’t want me, I know.’
Mrs Harris put the kettle on and stoked up the fire, questioned her no further. She sighed, it looked as though they would have their guest to stay for a long time. ‘Whatever ’appens, ducks, this is your home now, yours and the baby’s, so put your mind at rest on that.’
Evelyne hugged the big, kind woman, and the strong arms held her tight.
‘There’s a good gel, you’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
In the cold light of dawn Freda woke to see Ed standing by the window. He was dressed, ready to go out, and she put out her hand, but he didn’t take it. She watched his depressed, squat figure walking down the street. The milk cart began its round, the horse clip-clopping out of the dairy half-way down the road. She made up her mind then and there that she would go and see Evelyne. Not just for the girl, but for herself and Ed too, if Evelyne could make Freedom see sense then she would see him, whether Ed liked it or not.
Sir Charles laid a neat ledger in front of Freedom, with all the expenses calculated to date. Every item bought for Freedom was carefully listed in Ed’s handwriting. Clothes in one column, food in another, lodgings, keep, train tickets – every item was accounted for. There were pages and pages of figures from Cardiff, the lawyer’s and the barrister’s bills from Smethurst’s firm, Evelyne’s hotel bills and receipts, even down to her satin dress and the
rented jewellery. On the following pages were the wages paid to Ed and the two lads, their expenses and their keep. Freedom’s head began to spin as Sir Charles flicked the pages over. ‘Not done yet, take a look at these figures, this is just for the tickets, the posters, the press.’
Page after page was turned over, and the final amount was written in the last column. More than five thousand pounds.
‘I’d say we’ve invested quite a large sum, wouldn’t you? And I think Ed told you, you will be allowed two hundred from the purse, if you win the championship.’
Sir Charles flicked a small piece of thread from his trouser leg, held it aloft to inspect it.
‘If you lose, the contract we have will be null and void, it’s quite obvious why, and surely you must see why I have to have a contract in the first place. You win the British title and you’ll have God knows how many promoters after you. Next stop America, and the fights there take ten times more money than they do here. All I have done, old chap, is to protect my investment.’
He couldn’t determine what Freedom was thinking, but he assumed it was slowly sinking in. ‘If I have made you feel anything less than a friend, I apologize, it certainly was not my intention. I have believed in you right from the very beginning, from Devil’s Pit, you know I travelled up there to see you?’
Pacing the room, Freedom felt guilty, confused. He was all mixed inside.
‘Ed will be waiting at the gym, what do you want to do? I am perfectly willing to listen to anything within reason . . . I will be saddened if you want to walk away, but I can’t stop you. You will, of course, have to repay all the costs, and I don’t think it too unreasonable, not at this late stage.’
Freedom could hardly swallow, his tongue felt dry and seemed to be sticking in his throat.
‘It’s entirely your decision but we can’t wait, not too long. If you want to back out I shall have to find another contender, won’t be easy. Then again, fighters are two a penny, Freedom; sooner you learn that the better.’
The Legacy (1987) Page 39
