The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Freedom went back up to the bedroom. He didn’t want to spoil her happiness, couldn’t tell her the house was already weighing on him, closing in on him, and he hated it. Evelyne thought he was sleeping, but he was dreaming of the open air, the fields, riding on a wild pony. He felt her lie down beside him, and her body heat warmed him like a fire.

  ‘Feel him, he’s kicking, feel.’

  He put his hand to her belly and felt the strange movements of his child inside her. He would fight for his very life in the ring, and he would give her everything she dreamed of, now he had something to fight for, his wife and his child.

  Evelyne shifted to a more comfortable position, careful not to wake him, knowing he needed his sleep before the fight. Sweat broke out all over her, and the kicking, thudding, unborn child felt as if he was trying to punch his way through her backbone. ‘Dear God, don’t let him come now, not tonight. Stay put until after the fight.’

  The morning of the fight was cold, and the snow was falling thick and fast. It was not yet five, but Evelyne could hear Freedom moving around downstairs, stoking up the kitchen fire. She felt the first spasm, it shook her body, and she bit hard on the blanket. He wasn’t going to wait . . . She gasped, and the spasm subsided.

  Ed banged on the front door, wrapped up and waiting to take Freedom over to the gym for a work out. Freedom was in high spirits, and raring to go. ‘I done made a cup of tea on the stove, Ed, and it brought the kettle to the boil as fast as ever! You get me the tickets I asked for, Ed? I got to see they get their seats.’

  Ed threw up his arms and said he’d given all the tickets out, they all had them, and he had taken one over to Hammer personally. ‘You got more to worry about than ruddy tickets, mate, come on, I want you running in half an hour.’

  As he put his coat on, Freedom noticed that Ed had trailed some mud in on his shoes so he fetched a cloth to wipe the lino.

  ‘Now what you doin’, Freedom?’

  He could hardly believe it, there was his contender worrying about dirty lino.

  ‘Ed? Ed, is that you? Will you come up for a minute?’

  Freedom pushed Ed up the stairs and wiped the floor – he didn’t want Evie getting down on her knees to do it. As Ed thudded up the stairs Freedom asked him if Evie’s ticket was all right.

  Exasperated, Ed leaned over the banister. ‘Evie’s ticket’s all right, she’ll be at the ringside, now will you stop maunderin’ on an’ get yer gear together. Gawd almighty, I don’t know what’s come over you.’

  He tapped on the bedroom door and popped his head around, about to tell Evie she was married to a charlady, when she signalled to him to shut the door.

  ‘The baby’s coming, Ed, will you get Freda? But don’t tell Freedom, I don’t want him worrying.’

  This was all they needed! Ed went dizzy, dear God, what a time for the baby to choose, the day of the fight! Panic-stricken, trying hard to look calm, he backed out of the room.

  ‘I’ll have to go back to the house, I’ve forgotten the liniment.’ Freedom laughed and said he would start walking,

  Ed could catch up with him. So much for all Ed’s hurrying, he was the one delaying them now. He was about to go up and say goodbye to Evelyne when Ed stopped him, pushed him down the stairs saying she was sleeping, he should let her rest. They tiptoed out, and Freedom closed the door quietly behind them as Ed sprinted down the street to his brother’s house. The kids were in the middle of breakfast when he burst in, yelling for Freda. She hurried in with her hair still in curlers, already preparing herself for the big night.

  ‘It’s coming, you’d better get over there fast, it’s coming.’

  The children started to ask what was coming, but Freda understood immediately. ‘What, now? But it’s not due, not yet . . . oh my God, what a time to come!’

  Still the kids asked who was coming, but no one answered. Freda rushed to get dressed.

  Another contraction had Evelyne wailing with pain, wishing Freda would come. She was sweating, the hair on the nape of her neck damp, and the ache in her back agony. She felt the baby moving inside her.

  Freda hurried along the street, carrying two big pots for boiling water. Evie opened the door to her, ‘Will you get Mrs Harris? I want Mrs Harris here.’

  Freda ordered Evie back into bed, then she fetched the pans and put them on the gas stove before rushing out to get Mrs Harris, leaving Evelyne writhing on the bed in agony.

  Mrs Harris asked Evelyne how often her pains were coming, and Freda replied that it was immaterial how often – they were coming, that meant the baby was imminent. Although childless herself, Freda was suddenly an authority on childbirth. But Mrs Harris, having had seven, knew exactly what it was all about, and she shouted upstairs to Evelyne, ‘’Ave yer waters broke yet, love?’

  Freda replied that they had two pans full, and they were just putting some more on. ‘I know what to do, I read all about it for Evie. I got the water boilink,’ she said proudly.

  With a sigh, Mrs Harris shut the door, went to the bedroom and felt Evelyne’s brow. Then she checked the sheets and shook her head. ‘Yer water’s not even broke yet, love, you’re a long way off, when was yer last bellyache?’

  Feeling better, Evelyne sat up and realized that she’d not had any contractions for quite a while.

  ‘When they start joinin’ into one, yer baby’s on its way down the chute, so ’ow about a nice cup o’tea?’

  On his morning run Freedom conserved his strength, running easily, relaxed, not taxing himself. Then he and Ed went to the café for a huge breakfast of steak and eggs. Freedom would not eat again until after the fight.

  While Freedom was out of earshot, Ed sent one of the boys over to Freedom’s to find out how Evelyne was and report back. He watched Freedom working out, holding back all the time, never pushing, and later gave him a rub down in the small massage room at the back of the gym, using his own concoction of olive oil mixed with a small amount of horse liniment and a spoonful of surgical spirit. He began on Freedom’s calves and worked upwards to his back and shoulders.

  ‘If I don’t knock him out, Ed, I’ll gas him!’

  Ed thumped him on the back and told him to shut up and relax, he was to rest and prepare himself.

  At four o’clock Freedom was sleeping in the back room, wrapped in blankets, while Ed paced the street outside the gym. This was the third trip the lad had made and still the baby had not arrived. It looked more as if Ed was the expectant father, he was so worried.

  ‘It’s not come yet, they was all drinking tea an’ playin’ rummy.’

  Ed told him he could go to the house once more, and after that Freda could call them at the Albert Hall from the telephone in the local pub. The mere mention of the Albert Hall hit Ed like a brick on the back of his head. It was getting near the time, they would be leaving for the match in less than an hour.

  ‘He’s still fast asleep like a baby ’imself, Ed, you’d think he couldn’t go out like that on the day of the fight.’

  Evelyne had been in labour for most of the day, and the women were beginning to get anxious. It wasn’t her they were worried about, she was strong and was taking the pains well. They were worried about not getting to the fight themselves. Ed’s brother was beside himself, sitting drumming his fingers on the kitchen table and coming in every few minutes for news.

  ‘Can you not push it out? She carries on like this an’ you’ll be too late ter get ter the fight.’

  As cool as a cucumber, Mrs Harris replied, ‘It’ll come when it’s ready and not before . . . now, Freda, you go an’ get yerself dolled up. I’ll sit wiv her.’

  Freda came to the back door, wearing her hat and carrying her coat. One look told her nothing had happened yet. It was six o’clock, and they had to leave in half an hour, the fight was to start at half-past seven.

  ‘They won’t get into the ring prompt, like, but if we ain’t there someone might get our seats, and then there’s the buildup, that’s all part of it, we’ll miss
that.’

  Evelyne, the centre of everyone’s problems, looked around her at the concerned faces. It was almost laughable, there they all were in their best clothes, hanging on her every utterance. Mrs Harris had tied a strip of sheeting around the mahogany bedpost for Evelyne to pull against when the pains came, but the pains hadn’t been coming for the last hour.

  ‘Go on, don’t miss the fight for me, I’ll be all right, and Mrs Harris’ll stay with me, go on.’

  Mrs Harris shooed everyone out, then went back to check on Evelyne. The rubber sheet was in place, the hot water ready, and there was a clean blanket for the baby. ‘You all right, love? Just breathe easy, nice an’ deep, won’t be long now.’

  Hammer paraded at the café wearing the proprietor’s jacket, and a shirt, tie and a good pair of trousers given to him by the Salvation Army. ‘I’m ringside, mun, did I tell you, look, see, ringside seat, and I’m not payin’ a farthing.’

  He had been displaying his ticket for days. He parted with it reluctantly at the box office, and proudly announced to everyone that he had once been knocked out by the contender.

  He made his way to his seat, clutching his programme and making a great show of reading it, although he couldn’t read a word. Inside the programme was a photograph of Freedom, and he pointed to it, turning to anyone close at hand. ‘I’d put me money on this lad, he took me out once, bout in Cardiff.’

  The clamour of the crowd in the pit seats and the glitter of the society people filling the boxes made the huge hall seem to vibrate. A match was in progress in the ring, but no one was paying much attention, and many seats were still empty, most of the people not bothering to claim their seats until the main event. A murmur went up as the news spread that Prince Edward’s party had arrived at the entrance to the hall. The tiered boxes were almost full and still the stragglers made their way to their seats. The first match ended in a spattering of applause, and a brass band began to play a lively march. The audience clapped their hands along with the music.

  The noise drifted down to the dressing-rooms, where Ed had barred everyone but Sir Charles and the two corner men. Freedom sat on a table, hands out, as Ed carefully wound his bandages. Despite eighteen years’ experience of bandaging boxers’ hands Ed was meticulous, constantly asking if it was all right. Freedom looked at him, ‘You don’t need me to tell you, just get on with it.’

  The atmosphere was tense, electric. In the main dressing room Micky Morgan’s hands were being bandaged. His trainer stood behind him, massaging his shoulders, soothing him, talking quietly. ‘Big crowd, not a seat to be had, His Royal’s arrived, there’s touts outside selling tickets at five times the price, gonna be a night, Micky, your night, it’s your night, Micky.’

  Freedom’s hands were ready, and they waited for the referee to come and check them over. He sat with his eyes closed, swinging his legs. Ed wished he knew what made Freedom tick, but he never had been able to fathom him out. He might be sitting waiting for his dinner, he seemed so relaxed.

  Freda, her brother-in-law and his wife edged their way along the row to their seats. They waved to a few faces they knew, and sat down. Evelyne’s empty seat was now more obvious in the crowded hall. Freda had tried to get round the back but hadn’t been allowed in, they’d done all they could. The phones were all engaged. The operator had said she herself couldn’t put any calls through, as there were so many people waiting.

  A group of men in evening dress came walking along the passage from the dressing-rooms. The hall grew quiet as all eyes watched the ring. The band struck up a fanfare. Now they could see, way up by the entrance, the tight group of trainers and corner men, and behind them the hooded figure of Micky Morgan.

  ‘This is it, gels, here they come.’

  The corner men flanked Freedom as he progressed down the hall and up into the ring. The crowd went mad, cheering and yelling, but Freedom kept his head low, his gloved fists touching each other. Behind him came Ed, sweating, his face bright pink.

  ‘There’s Ed, there . . . see?’

  The group entered the ring exactly opposite them, exactly opposite the empty seat, but for the moment it went unnoticed. The fanfare blasted again and the cheers grew even louder, nearly lifting the roof off as Micky entered. He wore a dark red velvet cape with the word ‘Champion’ written across the back. He bent to climb through the ropes, then stood with his fists above his head, and the crowd went wild.

  Carrying a microphone on a long, thick lead, a white-haired man in tails and top hat stepped into the ring. He walked to the centre.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the King!’

  The band played and everyone in the hall sang in unison, ‘God Save the King’. Prince Edward and his party were all standing in the royal box, and he too sang the National Anthem. He gave a small wave and then he, like everyone else in the hall, took his seat.

  In the ring stood Freedom, head bowed, and Micky stared straight ahead. As the audience settled in their seats again, the boxers went to their corners. The master of ceremonies called out their weights and announced twenty, two-minute rounds. The referee, Ron Hutchinson, was introduced and bowed in the centre of the ring. He had once been a middleweight champion boxer, and was now about to retire from the police force. He had iron-grey hair and a stern-looking, craggy face.

  On a podium overlooking the ring were two men with a film camera, recording the match. Ron Hutchinson went first to the champion’s corner and asked if everything was ready, then crossed the ring to Freedom’s corner. He actually had to ask twice, as Freedom was more intent on looking across at Freda than on what was happening in the ring.

  ‘Her seat’s empty, Ed. Where’s Evie, she’s not here?’

  Hutchinson spoke a few words to the corner men, then made a slow circuit of the ring instructing all those close to the canvas to keep their hands away from the ring itself.

  ‘Ed, she’s not in her seat, Evie’s not here.’

  Ed gritted his teeth and swore at Freedom, this was not the time to start worrying about Evie.

  Back in the centre of the ring, Hutchinson signalled for both boxers to come forward. Freedom was staring, concerned and preoccupied, at the empty seat. Hutchinson hooked an arm around each boxer’s shoulders, and above the roar of the crowd he could be heard clearly, his voice harsh. ‘I want a good clean fight, no butting, no holding. You break on my word, understand? No low punches, let’s keep this professional. An’ above all, obey my voice. I don’t want to have to say things twice, an’ I don’t want to disqualify either of you for dirty fighting . . . All right, then back to your corners and may the best man win.’

  As the boxers’ gum shields were fitted the crowd went quiet, knowing the bell would clang at any moment. Ed whispered in Freedom’s right ear as he rubbed his shoulders, repeating it over and over, desperate to get through to him. ‘Evie’s all right, she’s fit an’ she’s strong, and she wants you to win, understand me, are you listenin’ ter me? Evie had to stay ’ome, the baby’s coming sooner than expected.’

  Beneath Ed’s kneading fingers Freedom’s shoulders froze. ‘Why didn’t Freda stay with her for God’s sake, mun? Is she on her own?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ed could see the bell being lifted, the stop-watch being shown to the referee. Any moment now they were going to begin, and here was his man worrying himself sick over his wife.

  ‘Evie said if Freda didn’t come to the fight she’d never forgive ’er. She’s got Mrs Harris, a doctor an’ a midwife an’ a nurse, so she’s being taken care of . . . Now, think of the fight, son, concentrate, Freedom, get in there and go fer it.’

  The bell rang, the corner men whipped the stools out and jumped down from the ring.

  Micky was out of his corner like a bullet, his hands up, moving towards Freedom, and Freedom took two punches before the pain brought him round. Micky’s eyes were like steel, staring into Freedom’s face, and his gum protector made him look as if he was leering.

 
; Mrs Harris knew it was time, the pains were ripping through Evelyne, and she was heaving for breath. ‘Grab hold of the sheet, love, pull down, come on, grab it an’ pull.’

  Evelyne held on grimly to the twisted sheet knotted round the bedpost. With every contraction she held on and yelled her head off. Just by feeling her belly Mrs Harris knew the baby was big, so she heaved Evelyne on to her side, knowing her spine would take too much strain if she lay on her back.

  ‘’E’s a big’un, an’ ’e’s on ’is way, so grip hard and press down, press him out of you every time that pain comes, press down and hang on to the sheet . . .’

  Mrs Smith brought up hot water, standing by and giving way to Mrs Harris’ experience. The big woman was so calm, soothing Evelyne and rubbing her back, talking quietly to her and going through each spasm herself.

  ‘’Ere we go, love, ’ere comes another one . . . and push him, that’s my girl, push.’

  Freedom slumped into the corner, and Ed dipped his sponge and squeezed it over Freedom’s face. One of the lads dipped the gumshield in the water to clean it, and the other held it ready and gave Freedom water. He gulped and spat into the bucket.

  ‘Is there any way we can get word if she’s all right, Ed?’

  The lad watched as Ed lathered Vaseline over Freedom’s eyebrows and cheeks.

  ‘We got someone standing by in the pub, anyfink ’appens they’ll call us, don’t worry.’

  All Freedom’s concentration was on Evelyne, and he was sick with worry. On the other hand, Ed was sick that Freedom wasn’t fighting, he was letting punch after punch penetrate his defence. Already there were deep red marks on his chest, Micky’s glove prints were all over him.

  ‘You’re buggerin’ around out there, hear me? If Evie knew what you was doin’ she’d get into this ring herself. Your gel’s a fighter, for God’s sake, you gotta win for ’er.’

  The bell rang again, and Micky was up and out of his corner. His trainer was satisfied, so far Micky was ahead on every round, and he began to think that Micky would take the gyppo out in five rounds as he had bragged. All through the break his trainer said, over and over, ‘You’ve got him on the run, and he’s got no punch, he’s not landed one home. Take him, Micky, go on, take him.’