The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Round four, and Micky certainly looked as if he was beating the contender. He began to get cocky, hissing through his gumshield, ‘Whassamatter, gyppo, scared, scared? Fight, come on, whassamatter, hit me, hit me.’

  So cocksure was Micky that at one point he turned to the crowd so they could see him smile. The sounds of cheering were getting mixed now with booing, so Micky decided to go for it, and moved in. Bam, bam . . . he edged Freedom on to the ropes. Freedom ducked, sidestepped, ducked, sidestepped, then threw two punches so wild that Micky got in one hell of a crack. His right hook landed on Freedom’s jaw.

  The crowd gasped, Freedom was off balance . . . he staggered slightly then recovered. Micky was sure the punch would have knocked him down, and was surprised when the big lad came straight back at him. The bell rang, and it was yet another round to Micky. Ed had screamed himself hoarse from the corner, Freedom wasn’t using his brains, he was dancing, to Ed’s knowledge he hadn’t thrown one decent punch, one that had landed. ‘He’s wiping the canvas with you, an’ you’re lettin’ ’im do it, come on, come on, get your temper up, fight him!’

  Ed eased the elastic on Freedom’s trunks as the corner men sponged and towelled him. Freedom spat water and sniffed, and again Ed lathered the Vaseline on. Freedom’s face was marked on the right side.

  In the other corner the trainer barked into Micky’s face that this was it – this was the round. Micky heaved for breath and said it was like doing the Charleston out there, but he was still heaving. The gyppo might be on the run but he was still tiring Micky. ‘I’ll take him this round.’

  Clang! They were up again, Ed’s screams going unheard beneath the roar of the crowd. Ed was screaming, ‘Body! Body!’ as Micky was keeping his hands high, head down. He held Freedom and they both lurched over to the ropes. Micky still held on, leaning his whole weight on Freedom until the referee split them apart. Micky was no longer hissing insults, he was moving in for the kill, and he looked as if he would pull it off until Freedom caught him with a good left jab, straight on to his old cut. Micky swore and went after Freedom, hurting now, his eye smarting. He was also worried, he’d felt that jab – not that it could have cut him down, but it could be dangerous if the old wound were to open up.

  When the bell clanged, round five was evens, leaving Micky a clear four rounds ahead.

  ‘He’s like an ox, I’ve been hitting him hard and he just takes it, I dunno where he’s coming from.’

  Micky’s eyes were checked and greased, his trainer giving him instructions all the time, telling him to go for the head, Freedom was open ‘upstairs’. The bell rang for round six, and one of the lads ran to the dressing room to get fresh water.

  Mrs Harris soaked strips of cloth in hot water and laid them over Evelyne. The heat soothed her. Mrs Harris herself had never been this long in labour . . . Evelyne lay on her side, hands slightly above her head, gripping the rope. A sudden, terrible pain shot through her, as though she was being torn in two, and she screamed through clenched teeth, screamed that she’d had enough, she didn’t want him, she couldn’t take any more. The relief was so sudden it stunned her, and she gasped, her mouth open wide.

  ‘Here ’e is, love, here ’e is, come on you little bugger, and about time, too.’

  She was right, he was big, and she had to help him in the first few moments, but out he came, and she held him upside-down by his heels, one sharp slap and the next moment Evelyne’s howl was joined by a lusty yell from her son.

  ‘Here ’e is, come on, Evie love, let go of the rope, ’e’s ’ere.’

  Evelyne loosened her grip and eased herself over. Mrs Harris held the baby out to her and she saw the thick thatch of black hair. His lungs were working overtime, and as Evelyne held him to her, his fists punched the air.

  ‘He’s a boxer like ’is dad, eh? Will you look at ’im, Evie, I’d say he was a ten-pounder, more . . . My God he’s strong.’

  Round seven, and Micky slumped in his corner. As they eased out his gumshield he gasped, ‘By Christ, when he gets a punch home it hurts, how’s the eye?’

  Micky was confident, he knew he was well ahead on points, but the corner men had their work cut out for them because his eye was opening up. They painted it, daubed him with Vaseline, and his eyes smarted and filled with tears. He gulped at the water and spat it out.

  Freedom was panting and Ed was sponging him down, drenching him with the cold water. ‘That was the first time you connected, the first, and you ’urt ’im.’ Is eye’s openin’ up, keep on that eye, an’ watch ’is right. He’s got a nasty sneaky double punch, left-left-right, and then in he comes, watch out for it.’

  Suddenly Freedom jerked his head away from Ed’s greasy fingers and stared up at him with such an expression that Ed stepped back, ‘I got a son, I got a son, Ed, my boy’s born.’

  Ed’s jaw dropped, and one of the lads had to ram the gumshield in Freedom’s mouth as the bell was raised. Freedom was up before it rang and prancing into the ring. The lads had to haul the amazed Ed out of the ring. He wasn’t sure what to think, the look on Freedom’s face had completely unnerved him. He checked his watch and almost gave himself whiplash as a huge cheer broke from the crowd.

  Freedom was punching now, for the first time he was showing his colours, and Micky was taken off-balance. He took a punch to his left side that winded him, and he rocked. The crowd roared, but Micky paced back and gave himself a push off the ropes. For once he was on the run, the crowd knew it, and so did Micky. Freedom was jabbing, tough, hard, tight jabs, and they were hammering down on Micky’s eye. He felt it splitting, and the blood began to drip down his face; he knew he would have to keep on the move for this round. This was Freedom’s first clear round, and the crowd began to sense that the fight had only just begun. They were on their feet, throwing caps in the air, and when the bell rang it was hard to hear. The sound of it was sweet relief to Micky, and his men worked double time trying to close the cut. His eye was puffing up, and his vision on the left was blurred.

  Freda’s hat was over one ear, she had eaten her handkerchief, and shouted so much she’d lost her voice. Hammer jumped up from his seat and swung his fist as Freedom began to perk up. The poor elderly man sitting directly in front of him felt his false teeth shoot out as Hammer’s fist connected with the back of his head. The pair scrabbled beneath the seat, Hammer shouting his apologies.

  ‘Just get me teeth, twenty-five shillings’ worth there, mate.’

  But the teeth were forgotten as the bell clanged for round nine.

  Ed was mopping his brow with the sponge, his shirt drenched, his bright red braces sticking to him.

  ‘Come on lad, this is it, go for it. Go for it!’

  Micky was tough and there was no way he was going to go down easily. He knew he was still ahead on points, and he took a breather, keeping on the move, letting Freedom do all the chasing.

  ‘Fight, mun, go on, stop doing the dance, mun, fight!’

  Having worked so hard in the earlier rounds, Micky was warned three times by the ref for holding. Round nine went to Freedom, and the ref went over to Micky’s corner in the break. His men grouped tightly around him, swearing that everything was all right, and the ref had to pry their pressing hands from Micky’s cut. Satisfied that the blood had been stemmed, he gave the signal for the fight to continue.

  ‘It’s yours, Freedom, keep on his eye, it’s split like an orange, hear me, get his eye.’

  Round ten, and Freedom was on his feet before the bell rang. The crowd was going crazy, and fights were breaking out as the people behind tried to make those in the ringside seats sit down so their view would not be blocked.

  Freedom swigged the water and tried to get his breath as Ed flapped with the towel. ‘I’m hitting him with all I’ve got, Ed, and he’s still on his feet.’

  Ed massaged him and kept up a steady flow of instructions. He knew Freedom was exhausted, Micky was holding on to him at every opportunity. Freedom’s face was red, but there was no broke
n skin, and not even a hint of puffiness around the eyes.

  ‘You got the Prince standin’ up shouting for yer in that last round, take him this round, lad, you know you can.’

  Freedom smiled and said that if he won this round his son would be called Edward. Again Ed felt a chill through his sweating body, and he shuddered. Freedom talked as if he knew something Ed didn’t, but the bell clanged and he had to hurry down from the ring.

  Micky got a second wind, God knows from where, and lambasted Freedom. Micky’s nose was bleeding and his eye was swollen so he couldn’t see . . . He was flaying the air, coming back for a right hook when the jab caught him, right on the jaw, clean-cut, like steel.

  Micky crashed to the canvas, tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He clung to the ropes, trying to haul himself up, but again his legs gave way.

  ‘Eight . . . nine . . . ten!’

  Freedom Stubbs was the British Heavyweight Boxing Champion.

  Chapter 21

  The local people took their new neighbours to their hearts, and Freedom became their hero. On the night he and Ed went to the Sporting Club dinner to collect the championship belt and the purse, everyone was at the door. The kids asked for his autograph, they wanted it five or six times to sell copies at school. With Edward in her arms, Evelyne waved them off like the rest. Freedom was dressed up, with a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. The Christmas lights were twinkling and the few houses that could afford them already had trees in their windows.

  When they arrived at the Sporting Club, the porters stopped them as they were about to hand their coats to the cloakroom attendant, and slowly checked their names in a register. Ed patted Freedom’s shoulder, ‘He’s the champion, mate, what’s the hold-up?’

  Several evening-suited gents passing through the lobby looked curiously at them while they waited. The porter eventually gestured for Ed to go through, then he bent down beneath his desk and drew out a brown paper package which he handed to Freedom. ‘I’m sorry, sir, this is for you, I can’t let you go in.’

  Ed, of course, puffed and huffed, said there must be some mistake, but the parcel contained the championship belt. In a temper Ed told Freedom to wait, there had to have been some mistake.

  The dining room was already crowded with sporting gentlemen, drinking. Sir Charles was sitting at the top table with Lord Lonsdale himself, who had embarked on one of his long, rambling tales. The guests listened attentively as His Lordship regaled them with the story of when he had met Rasputin in Russia. Most of them had heard it many times, but the story had grown to outrageous proportions. When Sir Charles saw Ed he gestured with his arms, his cigar clamped between his teeth, and excused himself. Rising from the table he stared coldly as Ed approached him.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but there must have been some mistake, they won’t allow Freedom into the club.’

  Sir Charles was totally unruffled and told Ed that in his opinion – and in the opinion of most of the other gentlemen present – Freedom had not acted in a sporting manner. He had insulted the Prince by not appearing at the Café Royal on the night of the championship. Ed could not believe his ears – he stared, speechless, and when Sir Charles offered him a chair he refused it and turned to walk out. Sir Charles tapped him on the shoulder, ‘I think it would be a good idea if you were to commence training at The Grange during Christmas. I’ve arranged suitable accommodation.’

  Tight-lipped and burning with anger, Ed murmured that he would relay the message to Freedom. He knew it was no message, it was an order, and he held his back very straight as he walked out through the tables full of so-called gentlemen.

  He found Freedom standing outside in the snow, his prize belt stuffed in his pocket. Ed didn’t know how to tell him, but he didn’t have to. Freedom took one look at his face and began to walk along the pavement, ‘I don’t want anyone to know about this, Ed, keep it between us. It’s Christmas, the markets are open, we’ll go and get a few things, make it a celebration to remember.’

  Near tears, Ed grinned at him, and fell into step beside his champion. He knew Freedom would not forget this treatment; he had that strange look on his face, the mask had dropped into place. Even though Ed tried to tell him it didn’t matter, he knew that the insult had been taken to heart.

  The market was full of last-minute Christmas shoppers and the yell of the thronging traders flogging their wares. Birds were strung up outside the butchers’ shops, chilled by the snow. A man selling Christmas decorations recognized Freedom and cries of ‘Champion!’ went round the market. Freedom was a celebrity, and the warmth of their voices and good wishes lifted his gloom.

  He stopped at a pet stall and examined the pigeons, bought one in a proper cage, then grinned at Ed, ‘Get someone to take this over to that little lad from the lodgin’s, tell him Father Christmas sent it.’

  Freedom walked down the street followed by a costermonger’s barrow piled so high with parcels the donkey could scarcely pull it. Up on top of the cart was a cradle and there were so many toys that Freedom kept stopping and handing them out to children running alongside. He had bought a table and chairs, lamps, and so much food he could have fed the whole street.

  Evelyne stood at the bedroom window and stared at the strange-looking carnival as it came to a halt before the house. Freedom called up to her to look, and he stood grinning from ear to ear, his arms open wide. Ed, well-oiled and with whisky bottles sticking out of his pockets, reeled around with the lamplighter, singing at the top of his voice.

  Evelyne watched from the stairs as the furniture was hauled in. It seemed there were people everywhere, yelling instructions on where to put everything, and the baby started screaming. It gave Evelyne a splitting headache. Freedom carried the cradle upstairs – it was made of carved wood with angels on each side. Evelyne had longed for the cradle from Swan and Edgar, with its modern mattress and frilled drapes. This was so old-fashioned.

  ‘Put him in, gel, come along, let’s have him.’

  He stuffed a pillow into the cradle, took the baby from her arms and laid him in it. Edward howled, clenched his fists and punched at the sides. This made Freedom roar with laughter, and he dug in his pockets. He pulled out his championship belt and tossed it aside as if it were no more than a piece of wrapping paper. Then he took out a small leather case, beaming as he handed it to Evelyne.

  The necklace was delicate, gold with pearl drops, and there were matching pearl drop earrings. ‘Put it on, gel, let us see you. Want you to feel like a real lady, and this is just to start with, wait ’til you see what else I got for you.’

  Picking up the bawling baby, Evelyne followed Freedom downstairs. Rolls of carpet were stacked in the hallway, chairs and cupboards had been dumped everywhere. Her spotless kitchen was a mess of straw and china, crates and boxes, but there was not one thing she had imagined for furnishing her home. Freedom strolled around like a magician, opening boxes and displaying his purchases. Then he sat in a big velvet chair and lit a cigar.

  ‘Where did you get all the money for this? It must have cost a bit.’

  She eased her way among the boxes while he puffed on his cigar, still beaming. She could smell that he had been drinking, and she went around looking at price tags. When she reached the mountain of food, she got a terrible sinking feeling. ‘Did you get the fight money, then?’

  With a wide, sweeping gesture to the room he said he had, and here it all was. Evelyne had to support herself on the edge of the new table that was too big for the kitchen. Freedom had blown the lot – everything apart from odd notes he had stuffed into his various pockets. He had to vacate the chair as Evelyne looked as if she was about to faint.

  All her careful saving and scrimping, and in one night he had spent nearly two hundred pounds. More than the remains of her legacy – more than all the months of saving. She was shaking with anger and frustration, and it was then she vowed to herself that he would never know about her savings. His reckless spending shocked her to th
e core – that he had not discussed the money with her infuriated her and she wanted to scream the place down.

  ‘I did it all for you, gel, for Christmas.’

  She couldn’t be angry with him, he looked so unhappy, his dark eyes like her baby son’s. She went to him and kissed him, lied and said everything was perfect.

  Later, lying next to him in their huge bed with the canopy he had chosen in a colour that clashed with the paint, she stared at the ceiling, sleepless. All she could think of was what she could have done with two hundred pounds, and she wept.

  Evelyne had learned her lesson. Money meant nothing to Freedom, nor possessions. If he had a shilling in his pocket, he would spend it or hand it out to whoever asked for it. He was a soft touch, a spendthrift, and the whole street knew it. Evelyne was quite relieved to depart for The Grange as, with no money coming in, she would have had to dip into her savings. At least in the country they would be fed and Freedom would be paid for his training sessions there . . . so her savings could remain intact. She made up her mind to tell Ed that any money must be given to her, and she would dole it out to Freedom.

  Freda was glad to be back in her cottage at The Grange, and in no time at all she had the kettle sizzling and a pot of stewed rabbit on the stove by the fire. Ed had his feet up, his worn slippers on.

  There had been a lot of changes since they were last there, a whole new stable complex had been erected and on the other side of the yard beyond the barn were kennels for the hunting hounds. The dogs could be heard baying and howling.

  ‘Ask me ’e’s tryin’ ter be like ’is Lordship ’imself, there’s been some money thrown about here, you see the new gardens and the shrubberies . . . Course, it’s not a patch on Lonsdale’s place, but that’s what Sir Charles is after.’