The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Evelyne slapped his face so hard that he reeled backwards. Taking out a silk handkerchief he dabbed at the corners of his mouth, then replaced his monocle and reached for the door handle. He froze for a moment, his back to her, his voice choked, ‘Forgive me, I should never, never have said those things to you. I cannot say how deeply sorry I am, I can only say that I am as distraught about what has happened as you are. You won’t believe me, but it is the truth.’

  Evelyne gave him a bitter smile, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, but he did turn towards her. ‘I remember him from those early days, at Devil’s Pit. I had such hopes for him, and they did not include you. I am sorry, perhaps I had a reason – you may call it jealousy, whatever you wish. But you have him now, he’s all yours, and I feel sure your love for each other will be strong enough to overcome this sad situation.’

  He wanted to leave but Evelyne caught his arm, and only his icy stare made her release him.

  ‘They say he’ll never fight again, do you know that? And I don’t want him to, ever. Stay out of our lives, stay away from him, we don’t need you.’

  He gave her a brief nod, said his contract with Freedom was void as of that day. He opened the door, holding his back ramrod-stiff, and walked out. He said his last words to the corridor, not even directing them at Evelyne, ‘You never needed me, my dear, never.’

  Sir Charles walked slowly out of the hospital. His car drew up and he stepped in and leaned his head on the soft leather. He had a clear picture of the very first time he had seen Freedom, there at Devil’s Pit, with his flowing hair and perfect body. How could those foolish people know, understand anything? No other man had had such care and attention lavished on him, but they believed it had been purely business.

  ‘I wanted him, I wanted him.’

  The chauffeur turned a puzzled look to Sir Charles, they were still outside the hospital and he was not sure where he was supposed to take his passenger. Sir Charles opened his eyes and snapped that they were going to his hotel immediately; he had already made the decision not to return to Chicago, there was nothing there for him. He decided to go to Hollywood. Perhaps there he would find what he was always searching for but so afraid to make happen. Hollywood beckoned, the decadence, the freedom to love whom he chose.

  Evelyne saw the limousine drive away and knew that an episode in her life, in all their lives, had closed.

  At three o’clock the nurse came out with some hot tea for Evelyne and told her Freedom was asking for her. The nurse was worried, the woman looked heavily pregnant, and quietly warned her that he was not lucid, still under the effects of the drugs.

  Evelyne walked to the bedside, and sat in the chair the nurse had placed there for her. Freedom’s hands were still, lying on top of the folded white sheet. His face, so bruised and beaten, looked grotesque with the bandages over his nose.

  ‘That you, manushi, that you?’

  She took his hand and kissed it, whispering that she was there, she was there, and to go to sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, manushi, sorry . . .’

  The tears she thought had dried up flowed freely, dripping on to his hand, and he slept, holding her tight, afraid to let her go. In his sleep he was running through the fields, he was dragging the wild horse towards him and riding bareback through the clean, sweet, fresh air.

  In the morning Ed came to find her still holding Freedom’s hand, her head resting on the bed. He eased her away and she tried to argue, but he said it was not for her but for the baby, she must eat.

  The villa’s shutters were closed; Evelyne didn’t want the sunlight, she wanted the dark to wrap around her and comfort her. Freda came and sat beside her, held her hand.

  ‘Sir Charles was at the hospital. He said Freedom’s contract was cancelled.’

  Freda wanted to cry, but she kept herself under control. ‘We’ll go home, Ed says, as soon as Freedom’s well.’

  ‘How did Sir Charles come to have all that money? It doesn’t seem right, the way he can pick people up, then drop them.’

  Freda sighed and patted Evelyne’s hand. ‘Well, darlink, he never even met any of his miners, but he treats them the same way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Surprised she didn’t know, Freda told her Sir Charles’ family money was made from coal mining. She was taken aback when Evelyne laughed, a bitter, humourless laugh. ‘My God, I should have known it. I hate him, Freda, I hate him so.’

  ‘He has troubles, too, Evie. His trustees, so Ed tells me, always keep him short of money, he has to fight them all the time.’

  ‘Keep him short? He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. My brothers worked the mines, their knees cut and their elbows bent, their backs torn to shreds. He wouldn’t know what it felt like to go short, to beg for a crust of bread. I hate him.’

  Freda saw the rage in Evelyne, the deep anger, unleash itself. The violent movements of her hands emphasized what she was saying, ‘I wonder how much he made out of him, how much? It’ll be more than we have coming to us. Dear God, Freda, I hate that man so much I could go and . . . and . . .’

  Suddenly Evelyne was sobbing, her shoulders heaving. Freda stroked her hair, knowing it was best Evie should cry, to release her anger. It wasn’t really hatred for Sir Charles, it was her pain for Freedom.

  Ed came home from the hospital, heavy-hearted. He laid his straw hat down. ‘I dunno what’s goin’ ter ’appen, Freda, they tell me he’s still paralysed down ’is left side. It must’ve ’appened when he fell outta the ring. I should’ve stopped ’im, Freda, I ’ad the chance first time ’e went down. I should’ve made ’im quit. But I wanted ’im ter win so bad . . . wanted ’im ter win, an’ I failed ’im, I failed my boy, Freda.’ He rubbed his head, held his hand out to Freda. He clung to her and sobbed, and she rocked him in her arms. Ed wasn’t weeping for a fighter, the loss of the championship – he was heartbroken for his ‘golden boy’, his ‘son’.

  They could hear Evelyne moving around upstairs; she came down with her face set, pale and drawn from crying. ‘Ed, will you drive me to the cab stand. I’ll go back to the hospital, sit with him until morning.’

  Ed wiped his tears with the back of his hand, afraid Evelyne had seen. He put his straw hat on at a jaunty angle.

  ‘Right, then, let’s be ’avin’ yer.’

  Sir Charles had been so silent, so preoccupied that Dewhurst crept around the hotel suite. ‘I’ve packed everything, sir, and we are ready whenever you wish to leave.’

  Sir Charles gave him a small smile. ‘Jolly good. I’ll be flying, I know how you feel about planes, if you would prefer to travel straight back to The Grange I can arrange your passage.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very good of you, sir, but I have a great inclination to see Hollywood. They say there’s a guided tour of the film stars’ homes that’s rather special.’

  Sir Charles nodded, but seemed loath to leave.

  ‘Will you be wanting to drive to the hospital before we depart, sir?’

  He received no answer. ‘May I ask how Mr Stubbs is, sir?’

  Sir Charles stood up, straight as an arrow. He placed along finger on the centre of his forehead as if he were in pain, and his voice sounded strangled, ‘’Fraid he’s not too good, old chap, will you make sure they have their passages arranged, the boat, will you do that?’

  He swallowed, still pressing his finger to his head, then took out a silk handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘Will you be looking for a new fighter, sir?’

  Sir Charles tucked his handkerchief back into his top pocket, making sure the folds were sitting exactly as they should. ‘No, there’ll be no more fighters, Dewhurst. Er! Well, hurry along and I’ll meet you at the car.’

  As the door closed behind Dewhurst, Sir Charles stared around the room. Crumpled in the waste basket was the fight programme, Freedom’s face twisted and torn. The wondrous face, the long, flying hair, the ‘Gypsy King’ . . . He picked it up, took it to the table and tried to press ou
t the creases, but they would not be smoothed. The beautiful face was cracked, crumpled, and Sir Charles tore it into tiny fragments. But the face was still there, in front of him on the polished table. He felt as if Freedom were in the room with him and it frightened him.

  Freedom lay still, his breathing shallow, and Evelyne sat beside him. For a moment his eyes opened, and he murmured, ‘Sir Charles? Did he come, Evie?’

  ‘He’s gone, darling, we’re free of him now. There’ll be no more fighting, it’s over.’

  Freedom’s body trembled, he moaned softly. His lips moved as if he were saying something she couldn’t quite hear. She leaned closer, but the words were in his own language, jumbled, strange, sighing words. The trembling grew stronger, his whole body shaking. He gripped her hand tightly, and the tremor ran through her, making her body feel electrified. He gripped tighter, tighter, until her hand hurt, but she couldn’t release it. Then, just as it had started, the shaking ceased. Freedom sighed, a long, soft moan that continued for almost half a minute. Evelyne drew back her hand, afraid, but now he was relaxed, a sweet smile on his lips. The time was exactly twelve o’clock, Evelyne knew it was exactly on the hour because her wrist watch had stopped.

  Sir Charles looked at the dials, the needles were swinging round and round, and the engine cut . . . without power, they were dropping from the sky, a dead weight. Dewhurst tried to unbuckle his seat belt to get to his master, but there was no time. It was over in seconds, the plane spiralling as it made its terrifying journey to the ground. Sir Charles tried desperately to regain power, and then he gave up. A face, blurred, floated in the clouds like a hand-coloured photograph, but it was cracked and torn. In the seconds before the plane crashed into the Nevada desert, Sir Charles Wheeler saw the face of Freedom Stubbs, not as he had been when Sir Charles had first seen him in the ring, like a wild animal at Devil’s Pit, but bloody, beaten, crumpled like the programme in the hotel waste paper basket.

  The search party found the wreckage from the sky. The black smoke curling up in a spiral, thick grey and red smoke clouding the air with black specks of charred dollar bills. All Freedom Stubbs’ winnings, all Ed Meadows’ hard-earned wages, all gone. The plane was no more than a shell when the rescuers came on the scene.

  They knew exactly what time the plane had crashed. Sir Charles’ fob watch had stopped at precisely twelve o’clock. The dials on the plane’s control panel were cracked and broken from the heat and the impact of the crash. The clock on the panel had also stopped at twelve o’clock.

  BOOK FIVE

  Chapter 26

  The Stubbs family returned to England with the Meadows. The news of Freedom’s terrible defeat arrived ahead of them. The British Champion limped, and his face still bore tell-tale marks of the beating. He felt he had let everyone down, and was ashamed to look anyone in the face. He could not defend his British title; his boxing days were, as Evelyne had said, over.

  News of Sir Charles Wheeler’s death also preceded them, as well as the two bodies, which were flown from Nevada. Ed did not understand the full implications of Sir Charles’ death until he contacted the Wheeler trustees. Freedom’s earnings and his own had been in Sir Charles’ keeping, and it seemed to Ed a simple matter. The solicitors replied to his letter cordially enough, but in legal language that took along time to decipher. The gist of it was accounted for, and there was no indication that anything was due to the fighter or his trainer – quite the contrary. The receipts were there to prove it – Ed had signed for all the money he had received on his own and Freedom’s behalf. Ed wrote back stating that he had given the money back to Sir Charles for safekeeping, after signing for it. The letters passed back and forth, until Ed became frantic. He visited the solicitors personally, only to be told again that there was no record of any outstanding debts, either to him or Freedom. He was even shown the notification from Sir Charles that the hospital bills and the fares for their return journey were to be paid, but there was no mention of any cash. They could only suggest that Sir Charles had taken it with him to Nevada and it was destroyed with the plane, but they could do nothing.

  Evelyne wrote copious letters to the trustees and received similar, cordial replies. The Wheeler estate was in financial difficulties. Death duties had taken their toll, and The Grange was to be sold in order to meet the heirs’ interests.

  She took legal advice. They could, if they wished, take the Wheeler estate to court over the matter, but they would have to be prepared to meet heavy legal costs, and there was very little hope of success.

  Only Freedom appeared to have very little inclination to recover what was rightfully his. His attitude infuriated Evelyne. One morning, after receiving yet another letter of refusal from the trustees, she flew into a rage. ‘They’re saying the estate has no money? My God, what do they take us for? What’s no money to them is millions to us. Freedom, will you go to them, in person?’

  Freedom shook his head. ‘No, I’ll not go begging. We’ve no need of them, best we forget it. Besides, he paid for our passage home, all the hospital bills.’

  ‘And so he should have, it was him put you in there! Can you not see how our lives would be if we had what was ours? Oh, Freedom, will you not fight?’

  The look on his face made her want to weep. He picked up his cloth cap, his face twisted with emotion. ‘I did fight, Evie, but I lost. I wasn’t good enough. I’ve no fight left in me now, so just let things be. I mean it, girl, I want no more of these letters – it’s over, let us get on with our lives, or what life I’ve got left.’

  Evelyne wept as he limped out. He didn’t even slam the front door, but closed it gently, as if he were closing an episode in their lives. In a way, he was.

  The new baby was born in the winter of 1926, the same year the film star, Rudolph Valentino, died. They called him Alex, as Evelyne had wanted. He was not as heavy as Edward had been, but he was perfect. His hair was sandy-coloured, his eyes blue. Evelyne touched a dimple that had already formed on his chin. ‘Well, if it’s not Hugh Jones himself.’

  Edward was led to the old cradle where his new brother lay, and he peeked over the edge. Mrs Harris had warned Evelyne that, with only two years between the boys, there could be trouble. Edward might well be jealous of the ‘intruder’. So it was a touching sight when the small boy, clinging to the side of the cradle, looked with adoration into the big blue eyes. Gently, he reached out and touched the baby’s face, then ran out of the room, returning in moments with his arms full of toys. ‘For Alex, for my bruvver.’

  Edward showed not a hint of jealousy where Alex was concerned. He was very protective, and even at two and a half he insisted on taking care of his brother. He helped to bath and dress him, and watched while he was breast-fed.

  Freedom went out and got work at the docks, without any encouragement from anyone. When he came back he said simply that with another mouth to feed he had to work. But there was one moment of his old glory when he handed over his British Championship to the new titleholder. He received a standing ovation at the Albert Hall, wearing his expensive clothes and looking as handsome as ever, and no one noticed the way he dragged his foot.

  Somehow Ed knew he would be feeling low, so after the occasion he took Freedom to the pub and they got well and truly drunk. At long last the locals were able to talk about the American bout and Freedom opened up, describing the United States and each of his fights. He had an avid, attentive audience, and he enjoyed himself. He felt more confident, less defeated. The other dockers had nicknamed him ‘Champ’, and Freedom began to adjust to everyday life.

  Money was short, unemployment was at a terrifying level, and the mere fact that both Ed and Freedom were working was in itself a feat. Ed was now taking work as a trainer wherever he could get it, and he asked Freedom if he would help out at the gym. Freedom refused and Ed never pushed it, knowing intuitively not to ask again, and kept quiet about what he was up to until Freedom asked him.

  Ed never forgave Sir Charles, even though he was dea
d. He wept privately when he read of the championship match between Jack Sharkey and the German Max Schmeling. Against Freedom, Ed knew, Sharkey had punched low, and should have been disqualified. Ed read with satisfaction that he had lost the world title because of another foul. Max Schmeling won the title on a foul – the title Ed still believed should have been Freedom’s.

  Out in the back yard of number twelve, the small square that backed on to the canal, the ex-heavyweight contender held a small white rabbit aloft. He shouted for his boys to come and see what he had brought them, and they ran to his side. ‘That’s it, be gentle – see, you two are a lot bigger’n ’im, and we don’t want him afeared of you, now do we? So, gently does it, an’ he’ll get to know you and not be afeared, see his little pink tongue, and his wonderful eyes? Now then, his whiskers, lads, they’re like his ears, and they tell him when danger is close. They’re very sensitive.’

  The two brothers, so different, one as dark as his father, with black eyes, the other with a shock of sandy hair and big blue eyes, listened to every word their beloved father said. In turn, they touched the small, white bundle of fur.

  Both boys were big for their ages, both had big hands, and they would take after Freedom in build. They were usually dressed in similar clothes, and there was rarely a time when they were not together. When Evelyne took them out, there was always someone who remarked how handsome they were. Edward would always answer, proudly, ‘We are brothers.’

  By 1931 unemployment in Britain had reached over two million. It was a time of crisis. The Labour Government was split over how to deal with the economic situation and a caucus led by J. Ramsay Macdonald joined the Conservatives and Liberals. The result of the ensuing election in October 1931 was a disaster for the Labour movement, and the most hated of all measures introduced by the First National Government was the means test. After twenty-six weeks on the dole, no money was given until the relieving officer, commonly known as the ‘RO’ man, had visited your house to see what could be sold. In this way many treasured possessions went in order to buy food. Pianos and wireless sets, considered luxuries, were always high on the ‘hit list’.