Hugh had gone off to a meeting in another village, and Gladys said she would wait for him to return. She couldn’t think of going to the fair, not after the terrible tragedy.
‘Yes, lovey, you can, it’ll do you good. When I’ve finished my meeting I’ll come and collect you, walk you up the hill, just for a while.’
Gladys was dressed and ready. She fetched the coat she had borrowed from Evelyne and hung it in the hallway to give to Hugh. Noticing a mud stain on the hem, she tut-tutted and carried it into the kitchen to clean it. Humming to herself she wet a sponge and rubbed at the mud. As she turned the coat round she felt a bulge in one of the pockets, slipped her hand in to see what it was and brought out all the newspaper cuttings Evelyne had kept so carefully. Laying them on the table she took out her glasses and began to read.
By the time she finished the last article her hands were shaking. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she had to have a glass of sherry to calm herself. Why, she kept asking herself, why had Evelyne cut these articles out of the papers, some were more than a year and a half old? She’d get Hugh to talk to Evelyne and ask her to her face just what was the meaning of it. Evelyne knew something, she was hiding something, and Gladys would find out what it was.
Chapter 11
Mr Beshaley felt the train was going slow on purpose. Twice he got up and looked out of the window, nearly getting his head chopped off. He checked his gold watch and drummed his fingers on the sill. A very elderly gent sat opposite him, staring into space with a pipe in his mouth. ‘They dinna go as fast as they used ta, it’s the strike, see, fuel shortage, it’s slowin’ everythin’ up.’ The old boy nodded, as if he had satisfied Beshaley as to the slowness of the train, and stared out of the window.
Mr Beshaley had been in London, and had not seen Freedom for nearly eighteen months. He hoped to God that Freedom had kept himself in shape, the fight this evening was very important — more important than any other fight that Beshaley had organized before.
He had been up in Scotland arranging a lightweight bout with three of his men when he had been approached by a tall, elegant man. Sir Charles Wheeler, with his cloak and cane, cut a sharp figure in the new, fashionable double-breasted suit and a brown slouch hat. He was a member of the British Board of Boxing. A gentleman boxer himself in his youth, Sir Charles financed professional boxing bouts all over England, searching out talent, and rumour had it that he paid big money when he wanted a man for his own team. He had acquired a gymnasium in London, filled it with all the finest equipment, and he recruited trainers and managers from all over England and America.
Beshaley had asked for an introduction, but it had proved unnecessary, because Sir Charles had come to Scotland with the sole purpose of meeting Beshaley. Sir Charles had seen Freedom Stubbs fight and thought the boy showed remarkable promise. More than that, he believed Freedom was a possible contender for the British Heavyweight Championship. Beshaley and Sir Charles discussed the forthcoming event at Devil’s Pit, where Sir Charles could see Freedom fight again. Beshaley said he owned the boy, and he too believed him to be a rare boxer. He implied that he had spent considerable sums training Freedom and that he couldn’t part with him without a contract that included himself — unless, of course, he was paid enough to release the boy.
Sir Charles had known immediately that Beshaley was lying and that he no more had a contract with the boxer than Sir Charles himself had. However, Sir Charles intended to rectify that.
While Beshaley was on his way to the railway station Sir Charles’ automobile had cruised past. Through the open window he had smiled at him. ‘No doubt we’ll catch you at the fight?’
Beshaley wanted to run after the motor and demand a lift. He swore blue murder as he paced the platform, waiting for the train. He had to get to Freedom first and sign him before Sir Charles could approach him. The damned train was so slow he feared Sir Charles and his party would get there first, before he got the chance to make Freedom sign on the dotted line. They could be difficult these gypsy boys. Even though Beshaley was part Romany himself, he belonged to no clan; in his own terms he was an entrepreneur. Far from helping Freedom further his career, if anything he had stayed clear of him since the fight with Hammer. But he had overheard Sir Charles describing to one of his men how Freedom had brought a man down with a single body punch. ‘Man punches like the Devil, and he’s light on his feet, best I’ve seen for years’, and Beshaley knew it was true and could kick himself for not having signed Freedom.
The train ground to a halt and he pushed open the window.
‘There’ll be a blockage on the line now, sir, mark me words. Some bastard’ll have laid a log on the track. It’s the strikers.’
Two guards walked through the compartment and when Mr Beshaley approached them, they told him curtly that there was engine trouble and they would be on their way as soon as possible. Beshaley gave one of the men a shilling to see if they could hurry things along, he had an important appointment. The guard could hardly believe his luck, and assured Mr Beshaley he’d get the train moving within minutes.
Sir Charles adjusted his driving goggles and tried to make sense of the road map. His two companions were hunched against the wind, wearing heavy coats and goggles, their hats pulled down low. Ed Meadows was a huge man with an ex-boxer’s face, his nose broken so many times it had remained flat after his last bout, the bridge pulverized. He looked up at the signpost and shook his head. They’d passed it three times to his knowledge.
‘You sure you know this place, guv? Only, we been past this post three times now, an’ wiv the night comin’ on — I don’t fancy us drivin’ round all night.’
Sir Charles turned and put big Ed in his place with his upper-crust English voice.
‘You’ll find this lad’s worth it when you see him, Ed. Now come along, chaps, let’s have a good gander at the road map again.’
Ed shivered and hunched further into his greatcoat. In his twanging, cockney voice he told Sir Charles to stop at the next village and ask — it was the only way round these parts. There was more than one Devil’s Pit, and they could get the wrong one.
Dewhurst, Sir Charles’s valet and butler, sat stiffly next to his master in the front seat. He turned his pink face to stare up at the signpost.
‘There’s a village two and a half miles further on according to this, sir, perhaps it would be better to ask there.’
Ed threw up his hands in despair, ‘That’s wot I just suggested, but nobody listens to me. I said stop at a village, these ruddy Welsh signs don’t mean nuffink.’
Sir Charles pulled his goggles down, started the motor, and they headed for the village. They were actually close, within ten miles, but the winding paths around the mountains were misleading. There was only fifteen minutes before the match was due to start.
The afternoon over, many of the villagers made their way home, clutching their small token prizes. The children began to whine, they didn’t want to leave the fair and yet they were so tired they could hardly keep their eyes open. The men hung around the camp, still playing on the coconut shy and throwing ‘six darts for a ha’penny’. The see-saw had done a great trade and the teenage boys were now, as the dusk fell, shoving and pushing each other to have a go for a farthing a time.
The atmosphere was becoming tense, the groups of lads hanging around and knots of older men hunched in corners, smoking. The gypsies’ eyes were everywhere, and some of the men nodded to their women to pack up and get ready to put the tables away. A fortune-teller’s booth swathed in canvas like a Turkish tent had been doing a roaring trade, but now only a few boys hung around outside, their hands stuffed into their pockets.
Freedom’s opponent, Taffy Brown, had arrived at the campsite two hours earlier. With his two aides he had wandered around and had a few goes on the coconut shy, but he was so strong that one of the balls had not only knocked the coconut off its stand but split the stand in two. This had raised cheers from the spectators and disgruntled moans
from the gypsies. The balls, bright reds and yellows, had been ‘lifted’ from snooker tables, and quite a few pubs would be missing them.
The younger lads drifted over to the shy, cheering Taffy on, nudging each other as, enjoying the attention, he rolled up his sleeves. His muscular arms bulged, and he moved further and further away, then went for the stall at a loping run, throwing the ball overarm as if playing cricket. The ball ripped through the canvas amid even more cheers.
Two gypsies, knowing there could be trouble, yelled that the fight was due to start at any time in Devil’s Pit, which made Taffy turn and roar, arms up in the air, for his opponent to show himself.
‘He’s waitin’ for you, Taffy, he’s waitin’ at Devil’s Pit, mun.’
The gypsies were relieved when the miners began to drift off towards the fight.
Devil’s Pit, which lay a couple of miles from the campsite, was so called because the mountain curved out in a huge arm, enclosing the dark, flat earth in jagged rocks. Not even grass would grow there. Below the pit tumbled a waterfall, the water making strange moaning sounds which all added to the eeriness of the place, as if a soul bound in the earth was trying to get out.
Some of the men from the camp had gone ahead with a wagon to prepare the site. The ring was simply marked out in the dirt with ropes hanging from crude posts at the corners. They were raking the ground flat and pulling benches from the wagon to place around the ring.
The men formed a line outside the rocky entrance. An entry fee of threepence was charged, and for this the men got a single sheet of paper which announced forthcoming events in London at the famous Premierland. It also gave details of Taffy Brown’s previous bouts. Taffy had a good record, and had so far never been knocked off his feet. His manager was sure he was world champion material, but he knew Taffy had to have more experience before going to London. This match against the man who had almost killed the famous Hammer was perfect for him.
Taffy’s men looked around for Freedom, but he was nowhere to be seen. They presumed he was in the covered wagon parked at one side of the dirt ring, more than likely shaking with nerves. They took Taffy back to the car and he sat with his trainer, talking tactics. Taffy wanted to know more about this gyppo, and his trainer gave him details of the three bouts he had seen Freedom fight. Two he had lost, but then it looked like a fix. The third was Hammer and the rest was history. Taffy wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Not quite, mun. Gimme the rounds one by one. I seen Hammer fight, he was a big bastard, this lad must have a lot of weight behind his punch. Was it a body or a head punch that floored him?’
‘The lad’s good, Taff, but that’s not the reason we’re a bit on the edgy side. We’ve heard Sir Charles Wheeler is goin’ ter show, and we want you to be part of his stable. You know how we feel, we know you can go to the top, but we need backing, we need money. It took all we had to get these leaflets printed. We even need the few bob from this bout, but if Sir Charles sees your potential then we’ll all of us be in clover.’
Taffy had heard of Sir Charles, the ‘gent of boxing’ — everyone on the circuit had — but to think he was coming up here to this godforsaken place was beyond Taffy’s comprehension. Roberts could see him hesitate, understood why, and put his arm around Taffy’s shoulders. ‘Wipe him out, Taffy, that’s what you’re here for. The lad’s got the press writin’ about him, because of those murders. You drop him on the canvas and it’ll be you they’ll be writin’ about, and next stop it’ll be the belt. That’s what you’ve dreamed of, isn’t it?’
Taffy had more than dreamed of it — it was his one goal in life. They saw him straighten up, clench his fists, and they knew they’d have the fight they wanted.
As if on cue, the roar of a car’s engine coughing its way up the hillside heralded the arrival of Sir Charles himself. He pulled on the brake and looked around the pit, shaking his head. He’d certainly been in some out-of-way places looking for fighters, but never halfway up a mountain before.
‘Gor blimey, guy, you sure they’re not bringing the dogs up ‘ere, don’t look like a boxin’ match to me.’ Ed sniffed and hugged his coat closer. ‘Bloody cold fer Easter, ain’t it?’
As debonair as ever, Sir Charles seemed entirely unruffled by his long journey. He opened his brandy flask and drained it. Already he could see the line growing at the entrance, and below them men were heading up the mountainside in force. He passed his flask to his valet who nipped round to the boot of the car to refill it. The men crowding around were uncouth, shouting and carrying beer bottles.
‘I think, sir, if you don’t mind, I will stay inside the vehicle. I’m sure someone will try to remove your cases.’
Sir Charles laughed, then pushed his way through the crowds to look over the ring. He was pleased to note that there was no sign of the wretched man Beshaley. It would be difficult to miss that loud checked suit.
The crowds cleared a path for Sir Charles and nudged each other, nodding to ‘the toff’. Sir Charles gave Taffy a courteous nod. Taffy watched him and grunted, he’d give him his money’s worth.
Freedom sat in the wagon, his bound fists ready, arguing with Jesse. Freedom was angry that he was still around, having told him to leave days ago. But Jesse had disobeyed and returned for the fight. Jesse grinned, he would steal a few wallets tonight, and one from the gent in the big motorcar. Not that he mentioned it to Freedom, he just said they needed all the hands the camp could provide — and anyway the law had left the village. The crowds were bigger than expected and the takings had to be counted. Jesse rubbed his hands with glee — money, money.
Twice a boy from the entrance came with a sack of coins, tipped them into a box and rushed out again.
‘Where’s Rawnie, Jesse, I told you to keep her out of this.’
Jesse opened the flap of the wagon and hopped down, reassuring Freedom that Rawnie was safe, back at the camp. No one but their own had seen them return, there was nothing to fear. Freedom sighed. Jesse was a madman, he knew it, to kill the boy here in the village, in the picture house, was an act of utter madness. The police had searched every wagon, every trailer, and Freedom knew it would not end there. The law would follow them from town to town, searching, questioning. He clenched his fists, the fight far from his thoughts, preoccupied with Jesse and Rawnie. She had changed profoundly since that night at Cardiff, not that anyone could blame her after what she had been through. Freedom had detected a cold hardness in her, she would no longer come near him, curl up beside him. If anything, she would turn away if she saw him.
Rawnie and Jesse were inseparable, as if they had secrets between them, their eyes constantly gliding to each other’s, giving sly, soft giggles, their hands entwined. Freedom found them unnerving when they were together. True, he had tracked the boys down for Jesse, but then he had stepped aside because, as Jesse said, it was no longer his business. It was Jesse who was exacting vengeance. He had tried to reason with Jesse and the results had caused friction within the camps. Freedom chose to move on, and joined up with various other bands. Some whispered it was because he was scared, others murmured that it was Freedom’s name that was connected to the revenge killings and it was right that he should protect himself.
The Easter fair was a big money-earner for the travellers, and as there was a fight going they sent for Freedom to rejoin them. That was the only reason he was here, but it had angered him when Rawnie and Jesse appeared. He watched Jesse through the flap. He strutted around the makeshift ring, arrogant, cocksure, and the miners stepped aside. Behind his back Freedom saw them give the sign of the fist. Freedom knew the signs, and was sure there would be more than one fight tonight.
The miners already outnumbered the gypsies by ten to one, and a restless murmur was growing as they began to take their seats. It was gone six o’clock, and still the fight had not begun. The referee jumped up into the wagon, a pleasant-faced man from Glamorgan who had refereed many bouts between the gypsies and the miners. ‘Now lad, keep it clean, I want no he
ad-buttin’ and no kicks, any punches below the belt an’ I’ll disqualify you. Make it a good fight, there’s someone out there from the professional circuits watchin’, so don’t let’s make a monkey of this, understand me?’
Freedom smiled, nodded briefly and asked if the ref. was giving the same lecture to the miner — any head-butting usually came from that side, not the gyppos. The referee checked Freedom’s fists and gloves, and spoke a few words to the young lads with his bucket and stool.
‘Thirteen rounds, lads, three minutes per round. When the bell goes you get into the ring, and not before.’
The crowd was now very restless, and torches were lit to illuminate the arena. The beer was being swilled down, and a couple of men who had brought a crate of beer were doing a fair trade selling bottles. It was home-brewed, tasted like stewed apples, and had a hell of a kick to it, but no one minded, they were getting thirsty. from shouting for the match to begin.
Hugh read the newspaper cuttings about the killings in Cardiff. Gladys was distraught, and angry.
‘She knows something, Hugh. All this time she’s known something and not said a word to anyone. When was she in Cardiff? Remember that time she went away and came back here like she’d seen someone die? It’s the same time, Hugh, look, read for yourself.’
Like an omen, the roar of the crowds echoed down from Devil’s Pit.
Evelyne was surprised to see Hugh when he burst in through the back door.
‘Hello, Da, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’
Hugh threw her big overcoat on to the kitchen table, then dragged the newspaper cuttings out of his pocket. He waved them in front of her nose. ‘Come on, out with it, gel, what’s all this? An’ don’t tell me it’s just morbid curiosity, there’s more to this than meets the eye, isn’t there? And by God I want it, all of it! Poor Gladys is at her wits’ end. This Freedom fella’s fighting up at Devil’s Pit right now, an’ if he’s the one murdered our poor Willie …’
The Legacy l-1 Page 20
