The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  The look on his face made them both want to cry, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He ran his hands through his hair and tried to straighten his tie while at the same time running as fast as he could to the cab. Fascinated, the cabbie looked down from his seat, this was better than the picture houses.

  Freedom bent his head into the open carriage window. Evelyne had pressed herself shyly into the corner of the carriage, her cheeks flaming red and her wondrous hair tumbling over her shoulders. Standing staring at her, Freedom could find no words. His breath heaved in his chest, and try as he might he couldn’t stop the sobs forcing their way into his throat, nor could he move.

  Eventually he spoke, his voice strained. ‘Can I ride a while with you, manushi?’

  He climbed into the cab and sat by Evelyne’s side. He could hear Ed shouting to the driver to just keep driving, drive anywhere. The carriage jolted forward.

  Evelyne took Freedom’s hand and placed it on her stomach, and he gasped as if he were about to explode. Immediately she let his hand go, and turned to stare out of the carriage.

  She whispered, ‘I’m sorry, he’s yours, Freedom.’ She felt his hand gently caress her swollen belly, and fraction by fraction she turned her head until she could look into his face. She placed her hand over his heart, felt it thudding, and he put his hand over her milk-filled breast. Heart to heart, they whispered each other’s names.

  ‘Never leave me, manushi. I died a little while you were gone.’

  It was getting dark, and the cabbie began to wonder who would be paying his fare. They were still trotting round and round Regent’s Park. The lovers whispered to each other, their fingers interlocked as they vowed they would never again be parted.

  Chapter 20

  Ed Meadows led Freedom into the weighing-room. It was full of reporters, promoters and officials, standing around the scale. Freedom wore shorts, boxing boots and a robe, the hood pulled over his head, hiding his face.

  Micky Morgan, dressed in the same way as Freedom, stood with his corner men and trainer at the far end of the room. His back was to the entrance, but as the murmur of voices died down he knew his opponent had arrived. He didn’t turn, but his back straightened, like an animal sensing danger.

  ‘Gentlemen, to the scales, please.’

  Micky turned slowly, eyes down, refusing to look at Freedom as they were led to the scales. Micky took off his robe first and stepped up. The two officials looked at the pointer, conferred with each other and pushed the weights along the scale bar as Ed tried to get a look over their shoulders to see what weight Morgan was carrying.

  ‘The champion weighing in, gentlemen, at thirteen stone ten pounds, standing at six feet one and a half inches.’

  Still without even a flicker of a glance at Freedom, Micky stepped down, and his trainer immediately replaced his robe around his shoulders. Ed gave him a clinical, professional appraisal. The man was in terrific shape, his skin taut, his body muscular, and his shoulders were slightly concave — good, hunched, boxer’s shoulders. There was no sign of the cut he had taken over his eye in his last championship bout, it seemed completely healed. His nose was flat, eyes hooded, and there was a slight puffiness just below the brows. One of his front teeth was missing, and one of his ears was larger than the other. As he pulled his robe around his shoulders, Ed could see his massive hands, the flat, gnarled knuckles.

  The fight was by no means going to be easy, Ed knew Micky looked confident, and Ed knew he was purposely refusing to look in Freedom’s direction.

  ‘Would the contender please step on the scales.’

  It was Freedom’s turn, and off came his robe as he stepped on to the scales. The officials moved the weights, checking carefully, and Micky now watched closely. Freedom was one hell of a size, and his skin was tawny, unlike Micky’s which was whiter-than-white. As the marker on the measuring stick was lowered to Freedom’s head, Micky could see he was well over six feet tall.

  ‘The contender, gentlemen, weighs in at fourteen stone, one pound, eight ounces, standing at six feet four inches.’

  ‘He’s a ruddy Red Indian, look at the hair on ‘im, halfway down ‘is back.’

  Both boxers were taken back to their dressing rooms, and an hour later they were called in to the conference room. The champion was applauded as he entered. He was wearing a cheap, brown pinstriped suit, a white shirt and tie, and he was carrying a brown trilby hat. He took his seat on the platform beside his trainer and promoter, Lord Livermore, who wore a black coat with an astrakhan collar and smoked a fat Havana cigar. Sir Charles, as immaculate as ever, was talking quietly to him, and shook Micky’s hand when they were introduced.

  Ed ushered Freedom into the room and everyone turned to look at him. He did not warrant applause, and Ed whispered for him to take the seat next to Sir Charles. He stepped on to the platform and sat down, fingering his collar and straightening the jacket of his new, single-breasted suit, tailored in soft dove grey. Carrying Freedom’s fur-collared coat, Ed inched his way in behind them and sat down, worried about falling because the leg of his chair was precariously near the edge of the platform. Lord Livermore held his cigar in front of his face and smirked to Sir Charles about his snazzily dressed boxer.

  ‘How many rounds do you think it’ll go, Micky?’

  Smiling, Morgan gave a jerk of his head at Freedom and said that maybe they should ask the contender how many rounds he reckoned he could stand up for. This got a roar of laughter, and Micky posed for a solo photograph. Freedom was asked if he wanted to answer the champ’s question, but he stared blankly and remained silent.

  The press requested a shot of Micky and Freedom together, and the two men rose and faced each other, Micky confident and brash, smiling his gap-toothed grin. He got no response from Freedom whose dark eyes stared back, expressionless. The photographers took their time preparing their cameras, and as they waited Micky whispered to Freedom, his voice inaudible to the rest of the room, ‘Goin’ to mark that pretty face, gyppo, goin’ to mark you, break you, gyppo, hear me, take you out in five.’

  Freedom stared impassively into the champion’s face, as if he hadn’t heard the threat.

  Ed’s brother had found a house for Evelyne and Freedom, further along the terrace in the same street, not five turnings away from Mrs Harris’. The previous occupants of number twelve had fallen behind with their rent, and the bailiffs had moved them out. The house had been infested with mice and bugs so they had had to scrub and disinfect everything, and call in the ratcatcher to put down poison. This was Evelyne’s first home of her own and, to the concern of all the women in the street, she had worked herself into exhaustion. Seeing her, heavily pregnant, scrubbing at the steps, had earned her the acceptance of all her neighbours. Freda and several other local women had scrubbed and washed and helped hang curtains, nail down lino, and had even brought odd bits of china to help out. They all called her Evie.

  Mrs Harris was Evelyne’s first proper visitor. She came walking slowly up the road, carrying a big pot of stew. ‘ ‘Ello, lovey, I ‘ad this on when one of the kids came round, so I didn’t like to waste it … well, well, just think of it, you a neighbour! Well I never!’

  Evelyne showed her round the scrubbed little house with pride. When she saw that Evie had got a gas stove, Mrs Harris went into raptures. There wasn’t a stick of furniture yet, but the curtains were lovely, and the lino was a pretty shade of green.

  ‘Oh, Evie love, it’s a palace, a real palace, you’ve done wonders.’

  A small crowd had gathered outside, and one of the women yelled to Evelyne at the top of her voice, ‘It’s the bed arrived, yer bed’s come!’ A new bed in this street was something, and all the neighbours were agog. The mahogany headboard met with nods of approval. The bed was enormous, and the delivery men had to be helped getting it into the house.

  Freedom and Evelyne went up the narrow staircase and stood looking into their bedroom. There it was in all its glory, the special-sized bed.

&
nbsp; ‘Well, I never thought I’d be a kairengo!’

  Lying down on the thick mattress, Evelyne patted it for him to lie beside her. ‘What does that mean?’

  He lay down and told her that a kairengo was a man who lived in a house. He stared up’ at the ceiling, and she picked up his hand, kissed it, ‘Do you not like it?’

  He turned and touched her face, kissed her softly, ‘It’s what you want that’s my pleasure. Tell me, are you happy?’

  She rolled over, rubbed her belly and stretched. She told him she had never been so happy in. her entire life. Up she got and swished the curtains, showing him the wooden rail, then insisted that he see everything, pulling him by the hand until, he got up off the bed.

  ‘This is our home, Freedom, and here, in here, this is where the baby will be. Mr Harris said he’d make me a cradle … and come on down, let me show you how the gas stove lights up. You don’t need to have the fire lit, see, you turn this tap here, and you light it like so, isn’t it lovely?’

  Delighted, he watched her as she touched the walls, the lino, and then brought him her notebook to show him what kind of furniture they would save for. ‘We’ll not get anything on tick, that way we won’t get into debt, but we’ll buy it piece by piece, it’ll be so lovely.’

  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 cafe 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 t
he 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 build-up, 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 cafe 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.’