The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Sir Charles looked at the dials, die 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’ hardearned 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 a long 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 gendy, 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 dead. 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 w
ould 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 hands6me 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’.

  The Stubbs family lived at number twelve, then there was Ed’s brother and his big family at number sixteen, and Freda and Ed had moved into a house two doors the other way. They were always in and out of each other’s houses, and even though money was scarce and there was terrible unemployment, they still felt like a family unit. Mrs Harris, living only a few streets away, was a frequent visitor. They would all gossip, moan about shortages and their menfolk, their doors always open to visitors.

  Beer was cheap and it was used like aspirin. The pubs were warm, and with others in the same predicament they found companionship, but often kids, sent by mothers, would be seen trying to haul their menfolk home.

  Monday mornings were days of reckoning, when the publicans counted their profits and tallied up the ‘tick’. Mondays would see the wives carrying bundles to the pawnbrokers to get a few shillings, and their men’s Sunday suits were constantly in and out of hock. They even took their blankets off the beds to get a few coppers in the constant battle to cover debts simply to feed their children.

  You could always tell the widows, who would suddenly appear in black from head to toe, and remain in black for the rest of their lives. Sometimes, however, the fact that they had lost their loved ones changed their circumstances for the better, because of insurance. Realizing that this would more than likely be the one time in her life when she would have an accumulation of money, the widow would set herself up as a moneylender. The interest was very small, but it still proved profitable, and often these widows became more than merry, for the first time in their lives better off than they had been with their ‘other halves’.

  Funerals were a common sight, the black horse draped in mauve velvet. The mortality rate was high, mostly due to pneumonia, and survival was down to the fittest. Somehow, God knows how, every family was able to raise money for their dead, as if having been so unimportant in life they had to be noticed in death.

  The Stubbs family was surviving, and better than most, partly due to Freedom’s work on the docks, but also due to Evelyne’s frugal household economy. She bought well, and wasted nothing; she counted every penny, and would traipse miles to a market-stall butcher with fresh cheap meat rather than buy in the shops. She always went to market late on Friday nights, when the stall-holders flogged off their wares cheaply. There were no fridges or iceboxes, so food had to be kept cooled in larders or meat-safes outside in the yard.

  Evelyne sewed, making most of the boys’ clothes, cutting down Freedom’s trousers, knitting, her watchful eye on the purse strings, and she wasted nothing. Twice a week she would go to two bakeries to do their accounts, for which she was paid one pound fifteen shillings. She never used this money, but put it in her post office savings account. Freedom had never so much as seen her treasured, small, folded book, he didn’t even know of its existence. She was obsessive about it, forever totalling the figures. She had saved more than one hundred and twenty-five pounds over the years, which was a lot of money, but she wouldn’t touch it. She would use it for her sons’ education when the time came, although she kept a small float and had become the ‘widow’ in her street. She lent out a shilling here, half-a-crown there, and would make neat notes on exactly how long her customers took to repay the small loans, with interest. She had begun with five pounds, and after four years she still had her original stake, all the money she had earned having gone straight into the post office. -

  Of course, Evelyne was lucky to have Freedom. If anyone was late in paying it took only one visit from him for the money to be handed over. Freedom hated it and would do anything to get out of having to pay these visits, but Evelyne would fold her arms and ask him if he thought they were a charity, they needed the money as much as anyone else did, and as he was the man of the house he had to pull his weight. He would look at her as she stood there, tall as ever and neat as a new pin, her hair coiled in a tight bun, and shrug his shoulders. He often wondered who really was the man of the house, she was a right devil with her temper.

  The whole street respected Mrs Stubbs. Nothing defeated her, nothing got on top of her, and everyone had to admit she kept her house spotless and her two boys immaculate. She was not a great mixer, although she would have the odd schooner of sweet sherry at the pub, but she never stayed long and didn’t like to gossip. They all knew she had some stories to tell, about her time in America, about her husband when he was boxing champion, but she rarely if ever spoke of these times. Freda, on the other hand, regaled everyone with stories of when they had travelled on the boat across the Atlantic, and of Miami. Freda was very popular and would feed back all the gossip to Evelyne whenever she called round for a cup of tea. She soon learned that Evelyne didn’t want to discuss the past or even remember.

  Freda always recognized the signs in Evelyne. Her face would tighten up, her mouth clamp shut whenever Freda tried to talk of the past, of the days in America. Freedom’s agonizing headaches were a strong enough reminder. Evelyne would make a vinegar and brown paper compress to put on his brow, and he would lie in a darkened room for hours. Freda eventually gave up mentioning America, she kept her stories for the snug bar at the local pub.

  Freda had seen change slowly creep up on Evelyne. She was still handsome, but her face had thinned, the prominent cheekbones making her look gaunt, though not haggard. They ate too well for that. It was just a strange hardening. She was obsessively clean and neat, her kitchen spotless. Her small row of leather-bound books was dusted and treasured. Hers was still the only house in the street with carpet, still the only house with good furniture and a bed that had been brand-new when they first arrived. Evelyne Stubbs was certainly very houseproud.

  No matter how Evelyne had tried to make everyone use Edward’s full name, he was always known as Eddie. He had a thick cockney accent and was a handful for anyone, always up to something, and she had discovered that smacking him had no effect at all. The only way she could control him was by showing more affection towards Alex, his younger brother. That always brought him to attention. Eddie adored his little brother, so long as he remained just that. Any sign that Alex was considered more special would result in moody tantrums. Alex, on the other hand, was easy-going, always cheerful, and did whatever his brother told him to do. Seeing them go off to school, hand-in-hand, wearing their matching grey sweaters and shorts, made Evelyne feel that all the hard work was worthwhile. They were different from the rest of their school-fellows.

  Their tea was ready on the table, and Evelyne stood on the front step, waiting for them. They were more than half an hour late so she wrapped her shawl around her and went down the road to search for them. As she turned the corner near the patch’ of waste ground, she saw a tight group of boys cheering and shouting. Eddie, his fists flying, was on top of another boy, holding him by the hair and banging his head on the ground. Evelyne rolled up her sleeves and dragged him off”, boxed his ears and picked the howling child up from the ground. The other children ran like hell, leaving Eddie and Alex with their mother, and the weeping boy still in Evelyne’s tight grip.

&
nbsp; ‘What’s all this about then? Come on, I want to know … Fighting in the street like common nothings — what’s it all about?’

  Alex shuffled and looked away, and the little boy with the bloody nose wriggled out of Evelyne’s grasp and ran off. Eddie yelled after him, his fist in the air, and turned defiantly to his mother. ‘The little bastard hit me and me.’ He pointed first to his brother and then to himself, referring to Alex as ‘me’, as if they were one.

  ‘Why did he hit you? Come on then, why?’

  Eddie picked up his school books and glared at his brother to keep quiet, but Evelyne was adamant.

  ‘I want to know what it was about. I’ll be down at the school first thing tomorrow morning if you don’t speak up.’

  Alex burst into tears, and stuttered out that Johnny Rigg had called them ‘gyppos’.

  Mrs Rigg couldn’t believe her eyes when she opened her front door. There was Mrs Stubbs, arms folded, and with such a furious look on her face that Mrs Rigg was scared stiff.

  ‘I want a word with you and your son, and I want it now.’

  Eddie and Alex flushed with embarrassment as Mrs Rigg made her son apologize to the Stubbs family. When the door shut behind them she belted the boy, which caused her husband, who was just arriving home, to ask what the hell was going on. Poor Johnny got another thrashing from his father, as the last thing any of them wanted was that bloody gyppo coming round. The Stubbs boys’ father was a champion boxer, and the family lived in fear of repercussions for weeks afterwards. But Freedom’s reaction was a roar of laughter, and he pointed his fork at Alex and told him that after tea he would take him out in the yard and teach him a few punches.

  Evelyne banged on the table. ‘There will be no more fighting!’