The seconds could see that Freedom’s old cut was an angry red, and they plastered it with grease … Ed had actually reached for the towel to throw it into the ring when the gong sounded for the round to begin. Ed knew his boy was hurt, it was obvious from his stance. This wasn’t Freedom’s style, he was a mover, and a fast one.
Freedom took a series of short, fast jabs to his face and keeled over backwards, lost his balance and fell heavily out of the ring. Evelyne was on her feet, tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t stand to see it, see him hurt, she wanted him never to get back into the ring. The crowd around her were screaming like wild animals.
The referee started the count, holding Sharkey back as Freedom hauled himself back into the ring. The fall had cut him just above his left ear, and blood was trickling down on to his shoulder. Ed was at breaking point, but held back by the seconds. He wanted to throw in the towel; it was obvious Freedom couldn’t stand properly. His left leg was dragging, useless. Freedom was taking his punishment, gritting his teeth to hold on until the round ended. It was taking everything he had just to stand with the agonizing pain in his left leg and the feeling that someone was hacking into his spine … Every movement made it worse.
Sharkey took every opportunity, spurred on by relief at not getting disqualified, and came on to Freedom with punch after punch. He was a short jab man, and Freedom was on the end of his hard rights time and time again. He felt his nose split open and stood dazed as the bell rang for the end of the round.
Ed concentrated on Freedom’s face and begged him to throw in the towel. Blood was pouring from his nose, and the cut above his ear wouldn’t stay shut. ‘It’s over, Freedom, it’s over, he’s mauling you.’
Sir Charles sat stiffly through the next round, not making a sound, and his companions went quiet as they saw his champion beaten. There was nothing anyone could say, the ring said it all, the crowds bayed for a knockout and Sir Charles knew they would get it at any moment. There was a flash of Freedom’s old brilliance, but he stumbled and took a left hook to his jaw that lifted him off the canvas. No one could believe he would get up from it, but he did. It was tragic to see him swaying, blinded by his own blood, and for Evelyne and Freda it was a nightmare. Edward shouted, ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ and waved his rattle, thinking it was all a game. Evelyne hugged the child to her and sobbed; she couldn’t bear to look into the ring.
At long last Freedom was down and out for the count, but there was none of the hysterical cheering. The crowd went quiet as they saw Freedom’s terrible injuries and the pitiful attempts of his seconds to bring him round. His blood was all over the canvas, all over his opponent.
The referee held up Sharkey’s hand as Ed was still trying to bring Freedom to. He lay face down, breathing in the resin, and eventually the two seconds managed to lift him back to his seat. From then on it was a blur to all those close to Freedom - the ride in the ambulance, the wait outside the hospital room for news. Ed wept unashamedly, but Freda had strength enough for them all. She chided Ed, saying he must put on a brave face for Freedom, Freedom mustn’t see him like this. Evelyne cradled the sleeping child and was so exhausted she couldn’t even cry.
The doctors took Ed aside and said that Freedom was going to be all right. He was semi-paralysed down his left side. They doubted that the paralysis would be permanent, and hoped he would recover the use of his leg completely. The blow to the side of Freedom’s head caused much more worry, and although he had regained a semblance of consciousness he wasn’t lucid. So they had taken X-rays of his skull and he was under sedation.
Ed went into the private room. Unable to speak he just stood looking at the still figure with the terribly swollen face and broken nose plastered up, and his heart
broke. The room was silent except for Freedom’s shallow breathing, and Ed touched his hand and had to hurry out before he broke down.
Ed tried to persuade Evelyne to go home with Freda, but he hadn’t counted on her strength of will. She refused point-blank to move, insisting that Freda and Ed take the child home and return in the morning. Evelyne sat outside the room, quiet, alone, her eyes closed. She prayed for him, hand to her heart, and whispered his name over and over again.
Sir Charles was led past the waiting room. He could see her, her anguished face, as she waited. He followed the nurse down the corridor and into Freedom’s room. The nurse hovered at the door.
‘Thank you, I won’t be a moment.’ Left alone with the shrouded figure in the bed, surrounded by machines and intravenous drips, Sir Charles stood as if frozen. Slowly, without making a sound, he inched towards the bed, peered down into the distorted face with the swollen eyes and the thick bandages over the broken nose. He removed his monocle and his mouth twitched.
Freedom’s hands were unmarked, his long, tapering fingers resting peacefully on the white sheet, making Sir Charles want to weep. Such fine hands, he had never really noticed them before. He looked towards the door, then reached out and touched Freedom’s hand, as if afraid, then bent and kissed the tips of the fingers. Then he slipped from the room and walked back along the corridor to where Evelyne waited.
He looked embarrassed, he didn’t know what to say to her, and he tapped his walking stick on the blue lino, making small indentations. She said not one word, but stared at him, her face tight and angry, her eyes cold.
‘I’ll make sure all the hospital bills are taken care of, and, well, any expenses will, of course, be paid. I’m sorry.’
She wanted to strike him, smash his arrogant, stiff face, hit him so hard that his monocle would shatter on the floor. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, what about his heart, can you pay for that, too? He’ll not get over this and you know it.’
He coughed, shuffled his feet and said he would be flying to Chicago the following morning, and would no doubt see them on their return to England.
‘He’s just like one of your thoroughbreds really, isn’t he, sir? Except when they break a leg you shoot them. Where’s your gun? You’re finished with him now, aren’t you? Just like that, because he didn’t win.’
Sir Charles went white with anger at her rudeness. ‘Your husband never did anything he didn’t want to. You of all people should know that. No one forced him into the ring and no one is to blame. He is a sportsman.’
Evelyne moved closer to him and her fists clenched. ‘ You forced him and you know it, you never let him off the hook, did you? Because you owned him, from the day you first met him, you bought him.’
Sir Charles snapped that perhaps she would have preferred him to hang, as he most assuredly could have done without him.
‘He repaid you, every penny you spent on that court case. How much have you made out of him?’
He pushed her away from him, his face ashen. His fury, usually so controlled, burst out. ‘If there was anyone to blame, my dear, it was you, you who never let him be, you hung on to your meal ticket as he would have hanged from a rope. Do you think I don’t know that?’
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 wan
t 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, manushiy 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 tor 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 heart-broken 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 a long 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 out 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, die 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, 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.
The Legacy Page 49
